Tim and I have never felt this hopeful since we arrived here on the farm - full of trash, bones and bare dirt blowing away in the wind seven years ago - through the most bizarre sequence of events. While the restoration and problem solving of the past years have been invigorating, the path has been up hill. With our recent strategies, we are getting a glimpse of a long-term, future relationship with this beautiful land, farm and business and it feels really good.
Now that we really believe we are going to get to stay here, we experience another level of connection as we invest in the various conservation projects here at the farm. And there are plenty. After two plus years of trying to find financial support for the intense flooding issues, we found TeamAg who helped us through the tangle of bureaucracy which led to a grant from PennVest another two years later (in the meantime, 600 native trees/shrubs installed along the creek through CREP and Stroud Water Center). Last spring 2018, the PennVest plan was complete, the money was in, contractors were hired, and then it began to rain - for the rest of the year. The part of the project intended to address the flooding was stalled. We waited as our driveway washed out time and again and small, and large ravines carved themselves out in front of the horse barn, and behind the garden shed…
The time has finally come for the new culvert project (which will address the flooding). The excavator is scheduled to come next week. And while this is what we’ve been waiting for since 2014, and we will finally be able to stop washing soil down the creek, I also know that I will lose my most beloved summer spot. Our swimming hole. This is a truly magical place. It is actually only as deep as the middle of my thigh but is big enough to plunge my whole body into the ice cold spring water. We don’t have air conditioning, we have a swimming hole - just a few steps beyond the orchard - just a few seconds walk from our house. And it is hidden. The Paulownia tree with it’s wide, shady leaves, the Jewel Weed, the Mugwort have all grown up around this small hidden bowl of delight. It is possible to bathe down here without anyone knowing. Here, with the brown and green frogs and the dragonflies and water striders.
Here is where both of our children first found their love of water. Here is where the huge crayfish occasionally pinched our toes, defending their homes as we splashed around. Here is where the racoon visited at night to catch the crayfish, leaving tracks on the wet mud and crayfish shells on the shore. Here’s where the minnows showed up and a water snake made her home for a summer. And the Blue Heron even visited a few times. This is the spot where our youngest son, Niko, paddled his chubby little legs as a six-month-old recklessly trying to plunge himself in while I held him at the edge. This is the spot where our oldest son Eli spent happy hours trying to catch a minnow with his woven fish trap. This is the spot where, today, Eli and the neighbor children used a large plastic tub as a boat to carry them one at a time across the small pool with howls of delight.
Now I stand in the cold water, my heart full of gratefulness and sweet memories. This beautiful little pool is at the mouth of the culvert. When the construction for the new culvert is complete, this spot will no longer be. In my heart, I offer apologies to the small ones who live here, who will need to scramble to find a new home, for the web of stream life that will be disrupted. I am sad to lose this precious hidden oasis even though I know in the long term, in the big picture, this will bring more health to our land, the Creek and the world downstream from us. I know that Fiddle Creek will carve out its new pathway and settle in again, and we will settle into it, and a new swimming hole will be dug, and new trees and plants will grow up around to offer shade, perhaps even the pecan tree that we are waiting to plant. I know in the big picture, this is good - we will be protecting the land and ourselves from the extreme flooding that has washed away raised beds, the former garden and the driveway many times. Even so, there is a wistful feeling...
