Gloomy Saturday. And yet.

Tom and I were just fixin' to head to the cinema for a mindless evening of The Avengers, when I was paged, on the phone, and Jeff the Barefoot Farmer and his Oregon friend Jim barged in.  DiAnne was here, having brought her sweet-woodruff-infused May wine, and we had just watched I'll Have Another in another spectacular run--the Preakness, this time. 

The cinema lost out to a pleasant hour by the koi pond, talking about running cattle on grassland--Jeff was fresh from a lecture by a South African farmer, who described intense grazing, with animals packed for short periods sequentially on tiny plots, and how they trample the grasses, graze their fill, manure generously, and scuff the soil, all of which results in rapid soil rebuilding for several months before the herd returns for another brief bout.  Monsanto, corporations, blackberry vinegar, small communities, Jeff's hat, which might be in one of our bedrooms, how to cook a whistle pig, the fact that Whistle Pig would be a great name for a band, a brief tribute to the great banjo player Doug Dillard, who died this week, and social networking.  Eclipse of the sun.  Succulents.  Girl fiddlers.  Love life speculation.  All grist for our happy hour.

Jeff's band is playing at Richard's Cajun up the road.  We might go.  Or not. 

An excellent end to a day that had already included long hospital rounds for me,  gardening with a couple of Oaxacan helpers  for Tom, and Robert stopping by to discuss the pool pump.  Heather came for laundry, and the washer is burning rubber again, certainly NOT fixed by replacing the belts last week. 

And topped off by towering purple clouds, patches of thundering rain, lit by a small yellow sun off above the hills.

And I completely forgot about, since I was unable to attend, the morning's community planning session at Bell's Bend Park, with lunch provided by our own Rachel.  It's always something.

More May.

Today is first CSA pickup, and, for a change, I'm home, and plan to spend a little time at the shed, communing with our produce, our producers, and our customers. 

First square dance of the season this weekend, while Tom and I were in Wisconsin celebrating the last of the college graduations.   Apparently it rained, but Keith saved the day/night with an improvised tarpaulin over the dancefloor.   EricTheFarmer says that Balthazar Jack, our newish B&W hound, got a bit sloshed, drinking the tag ends of beer out of discarded cups.  We love us some Yazoo, but will have to speak to them about marketing to our canine population. 

May

Last week our farm proletariat created our own Maypole, a giant bamboo pole with a tuft of leaves on top, tucked into a cable spool.  After dark, there was semi-organized dancing, wrapping the streamers around the pole, and semi-organized music, and semi-organized potlucking.  All good, although the adorable quotient was certainly well below Martha Stewart threshhold.

This week is the first square dance of the season, T-Claw calling.  Plan was to build a dance-floor, but marine plywood is very very expensive, so options are being discussed.  Around a late lunch table, as it happens, with Eric, Rachel, Heather, Scott, Loren, Dylan, Andy, Ayla, and I don't know who all. 

Tom picked out a black-and-white houndly mutt as a second farm dog (Balthazar Jack, whose schizoid moniker reflects unresolvable conflict in the family), and then came home with a third dog, the adorable but very destructive Thelma.  The farm crew wanted to see her flying over a cliff in her convertible Caddy, but our good neighbor Jim has taken her on, to see her through her puppyhood.  Into a grave and philosophical middle-age, we presume.

Our frighteningly changeable climate has, this spring, been perfection for truck farming, and the gardens are perfectly beautiful: onions, tomatoes, peppers, okra, rhubarb, and lettuces all crisp and shining.   Tom has temporarily retired the spader for repairs.  I've weeded the driveway bed and called in reinforcements to beat the pool bed into some semblance of horticultural order. 

There is no other news.  Oh, wait--Tom, Keith, Jim, and Joe put up the huge posts you can see down at the corner--the first part of our new Scottsboro/Bells Bend sign.  Can't wait.  We're so proud!

Whistle Pig.

Rachel's cute little facebook inquiry--"How do you cook a whistle pig?"--was, I thought, just clever. But no. She really wanted to know. The ground-hog pelt curled up tidily in a bowl on the table and the skinny little bald carcass marinating on the counter transmitted the brutal reality swiftly and unmistakably.

Whistle-pigs, AKA ground hogs, look pretty darling standing on their hind legs, little arms tucked into chests, surveying their territory. But these most innocuous of creatures can destroy a garden patch in no time flat, and the gentle vegan farmer becomes a raging homicidal maniac when one shows up inside the fence. The Barefoot Farmer once told me that he impulsively flung a pitchfork at a ground hog, and rejoiced in exultant surprise when he nailed the little bastard.

Our own whistle-pig was brought down by Red, EricTheFarmer's dog, carefully dissected by Rachel and a visiting German veterinarian (she knows her anatomy!), marinated, and transformed into a lovely stew.

I thought it smelled good, anyway. Not quite up to tasting it myself.

Easter

At daybreak this morning, the sun flared behind Vanderbilt Hospital, and a perfect full moon was still afloat just south of Love Circle. At noon, Tom, Sumter, Barry, and Keith are pruning and weeding last year's hops, Barry ensconced in a Dick's folding chair rescued from the river and repaired with plumber's fittings. Ollie trotted crookedly across the field to watch.

The new hops patch, a German variety, I'm told, was planted under the new trellises on Wednesday, volunteers appearing from nowhere to help. Although Loren had calculated the tractor turning radius to the inch, one set of anchored cables has been pulled loose and reanchored a bit closer to the pole. (I'm contemplating running prayer flags along the cables.)

Apparently, in addition to weeding, one prunes down to four strong shoots, then the lower 20 inches of leaves are stripped off for better breezes below the vines' knees. Like shorts.

My old rose, which blooms in tattered chic, is out, as is the purple clematis, and I did just manage to paint Di's tree peony, which waited about thirty minutes after the last brushstroke and let go its pink petals all over the table top.

And there is an elaborately decorated egg-shaped cake on my countertop, unknown provenance but we extend our thanks.

Maybe this isn't a traditional approach to Easter, but themes of renewal and mystery are certainly resonating here today. Along with the most ancient of beverages, one of the earliest marks of civilazation, and a group of folks to get stuff done. Jesus probably didn't call them disciples either.

Spring. Or something.

Ok, Ok, I give up. It really is spring, even though it's a month early. Though we are reveling in the beautiful weather, we are apprehensive about what this means about changing condiditions over the long haul.

However, here are our local signs of spring: Come home, all doors open, tax papers almost all put away, cat lying outside on patio, candytuft, phlox, quince, and Tom's little lettuces all madly green.

Last week Tom organized the Big Koi Pond Cleanout, so pump and fountain now burbling once more. Kabir brought yet another 17 yards of concrete, so we all helped--at least a little--with screeding and smoothing area around the shed.

First shed potluck of the year.

This weekend, I'm on call, but still: a dozen cars here for hops pole raising, Rachel teaching park kids about opossums, and a couple of Canadians overnighting here on their way to a midwife conference at The Farm. Ina Gaskin is still going strong!

The great Henry Isaacs has a show opening and is coming out to the farm to paint today. If I can get home in time. (Look him up.) Fortunately, my knee, which blew up in sudden agony on Friday--my intern pushed me around in a wheelchair on rounds, much to my embarrassment--has been aspirated and injected and I am now almost back to normal.

So. Rounds. Art. Hops. Iris. Spring.

Scottsboro Literary and Culinary Society Redux

Last night we resurrected the Scottsboro Literary and Culinary Society--with a bang!

It was a beautiful evening at Riverbluff Farm, overlooking the Cumberland, with a lovely sunset turning into a brilliant crescent moon with attendant stars--are those Venus and Jupiter? Jane talked about painting, its guarantees of both failure and success, and how the painter lives in the moment, stretching out time.

I read some Bells Bend poetry, and, once again, was struck by the thoughtful attention poetry audiences seem to generate. It seems as though people are hungry, eager, to enter into another world, a suspension of life as we know it, and dwell there for a few minutes silently, fully engaged with these few words floating towards them. I'm grateful for this gift. Thank you.

The Scottsboro Society was founded in 1984 by three couples with ties to the area, and for many years met to cook, dine, and listen to a guest presentation. We heard discussions of Irish history, weaving, and the history of pepper, just to name a few. Then one couple moved away, and, finally, when the great Charley Ray, our animating spirit, died a few years ago, the Society fell into oblivion.

We are resurrecting it in modified form--in fact, so far, in no form at all! The next event will be our neighbor Kathleen talking about her book about diabetes and leading us through a cooking demonstration.

And, once again, thank you to our hosts, Bill and Jane, and to our neighbors and friends, whose intellects and spirits range both deep and wide.