June 19, 2007

   When Paula was here last, she sat on the porch and surprised me by suggesting that we plant lilac bushes by the Pig Barn above, and also by the vegetable stand out in front. She startled me also by taking out her ubiquitous notebook and reading off types of lilacs that are common in old farmhouses like ours, and the next day we went to the Mandy Spring Nursery in Granville (see post below) where she, referring carefully to her research,  and Todd picked some out some bushes. She was partially inspired, she said by Walt Whitman’s famous ode to Abraham Lincoln after the assassination, “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d.”
   Abraham Lincoln was President when my farmhouse was built and I have always admired him most among Presidents,  and devoured every book about him I could find.
   Then she had to go off and work on her book. This ritualistic coming and going has been part of our marriage almost from the first day, the contemporary, if not entirely conventional, bond of two journalists and independent and driven people. We have always spent time apart, and always enjoyed coming together, this tug and pull, I call it, sad to see her go, happy to see her come back. On the farm, this separation sometimes seems more acute, as this place is so different from other places, and there is so much to do here, that I can hardly bear to leave it. But we make sure not to let too much time go by, and use phones, e-mail and every other means to stay in touch.
  This lilac suggestion was the first major acquisition involving the farm that Paula has ever suggested, and I was very happy to hear it. She had to go work on her book before the lilacs came, and she was disappointed not to see them come, but left meticulous instructions, and we planted them this week, and she will be able to see them here on the Farm Journal for the first time. I know she checks the journal religiously to keep an eye on my adventures when she isn’t here. Thanks for the suggestion about the lilacs, babe. I think of you whenever I look at them and always will.
  From the first shovel of dirt, they looked as if they belonged here, and you were right about dressing up the naked corner of the Pig Barn. I appreciate it. You’ve tied a lot of things together, as usual, in your quiet and thoughtful way.
  And I also appreciate Walt Whitman, who started the whole thing, and whose poem made lilacs bloom in dooryards all across America. A farm is a place of many different threads, I think.
 
    A couple of verses, for Paula:

    “When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d,
     And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,
     I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
   
    “Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,
     Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,
     And thought of him I love.”

     “In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash’d palings,
      Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
      With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love,
      With every leaf a miracle – and from this bush in the dooryard,
      With delicate-color’d blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
      A sprig with its flower I break.”