Meet Uncle Jim.
Uncle Jim is one of my favorite relatives. He's one of those hard-working types that gets up at 5am to bail hay. There's something wonderfully soothing about him.
He isn’t big city paced, businessmen trying to make a sale, talking so much and saying too little. He pauses before speaking; sculpting the sentences until deemed fit to gently set into the air.
To me, he's a representative of an earlier era-- a slower time, when people sat on their porches to listen to the crickets chirp. That’s not to say he isn’t brilliant – he’s a learned professional, owner of his own pharmacy, a well of knowledge on everything from cows to the cosmos.
I spent Sunday at one of my favorite places-- the ranch, 60 acres tucked away in the mountains of Bird's Eye. [Even those of you familiar with Utah may be wondering, "Where is that?" Exactly.]
It's a place with hills of rolling lavender
and mint growing by the stream
|Glory be to God for dappled things—|
|For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;|
|For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;|
|Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;|
|Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;||5|
|And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.|