Last evening, home from the hospital day, I went down to the farm to help Jim, Sule', and Jeff with planting our first official crops.
George and Tom were working the field again with the rebreaker--we're doing our best to unearth and kill every devilish bit of bermuda grass, with the same success given mankind for every effort over the centuries to eliminate evil. That is, not much, but hopefully enough so we can live with the result.
We planted a long row of celery (although the transplants were a bit rootbound), a row of onions, and this morning, under a flat gray lid of threatening clouds, Tom and Jeff added a row of leaf lettuce. Each leafy cluster was doused with a cup of manure tea/creekwater mix.
We've really had too much rain for the ground to be as thoroughly worked as Jeff would like, but, as he points out, dealing with imperfection is the nature of farming. Last night's imperfections, in addition to bermuda grass, included the effects of stoop labor on the aging sacroiliacs and an evening's crop of mosquitoes. Still, at dusk, an inverted fingernail moon was cool and sharp in a darkening cobalt sky, the dogs followed me and the water buckets to the creek, and I heard the liquid murmur of wild turkeys in the Baker's pasture across the road.
And at the end of the driveway was the golden rectangle of kitchen light calling us, and our aching sacroiliacs, to supper again.
George and Tom were working the field again with the rebreaker--we're doing our best to unearth and kill every devilish bit of bermuda grass, with the same success given mankind for every effort over the centuries to eliminate evil. That is, not much, but hopefully enough so we can live with the result.
We planted a long row of celery (although the transplants were a bit rootbound), a row of onions, and this morning, under a flat gray lid of threatening clouds, Tom and Jeff added a row of leaf lettuce. Each leafy cluster was doused with a cup of manure tea/creekwater mix.
We've really had too much rain for the ground to be as thoroughly worked as Jeff would like, but, as he points out, dealing with imperfection is the nature of farming. Last night's imperfections, in addition to bermuda grass, included the effects of stoop labor on the aging sacroiliacs and an evening's crop of mosquitoes. Still, at dusk, an inverted fingernail moon was cool and sharp in a darkening cobalt sky, the dogs followed me and the water buckets to the creek, and I heard the liquid murmur of wild turkeys in the Baker's pasture across the road.
And at the end of the driveway was the golden rectangle of kitchen light calling us, and our aching sacroiliacs, to supper again.
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