(Here is the seasonal display on the front door to Refuge Farm. Photo Socotra.)

I am down at the Farm, and slept well in the new bed, thank-you very kindly. I should have dreamed, and I did not, thank God.

I had arrived in full darkness, not surprising for this time of the year I guess, but by the time I got moved in and mounted the wreath on the door, I was late for the Russians. I mixed a traveler and drove the Panzer slowly down the front fence line to their lane.

It was so dark in their door-yard I wondered if I would fall getting to the back door. Half-way from the Panzer the security lights came on- they were not hanging in the kitchen- I guess that is a pretty unwelcoming space, until they get around to fixing it up.

Natasha came to the kitchen door and waved me in, and we walked into the old dining room. The parlor was behind, dark and chill, but the cast-iron stove was glowing with warmth and good cheer.

We caught up. I won’t lie to you: the coverage of the school shooting was literally more than I could bear. As a father, the idea that this could happen to your child made me weepie all day, and the smallest thing would set me off.

Natasha had a different take on matters. I don’t know if it is the dark reality of the old world of the USSR in which she was raised to womanhood, and the clutches of an authoritarian State that controlled everything in the interest of creating the new human: the New Soviet Citizen.

The world suddenly opened up as the system collapsed, and she was able to escape.

“Between the shooting and the budget cliff and the season, I was ambivalent about putting up the wreath,” I said, taking a sip from my drink. “Three years ago I took everything down the minute I got back from the funeral of Bill’s daughters. They died in a one-car accident in the middle of the holidays- beautiful girls, and in Catholic tradition, laid out in their caskets with the lids open.” I shook my head, remembering. “I was devastated for days,” I finished, unwilling to go further and have my eyes get moist again.

Natasha nodded, her dark enigmatic eyes deep in thought. “I joined NRA today,” she said.

I blinked. “You did what?” I asked.

“Da, she said gravely. “We are going to apply for concealed carry permits once we complete the safety course.” Natasha had been in the Kurchatov Institute in Moscow, and was the only rocket scientist I know, a fact of which she reminds me periodically.  Matt continued his last chore of the day, screwing hold-backs for the drapes into place on either side of the big window that radiated the chill from the silent pasture beyond. “I grew up in Soviet Union. I know where this is going. I did not come to live in America to see it go the way of Russia. Freedom is nothing to take lightly.”

“Freedom is hard,” said Matt, putting down the cordless drill. “People forget that.”

I wondered about the violence of the computer games our young men play, and then the starkness of the differences in how people look at really important stuff. Then we talked about other things, and when I finished my drink, made my apologies and got back to the car. I could hear a freight train approach the grade crossing in the distance on the tracks of the Orange & Alexandria Railroad.

Geese began to honk as I crunched into the circular drive. When I opened the door I heard what must be dozens of them. Living in the city as I do most of the time, this many bellowing birds was unusual. Geese can be fierce protectors of their turf and I wondered if I might be attacked by angry birds.

No geese appeared, though the hubbub continued along the fence-line to the west, slowly diminishing as the sounds continued down the west pasture, no birds appearing. Predator? I wondered. Maybe a fox getting too close to the nesting place?

I don’t know. I had another drink in the warm great room. I looked at the wreath and I looked at the cold-iron fireplace. I thought about lighting a fire, but then decided to do the right thing, wait until the chimney guy comes and looks at it and certifies it ready to go.

I sighed. There is something primal about the fire, something that calls out of the ancient mammal in us down there in the core of our brains. Chirp.

A couple chores loom. Literally. That damn smoke detector on the cathedral ceiling has always been a problem, hopelessly out of reach. No ladder, of course, another item for the Big Box home center. Janet-the-Original-Owner had smoke detectors in every room, and all the batteries expired at just the same time, beeping things happening everywhere, all with the same irritating chirp.

Chirp, chirp freaking chirp. The sound of angry birds all over the house.

I dismantled all of them except the one way up there. Chirp. That is one of the things I gotta accomplish. This one only requires the will to do it. That is so unlike the rest of the list back in the World where I live most of the time.

Chirp.

Copyright 2012 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com