A Journey Through Time: 32 Years on Our Beloved Land in Marianna

In the spring of 1989, my husband and I embarked on a new chapter of our lives in Marianna. Stepping onto our property for the first time, we were greeted by fields adorned with dormant wild grasses, punctuated by the emergence of new life. Along the weathered fence line, sturdy oaks and majestic maple trees stood as sentinels, marking the edges of what I fondly dubbed "our forest."

Little did I know then that these fields held a treasure trove of black raspberries, capable of filling several-gallon buckets. As the seasons unfurled their vibrant tapestry, an array of wildflowers painted the landscape. Daisies, violets, buttercups, and dandelions danced in the breeze, revealing a silent language that whispered to my soul.

Over the years, our land has evolved. The field, once sparse, now cradles an abundance of trees, a mix of native, invasive, and carefully planted specimens. Some stand as living memorials to cherished loved ones, like the pines that sway in their honor. The once-prolific black raspberries now offer fewer sweet treasures, while elderberries and the gentle hop of rabbits have grown scarce. In their stead, deer now find sanctuary, nurturing new generations beneath the sheltering boughs.

Despite the transformations, I stand at an upstairs window, gazing out at this land that has become a part of my very being. It's a feeling akin to witnessing the grown stature of our sons – a bittersweet recognition of the passage of time.

In the intervening years, my dreams for this land have shifted. Plans to cultivate Christmas trees, demarcate spaces for berries and pollinators, and construct natural fencing have taken a backseat to the ebb and flow of life's demands. Sleds, quads, camp-outs, and paintball parties have echoed through the fields, creating cherished memories.

A glance in the mirror reveals another transformation. Time has woven its tale on my skin, etching wrinkles and painting silver streaks through my hair. Unlike the land, I understand that there will be no new plantings to change my own landscape. And that's perfectly fine. I've grown old alongside the trees our children once climbed.

Over 32 years, our land has transitioned through phases, each one a testament to the passage of time. Ironweed flowers, thistles, and milkweed marked milestones along the way, while blackberries once adorned our days with their abundance. I hold a fondness for the flora and fauna of yesteryears, for those moments when I would wander out and gather armfuls of wildflowers, or stroll the paths with a retinue of butterflies and industrious bees.

Yet, as I reflect on these changes, I acknowledge that the bees are fewer than in my barefooted youth. The rhythm of life continues, and I find solace in knowing that our land, like me, has woven its story through the tapestry of time.

As the calendar turned to the New Year, a somber grayness enveloped the landscape. Heavy rain poured, turning yards into a quagmire and leaving a distinct absence of sunshine. The thermometer hovered at a modest 57 degrees, a far cry from the winter wonderland we'd normally expect by this time of year.

Since the onset of winter on December 21st, 2021, snowflakes have been a rarity, replaced instead by an abundance of rain. The return of trickling streams, a welcome sight after a parched summer, is a small consolation amidst the mud-laden yards.

Had the temperatures been lower, this deluge would have been a blanket of snow, reminiscent of last year's seemingly endless winter. Yet, such occurrences are now increasingly uncommon.

Traditionally, a "January thaw" graces us towards the end of the month, akin to an Indian Summer, tempting gardeners to sow bulbs and nurture young trees and shrubs. Warm spells in this season are becoming less of an anomaly, although we brace for the inevitable return of freezing temperatures in the weeks ahead.

The staggering revelation of Alaska setting a new December record at a staggering 67 degrees, a 20-degree surge from the previous benchmark, has sent ripples of concern through the gardening and foraging communities. With global disasters unfolding, those attuned to nature witness the shifts firsthand in their own backyard, including the unsettling emergence of small mudslides.

A recent encounter with a leisurely-moving beetle and wasp outside my door served as a poignant reminder that nature, too, senses the shifting tides.

Fast forward to March 25th, 2023, and the heavens open, delivering days of relentless rain accompanied by winds howling at up to 40 mph. In the aftermath, our wooded sanctuary is scarred by several uprooted trees. The ground beneath us resembles a quagmire, its surface teeming with earthworms. The day dawns at an unusually warm 70 degrees, graced by fleeting rays of sunlight.

March 26th, 2023, sees me tending to the aftermath, gathering broken branches of our once majestic white pines. While their grandeur is unquestionable, the fragility of their boughs, susceptible to even the gentlest breeze, leaves me hesitant to plant another. Over time, the tree's silhouette transforms, its limbs refusing to regenerate.

As the mercury soars to 88 degrees on July 15th, 2023, Marianna joins a chorus of voices across the United States reporting record-breaking temperatures. The air bears the weight of humidity, a plea for rain echoing through the dry landscape. The capriciousness of precipitation persists, with an entire month of spring passing by without a drop. June, however, unleashes a week of torrential downpour, coaxing forth fungi in woods and yards alike, suffusing the air with a musty scent.

In this climate of unpredictability, the task of selecting which plants to entrust to our soil remains a puzzle. The specter of a late spring frost looms, threatening to decimate what might have been a bountiful summer harvest of apples and other fruits.

July 24th arrives, bearing the weight of the sweltering summer. Weather maps paint a picture of unprecedented temperatures, with the entire week poised to bask in the upper 80s and 90s.

In this tapestry of climate extremes, the familiar rhythms of the seasons have become elusive, leaving us to navigate a landscape forever changed.

September 13th, 2023, unfurls with a subtle chill in both morning and evening air, signaling the transition to a new season. With a touch of melancholy, I bid farewell to the tranquil embrace of paddle-boarding on the Monongahela River, aware that the river's surface will soon yield to the grasp of winter.

Despite the encroaching coolness, the water maintains a surprisingly inviting temperature. Today, the Monongahela River registers at 77.54 degrees, extending an unexpected invitation to those willing to venture forth. Nearby, Ten Mile Creek holds steady at a comparably warm 72 degrees, offering a testament to the resilience of nature even in the face of changing climates.

These readings serve as a reminder that while the world around us may shift and transform, there is still a comforting constancy to be found in the rhythms of the natural world. The ebb and flow of temperatures, the dance of rivers, and the whisper of changing seasons remain a testament to the enduring beauty of our planet.

Continued HERE.