Of wind roar and blue acts of defiance

The motorcycle takes off like a jet and the wind roars outside my helmet the way I imagine a tornado might sound. It's exhilarating to feel how we cut through the air and the speed at which we move feels many times it's real measure.

We have left our quiet house on this placid Sunday in search of adventure on the roads that snake through the countless corn, soybean, wheat, horse and steer farms in these counties. We find a nearby cornfield and I ask my husband to take my picture so you can see how tall the corn is getting, although it's not yet ready for picking. (I look like a tiny alien with a huge head!)

Back when I was a city girl living in the city I knew next to nothing about fresh corn, about how it was grown or how to pick the best ears in the stores. Now I find myself introducing other city girls to country living after having spent eight years in these parts.

On our way to nowhere, we come across the "shocks of straw" that Amish farmers prepare for keeping straw from spoiling before winter. They seem odd for those of us used to seeing the large mechanically prepared hay bales that dot most of the farms around here. But they are actually strangely beautiful against the blue sky of an idle Ohio afternoon.

When we stop to take this photo, we disturb the dogs of a large Amish family, and they all come out to their back porch, where they have obviously gathered, to see what is happening. I take my picture and I yell: "Sorry!" as I get back on the motorcycle but I don't see any of them smile or wave as we take off.

Now we go in search of a blue barn one of my graduating seniors said last semester that existed on a close-by road. According to this rural legend, an Amish farmer got upset with the strict regulations of his community, and instead of painting his barn pristinely white, like all of his peers do, he painted it blue. Little did we know that this farmer, for whatever reason, but definitely as an unequivocably in-your-face act of defiance, painted all of his buildings in a pretty jarring blue.

When we turn the motorcycle to head in the direction of home I suddenly have a hunch that peach season might have just started, and ask my husband to stop at our favorite orchard. Unfortunately, a large blackboard on their front porch explains the closed doors by noting that their peach harvest froze in January, and invites us to return in August for their apples (which are delicious!).

Off we go in search of another orchard where we are rewarded for our perseverance. We buy a half-peck of peaches and a large block of unsalted Amish butter, which is the unparalleled ingredient for perfectly flaky pie crusts, and I'm already making plans for the first peach cobbler of the year.

To end such a mellow Sunday, my husband and I sit outside on what used to be our porch furniture and now has become a social gathering place for our little apartment complex and spend some time chatting with a new neighbor and her two girls, and with a neighbor who will soon depart with her very energetic rescued beagle-mix.

All in all, it was a perfectly lovely day and I give thanks for that.