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| William Faulkner - Copilot Illus. |
A Country Journal with John Helms Most mornings begin with coffee by the pool. That’s where I read, sip, and sketch out the day’s plans while the sun climbs over the treetops and the hens begin their chattering conversations. It’s a quiet ritual, and one I’ve come to cherish. The pool water is swirling gently, the breeze is soft, and the day hasn’t yet asked much of me.
But the chores don’t wait long.
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I was welcomed by a dragonfly
when I ventured out for my
morning coffee today. |
The lawn and grounds never stops asking for attention. This week I’ve mowed the lawn, built and prepped the new herb garden just outside the kitchen door, and laid fifteen bales of pine straw around the house borders and beds. The pool gets its daily tending too—it’s where we spend a couple of hours most afternoons, soaking in the stillness and the sound of cicadas.
The chicken run got a refresh—new pine shavings for the girls' laying boxes, who continue to lay with remarkable consistency. Our flock is smaller than it was just a few weeks ago, but we’re still gathering 8 to 10 eggs a day. That’s plenty for us, with enough to share with family and friends. There’s something deeply satisfying about that rhythm—hens laying, eggs gathered, breakfast made.
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A tiny fence lizzard hunts
for insects on the tarp
covering pinestraw. |
While mowing near the edge of the woods this week, I nearly disturbed a fox’s den. I caught sight of a couple of young kits, barely bigger than a squirrel, tumbling in the shade. I backed off, hoping they’ll stay and grow into guardians of the forest. We’ve also spotted a doe with a new fawn, bucking and bounding through the underbrush like a wind-blown leaf.
False Fall
And now, Mississippi is teasing us with what we call “false fall.” If you’re not from around here, let me explain: every August, we get a few days of cool nights and gentler days, when the humidity lifts and the air feels like it’s been borrowed from October. It’s a brief reprieve, a whisper of autumn before summer tightens its grip again.
William Faulkner captured it perfectly in Light in August:
“…in August in Mississippi there’s a few days somewhere about the middle of the month when suddenly there’s a foretaste of fall, it’s cool, there’s a lambence, a soft a luminous quality to the light, as though it came not from just today but from back in the old classic times. It might have fauns and satyrs and the gods and—from Greece, from Olympus in it somewhere. It lasts just for a day or two, then it’s gone…”
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Faulkner's statue welcomes
visitors to Oxford, where he
once sat contemplatively. |
Faulkner’s words linger like the light he describes—soft, haunting, and true. I first read him in high school, then again in college, both times as required reading. It wasn’t until later, with more years and more miles behind me, that I began to appreciate the art in his tangled prose. I am currently buying his books and reading them now with my new understanding of his time on this planet.
His writing style is famously intricate—baroque, dense, emotionally charged. He favored long, winding sentences that feel like a walk through thick woods, each phrase layered with memory and meaning. His stories don’t unfold in straight lines; they circle, stagger, wind and sometimes collapse under the weight of their own truth. He understood that life isn’t tidy, and neither are the stories worth telling.
Faulkner himself was a Southern eccentric—quiet, proud, partial to bourbon, and prone to speaking in riddles. He once said, “The writer’s only responsibility is to his art,” and he lived that creed with stubborn grace. His satire was subtle but sharp, exposing the contradictions of the Old South without romanticizing them. He wrote about decay, injustice, and the slow erosion of tradition with a kind of mournful irony that still resonates.
In a world that’s always changing, Faulkner stood firm in the mud —watching, listening, writing. His work reminds us that progress and memory often pull in opposite directions, and that truth is rarely simple.
Back to the Farm
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| Poke berries - beautiful but poisonous. |
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Late summer, early blooming
fall iron weed. |
Our Massey Ferguson tractor has been out of commission for weeks—a leaking seal sent it off to the mechanic, and I’m hoping it returns soon. Without it, the list of undone chores grows longer by the day. The pasture where our horse grazes is overgrown and needs clipping before winter. I’ve got old bridge timbers to move up to the garden area, where they’ll serve as the foundation for a greenhouse that needs to be completed before our first frost, which is usually around the second week of November. There’s an old barn to tear down and a new seller barn to finish. And the half-mile stretch of driveway? It’s looking more wild than civilized these days.
But we press on. That’s the rhythm of country life—plans made over coffee, chores tackled one by one, and stories gathered along the way.
A Recipe to Share: Garden Tomato Pie
There’s something about late August that begs for tomatoes. They’re heavy on the vine, sun-warmed and bursting with flavor—too ripe to ignore, too good to waste. Around here, we slice them thick, salt them generously, and let them speak for themselves. But when I’ve got a few extras and the weather’s teasing us with cooler evenings, I like to make a garden tomato pie.
This dish is simple, hearty, and tastes like summer winding down. It’s good warm or cold, and it pairs well with a porch swing and a glass of sweet tea.
Ingredients
1 pre-baked 9-inch pie crust
4–5 large ripe tomatoes, sliced thick
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
1/2 cup chopped fresh basil (or a mix of basil and parsley)
1/2 cup thinly sliced onions
1 cup shredded sharp cheddar cheese
1/2 cup grated mozzarella
1/2 cup mayonnaise (preferably homemade)
Optional: a pinch of red pepper flakes or a dash of hot sauce for kick
Instructions
Lay the tomato slices on paper towels and sprinkle with salt. Let them sit for 20–30 minutes to draw out excess moisture, then gently blot them dry.
In the pre-baked pie shell, layer the tomato slices, chopped herbs, and sliced onions.
Mix the cheddar, mozzarella, and mayonnaise. Add pepper and any optional hot sauce. Spread this mixture over the top of the pie.
Bake at 350°F for about 30 minutes, or until the top is golden and bubbly.
Let it rest for 10–15 minutes before slicing. Even better the next day.
This pie is a celebration of what’s still growing and what’s about to fade. It’s a good dish for sharing—whether with family, neighbors, or just the quiet company of a good book.
Note: A close friend of mine shared a delicious recipe for his tomato pie with me. Since then, he passed away far too early, our home burned to the ground, and his recipe was part of our loss. This recipe, pulled from my memory, is my take on his recipe.
Photos by John Helms
copyright © 2025 John Helms
