I have noticed lately that my body is talking to me. I think it always did, but for some reason I never heard it so well before. One thing is for sure: When your body talks to you, you better listen.

For instance, this past weekend, I loaded up a bunch of wood that the power company cut down in their right-of-way on my land in Virginia. The wood was just piled along the side of my property on the road. There was some poplar, but a good deal of it was red oak. With the recent wet weather, most of it was water logged. After loading most of it, which had conveniently been sliced into firewood-sized pieces, I came across a five foot chunk of red oak that was not sawed through all the way. I tried to pick it up and felt something give. That's the best way I can describe it.

I could plainly hear something there telling me, "Hey, wait a minute here. What do think you are trying to do?" It was my back, I later realized, calling out to me in clear and concise tones, reminding me that we are not 16 any more. It was also wondering, no doubt, where the heck that chair was that we sat in all week before we started playing Paul Bunyan.

"This is not in my job description," my back says with authority. "I will be talking to my union representative." Of course, I don't have such a thing, but my back does. He can make my entire body go on strike - legs that refuse to work, a head that hurts so bad that it is pointless to use it, arms that won't lift a finger and on and on. You see, when you are the editor for a weekly newspaper, a good deal of your job involves sitting in a chair and typing, writing letters, reading email, editing copy and talking on the telephone.

However, the job does not involve loading logs, chopping wood, toting water, planting trees or any other manual labor to speak of.

Therefore, when I go to my land to "work off some steam," sometimes I find myself as steamless as a busted travel iron.

I grew up on a small farm, but I haven't done that kind of work in several years, and I do mean several. Every time I try to do something, I am reminded of how long it has been.

I remember pitching hay all day and not having any problem at all, save the typical hay-scratch rash and a sunburn. I could do that now and end up on life support.

Oh well, that was then and this is now. As for living in the present, I have been working on planting a number of trees, including a miniature orchard with apples, cherries, peaches, pears, various berries and plums. These things do not jump into the ground on their own, contrary to my earlier belief. The little pots the trees and bushes come in are just temporary housing places, meant to be removed after someone digs a hole and sticks the tree in it. That's wonderful unless the someone who has to dig the hole is me.

Notice the word "dig" above, which is also not included in the the job description, my back pipes in with a fresh wave of pain.

I planted about seven trees and a bush over the weekend. When I got done, my once vampire skin is now blazing red - I stupidly removed my shirt and scorched myself to a lobster-like hue - my arms are scratched and my hands are sore and even my toes hurt. Toes aren't supposed to hurt, are they?

The ground has more roots in it than I have ever seen and the rocks are just a little bigger than ever before this year.

The bar is a little heavier, the shovel is uncooperative and the posthole diggers don't bite in quite as deep as they used to. I have to blame it on the equipment, after all, it couldn't be me.

When I think about it, I believe I am becoming something I used to not understand at all. I remember when "city people" visited us when I was younger. My cousins would come who lived in the city and I would take them out fishing, hiking and hunting. After a little while, it would be obvious that they were as out of their element as I would have been walking down the filthy streets of New York City. They would run out of breath walking to my favorite fishing hole, which was about a mile over the hills and through the woods. They would have to rest and they walked much slower than I did. I remember how hard it was to keep my patience with them as I thought, "I wonder why they can't keep up?"

Now I don't have to wonder any more. The only difference between me and them is that I at least am familiar with the country life in memory. I suppose that is worse in a way, because I know what I should be able to do firsthand. A good fence row would be the death of me these days.

I will blame it on the inactivity of winter. That must be it. While I don't know how good a shape I was in before, I sure don't remember being in this bad a shape. You know, there is something about pain and time, they conspire together to blur memories. I suppose if it weren't for forgetting pain, no woman would ever have more than one child and no man would ever have more than one woman. There I go again, getting myself into trouble.

At any rate, I went by to visit my parents and my mother told me that I need to slow down. "When are you going to learn? You're not a young boy anymore."

I thought about it for a minute and then I told her, "I hope that is a lesson I never do learn."

"You'll learn one way or the other," she said with a knowing laugh. It seems like my parents have some wisdom I can't quite grasp.

I don't think I need to slow down, but there is something here to learn. Perhaps this is just God's way of giving me a little insight on getting older.

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