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.
