markets and rallies and who knows what else

To market, to market...but let’s skip the pig part. Though, just a couple of days ago, I did notice that our neighbor has this on his rooftop.

This is a somewhat distant neighbor, but he owns and rents much of the farmland to the west and south of us. He is selling his house and moving closer to town. This is the trouble with rural America: houses sprout close to the cultivated land (rather than, say, clustering close to the bakery) and this isolates families. Our neighbor complains that he and his wife have to shuttle the kids constantly to school, to extracurriculars, to friends. To be a parent is to be a chauffeur. May as well make the daily shuttles on the short side.

At the market, I buy the usual. My usual. Everyone has their usual. And we wouldn’t be Wisconsin if the usual did not include cheese, in some form or another.

In May, I search out the good asparagus, the oyster mushrooms, the strawberry plants. Loaded onto Rosie, for the trip home.

Home. Where work continues. Ed cleans out the barn so that he can retire one of his ancient vehicles there. It’s a long story for another day. 

Me, I plant. To you, it all may seem abundant already. But abundance is a funny thing -- it demands attention or else it withers and fades.

And then we break for a coffee at Paul’s and here’s the odd thing: as we leave, we see that there are motorcycles up and down the street. A flash mob! – Ed says. Actually, it’s a Facebook rendezvous of the Vintage Motorcycles of Dane County .

Ed’s ancient Honda with the milk carton stuck on the rear suddenly looks like it’s here for a reason. Guys come and stare at it, because staring at ancient bikes of others is what you do at these rallies. And of course, Ed eventually recognizes past acquaintances and now I'm lost in the midst of a bikers' gathering, surrounded by people in black leathers and bandanas and I'm thinking -- odd how a day can suddenly place you in the thick of the unexpected.

The remaining daylight hours are, of course, at the farmette. digging, weeding, digging, weeding.

...planting. Always planting.

Then, too, there is the incident with the bug. Ever have a bug fly into your ear? Deeply into your ear? It’s weird. Ed uses the vacuum to try to suck out the guy that's made it into mine. No photo there, but I assure you, it was a very strange set of minutes.

But these are the outlier events. Much more meaningful is the time spent standing perfectly still, holding a water hose. Aiming at the slumped transplants. Firming the soil around the last of the cheapie plants. And making sure that the pots keep the vibrant colors of the garden alive, even as one set of perennials fades and the next has yet to take hold.

Such a good day. No complaints. Really, no complaints at all.