Monday, July 12, 2010


As I pack up and leave the farmette (class starts soon), I think – well, at least I cleared the path to the shed. And in years past, I put in the flowers to the left. And I’ve tried to arrest the spread of the berry canes to the right (pointless: they grow back).


But really, I’ve made not a dent. Ed’s farmette is a fine example of the powerful force of nature. Leave her alone and she’ll swallow you whole.

So why do I continue to hack away at the weeds? Why do I cut back and clear away paths? I suppose it’s in my blood. You could say my grandfather made me do it. He at least knew that in order to foster growth, you must cut back.

There’s a larger lesson in this. But so what. Who ever pays attention to life’s larger lessons anyway.

Driving in to campus (farmettes are noxious in this way: they require that you drive... a lot), we stop at the Lake Street café for a breakfast caffeinated beverage. We used to come here a lot, Ed and I. A break between classes, a moment of blissful quiet. I’d watch the squirrels outside and always I would look for the train at the side even as it never, ever rumbled by.


Not anymore. We’re beyond café breaks and such wee pleasures realized in the middle of the day. Don’t know why... Good habits become obsolete. Are they replaced by bigger better things? Sometimes. Not always.