Cassandra gave me a fisheye look yesterday when I came out to photograph her shoveling manure out to the manure pile. Of all the photos, she said, do you have to take me shoveling manure?

Yes, I said, it was necessary. In a way, the manure pile is a symbol of life on the farm, it is as integral a part of the farm as fences or gates or barns. Once a year, Scott Carrino comes in his old truck to haul the manure away for his gardens, we take some for ours. It is part of the cycle of life here.

I  don’t care to generalize, but I have a strong connection with people who grew up on farms. They seem to have solid and enduring values, they work hard, are close to nature, understand animals, make good and loyal friends.

There is no bullshit about them.

How strange that me, a city boy my whole life, would take to being on a farm so completely.

I often say the farm is my true mother. Somebody wrote on Facebook that one measure of a man is how he  treats his mother, and I flinched a bit at that, since I did not treat my mother well.

I fled from her, kept her away from my family. As a grandfather now, I realize how painful it must have been for her to be kept so far away from my own daughter. I just did not trust her with my daughter.

My mother was wonderfully charismatic and bright and creative, but also bitter and disappointed with her life, which she saw as being repeatedly undermined by clueless men. My father was the chief underminer, she believed. A therapist once suggested this was where my passion for encouragement came from.

My mother was not well and could be frighteningly abusive and destructive. I did not even see her for the last five or six years of her life, and I know she loved me dearly and I loved her, I could not ever figure out a way to work it out without being destroyed.

The farm is my grounding place, my home. Even with Maria gone, I am never alone here. There are living things to care for, doors and gates to be checked, water tanks to fill, and yes, manure to move. Manure is our constant companion, a never-ending presence on the farm.

Our manure goes to several places. Scott Carrino comes by in the Spring with his old truck to haul some of the manure away for his gardens. We save some for our gardens. One or two friends come bye to to pick some up. The farm has steadied, it helps me understand the cycles of life, including my own.

It is a safe place for me, my home. I suppose that is what mothers do.