Born and raised in the city, I have always been a country girl at heart.
As a little kid, the clang and whir of trolley cars, the hustle of shoppers shoving one another in their frenzied dash to catch a bus, the frequent siren calls of police or emergency vehicles, always disturbed me.
On my infrequent visits to bigger cities, I found the smell of heat and exhaust fumes rising from concrete canyons in the peak of summer suffocating. I longed for something different.
I was happiest when visiting my uncle’s farmhouse or taking a quick trip with my friend to her grandparent’s farm in Limeport. Playing in hay-filled barns, wading in shallow creeks, listening to the buzz of insects in cornfields; all these things held a certain fascination for this city girl.
And while I never did get to live on a farm, I am lucky enough now to enjoy some of those things in my greenbelt bordered by farms.
Birdsong, the trill of insects in the evening, roosters crowing across the valley, pheasants cackling in the brush, the beating wings of red tail hawks flying over-head, the screech of a fox looking for its mate on a crisp fall evening, watching the first lightening bugs emerge, all these things have taught me over the years to appreciate the timelessness of nature.
The countryside has a rhythm all its own. It won’t be rushed. It is slower, calmer, with sounds designed by nature to be reassuring, soothing. Sounds that change season by season.
Like listening to the steady summer thrum of a tractor as the farmer across the way plows his field. Or the distant hammering of a woodpecker in the woods below my home. Or the echoing sound of the thresher as farmers reap their Fall harvest. And noticing the gradual slowing of cricket sounds as the days grow shorter and cooler.
To stand quietly in the winter night and absorb the absolute stillness in the air before snowflakes begin their descent. To hear a crisp, crackling sound like cellophane unfolding, as ice crystals hit the windows.
And to then, at last, welcome the Spring arrivals of bluebirds and robins, even as the smell of winter snow lingers on the air, while the first snow drops push their way heavenward through flowerbeds fed by springtide showers.
Doubtless, some city dwellers would find this quite boring; the pace dull or mind-numbing. They delight in having a restaurant down the street, a theater around the corner, or a museum a short walk away. Entertainment at their fingertips.
But no restaurants, no theaters, no museums fill my horizon.
My view is brimming with pockets of woods thick with trees, open fields and meadows, and rolling hills with the occasional barn or two dotting the landscape. It is a treasure trove of scenery that changes color with nature’s brush every season, never disappointing in its palette.
When I look out my windows and see flowers, birds, a glistening creek meandering through the trees and the sudden appearances of fox, deer, wild turkey, or even the occasional coyote, time has taught me to watch for a shifting parade of colors over the coming seasons.
The bright yellow of the first daffodils and flash of an early bluebird herald Spring. With the timid appearance of subtle fawn shades, uncertain baby deer emerge from the woods and summer is on our doorstep. The measured stroll of a flock of wild turkeys, slowly moves us closer to Autumn. By the time winter has frostily iced its way into my greenway, the deer and coyote have transformed into mushroom brown, carefully blending into the browns, umbers and grays of the woods.
In my front row seat, in my greenway bordered by farms, season by season, my countryside theatre is always open. And what amazing spectacles Mother Nature produces!
Yup, I’m thankful I’m just a country girl at heart.
Janice Monahan Rodgers 