By Michael Suchorsky

I sat on the deck with a can of beer appreciating the silence for an hour. For the first time, I realized the correlation between that the current moment and the soft quiet on the expansive back porch on my grandfather’s farm following the evening milking. The entire extended family talking quietly—adults switching to Ukrainian whenever there was something negative (or adult-like). The men drinking Iron City, Rolling Rock, or Duquesne beer. The kids probably drinking the multi colored/tasting soda pop, bought by the case out of the garage of a coal miner—trying to make ends meet during a long strike.

That was yesterday evening. After spending hours with a chainsaw and shears cutting down and removing 3 stands of huge multiflora—a prelude to mowing the upper half of the field. Even though I was covered in poison—including the “Moody Jazz Cafe” baseball hat, which Geraldine gave me because she said I was moody—I was bombarded (though not bitten) by bugs—mainly black flies. Drawn to the carbon dioxide in my panting, which continued for hours, due to pulling apart the cut multiflora and dragging it off the field.

When I finished I was exhausted. Another sign of my age.

But walking back to the house I was most pleased to see an Oriole pollinating the Northern Spy blossoms and singing. Appreciated the quiet time during the receding light, and the thought line back to my childhood in a different world.~