Wedded to the Land

<p><span>“Whether she’s writing about the staccato of a hairy woodpecker echoing through the woods tapping sweet sap from a cluster of maples during a spring sugaring ritual or mourning the loss of her ox Tolstoy Joan Donaldson’s sensuous prose shimmers and surprises. Her collection of essays <em>Wedded to the Land</em> peels back the skin of her blueberry farm with the precision and eloquence of a Wendell Berry Edward Abbey and other agrarian essayists who make us pine for the lost heart of the country.” </span><br /><span>—George Getschow writer-in-residence The Mayborn Graduate Institute of Journalism former editor for the <em>Wall Street Journal </em></span><br /><br /><span>John thought he was building a garage when he erected a timber-frame building only a stone’s throw from the house we built on the back of our farm. While washing the dishes I mulled over how pleasant it would be to look out our kitchen window and watch goats lounge in a paddock. If goats lived in the new shed the walk wouldn’t be far when milking in the winter or during kidding season. </span><br /><br /><span>Once outside I scanned the sixteen-by-twenty-foot framework. “You know a couple of goats would fit nicely in here. There’s room for two stalls.” John’s hammer paused. I continued. “The aspens and honeysuckle on the north would shelter an outdoor pen.” I tied on a nail apron and picked up a hammer.</span></p>