No, it’s not legally yet the solstice, but living under an inversion for the past 10 days or so as we have been, I think it’s fair to say winter is definitely here. An “inversion” means that you can’t see across the valley, can’t see can’t see out your bedroom window when you go to bed, or when you wake up. It is kind of cozy, although Larry would choose a different adjective. Like dismal. But he’ll get over it.

This is the road on my walk yesterday morning. Plus, it’s 31 degrees. So, yeah, winter.

What chores need doing before we settle in? One would be to find a local welder who could fix the poker for the fireplace, whose handle has become detached. Larry tried to fix it with gorilla glue . . . nope. Of course we’re asked not to have a fire during the inversion, so we have time to find a welder. This brings up a topic of conversation we’re having these days. How much of this kind of thing to we really need to do ourselves? Can we hire someone or do we need to purchase necessary tools?

Like what about wood splitting? Days past, we’d rent a splitter, haul it onto the property and get it done. Our more enlightened (and at least a decade younger) neighbor, Ted-the-Engineer, wanted to partner with Larry in the purchase of such a machine and they went off to Eugene on a mission. They did buy a shiny, new splitter, and will store it in our barn. Larry says he’s afraid to use it. Probably need a passcode. Probably need an online users guide. Probably runs on IA. He’ll just rent one when the day comes.

Okay, what about pruning the orchard? It’s time. Larry did it two years ago, but the trees have put up yards of new growth since then. Need a stepladder to do the job this year. Probably an extension ladder. Probably need to rope up. To what? And how can you hang onto the ladder when you need both hands to grab a branch and run the loppers simultaneously? Nope. Better call someone from Home Grown Gardens. Ben is scheduled to do the job January 17th.

With the loss of Gracie, we’ve determined that we can’t really let the chickens have the run of the orchard. They can stay in the run, which is secure with wire topping to prevent predation from hawks or owls. But the run is a muddy mess.

Let’s just put down some sod to keep them clean and healthy. We can buy some lengths of sod from Home Depot, haul it home in the truck. Is it hard to lay sod? Dunno. Let’s check with Bill, the landscape guy.

Hell no, you can’t do it yourselves! He has a job over the way and can order a few lengths of sod for us. His guys can run over and put it down when they finish his job. I’ll send you follow up photos next time. It’s quite nice and the chickens do seem to enjoy it, if you can tell when a chicken is enjoying something.

I mentioned a fire. With the ice storm of last winter and the trees thereby downed, we have to do something about the piles of wood. We thought of chipping it, but we’re talking tons of the stuff. Are you able to refer to older posts? If so, check out the photos of huge trunks being loaded onto a lumber truck. We’re advised that we’ll have to burn, but “burn season” is a specific date, and permits are required. Hey, why don’t we just hire Allen to do this job? He’s volunteered, can use the money, knows what he’s doing?

So last week, on an afternoon when the fog had lifted, the winds from the correct direction, the rains wetting down the surrounding landscape, he got to work. Here’s just one small example:

A job better done by a pro. Right?

And where does this leave us? Are we too old to be farmers or have we just gotten enough smarter and can go on as we are? Hiring everything done? You’ll have to check with Larry. Wouldn’t he just be happier golfing every afternoon?

Changing the subject, Thanksgiving in Corvallis was lovely. Not at the farm, but a VRBO down the road Allison had secured. Eleven of us there, missing Alli, roasting the turkey in Grandma Mrytle’s old electric roaster. It was a little touch and go, but when the pop-overs, which didn’t pop up anyway, were set aside and the bird went into a 21st century oven, she browned up nicely. Larry and I were the beneficiaries of the left-overs and have been dining on them ever since.

Side bar: do you know what Canadian bacon is? Probably heard of it, wasn’t there a movie? Okay, so I’d purchased some to make eggs Benedict, which didn’t happen, and here we are with some chunks of seemingly unusable pork product. Along with the leftover turkey meat and some rice we’d used earlier on a potsticker Wednesday night meal. Got out my retro meat grinder, enlisted the left-hander in the room, and ground the stuff up into a very unpromising supply of . . . yeah. What am I going to do with it? Freeze it, of course, but first, sauteed a bit, added the turkey chunks, left-over broth, the rice, some left-over onion and with the addition of some left-over cream, I think we’re good for dinner.

I’ve been working with a professional web-desisgner to create a site which will use my existing domain to showcase my book. The idea is that when you click on my name, as usual, you’ll be directed either to the blog or to the site with the book. So don’t worry — I’ve already done all the worrying that will be necessary — and I expect that the duo site, when operative, will be great. A little advice: if you ever want to write a book, go for it. It’s fun. But if you want to publish it? Mmm. Maybe not. Be prepared!

Ten years ago in June, I first wrote about our little house in the country. Not a house yet, just a piece of beautiful property on which slumped an old house and a sturdy barn. That was the beginning of The Wood. So it’s an appropriate anniversary to bring our little house in the city onto these pages. It’s not a house, never will be, and not a condo either. At best, it’s an apartment in the old folks’ home. Park View at Terwilliger. We stumbled over what to call it, and Allison had the idea to simply name it 862, its address in the building. Maybe that will come to be. Right now, we just say Portland. As in, we’ll take that to “Portland.” Time will tell, right? The surprise is that we are coming to love it.

Why do we have an apartment in an old folks’ home? Because we’re old? Well, yes, that. No, we’re not moving! We’ve just found that, having sold the condo, we like a place to spend the night when we’re in town to see friends, for the symphony and play tickets. And, honestly, it’s an insurance policy. Farming really is a dangerous occupation and we just may need a place where we can land when the day comes . . .

Anyway, no photos to show you, but it’s on the 8th floor, has a nice view and a tiny deck. A living room, kitchen, dining space all in one, two bedrooms, two baths. The second bedroom is now an office space. We hired a designer, so have a sofa and a couple of chairs, a fake fireplace, and are beginning to give it some personal bits and pieces to make it seem homey. Well that sounds perfectly awful, and it isn’t. Honestly.

Daughter Jenny had planned to spend the weekend at the farm, so we suggested that she get as far as Portland on her way from Seattle, then stop at 862 to have a look, spend the night. She was surprised to find that it really was better than she’d expected! So that’s good.

Then we all caravanned to The Wood on Friday morning. We did have some chores for the weekend, but first Jenny wanted to make the acquaintance of the chickens:

“You can’t really pick them up,” we told her. Jenny didn’t listen, and here she is with crabby old Grace. Jenny and her brothers didn’t grow up on an actual farm, but we did live out in the country, and her roots are showing here. Speaking of country bumpkins, if you notice that her shirt appears to be inside out, it isn’t. Look at the buttons. I guess it’s a thing in Seattle to construct clothing seam side out?

Friday was apple picking day. We have three trees that are bearing credible, edible fruit, so we got busy and collected three baskets. There are Honey Crisps, another whose name Larry will have to go upstairs to find, and Granny Smiths. Here are the Grannys:

We left the apples in the wheelbarrow by the shed, and Jenny and her dad went out to attend to the bees:

Jenny was the photographer here, so no pix of her. Everyone safe, and on to Larry’s garden to harvest whatsoever there may be:

That thing is a cucumber. A very mature cucumber. Some exotic strain, and at first I was reluctant to try it. But it’s awesome. Crunchy, fresh-tasting, mostly flesh with a small center core of seeds. You do have to peel it, but one cucumber will practically feed the whole family.

In the evening we introduced Jenny to Jeremy Clarkson, Clarkson’s Farm. It’s so damn funny, and she’s a convert. Says she’ll watch the remainder of the series at home. Sidebar: Larry and I are working with designer Chris to see if we can retrofit the Wood with a TV set in the living room. Will make it easier for 3 people to watch Jeremy, if Chris can figure out a plan.

Next day we had to do something with the apples. First choice of the resident parents, make mincemeat. Jenny was somehow born with the gene for sugar missing. Dessert? Meh. But she had to pitch in. We have a little machine which cores, peels, slices the apples, and Larry mans that on the assembly line. I curate the arriving slices, chop out the worm holes and etc., and feed them into the next machine. A doo-dah which levers the slices through a grid into small dice. Jenny mixes together the sugar, brandy, spices, and the whole recipe gets put into sterilized jars, heading for the freezer. Tiring, but so rewarding. For those of us who do like dessert. Me, for example. (Ah, Larry has just come downstairs with the information that our third apples are Gala.)

Out to dinner. We like a local restaurant, Castor, which serves up Cajun food, so Gumbo for two of us, shrimp and grits for me. (OMG. Next time you come and visit us, we’ll take you there.) The Beavers were playing at Reser Stadium, crazy crowd, but we made it back to Llewellyn before the game ended, and we climbed up to Larry’s office to watch another episode of Clarkson. I know. We’re simple people.

This morning, Jenny gathered herself and left for the trip back home to Seattle. Larry and I are left alone to manage the rest of all those apples. Just an observation. We worked ourselves through pickle season and tomato season, but another hand in the kitchen in apple season is a rare and fine thing! Come back soon, Jenny!

Okay, test passed. STILL AUGUST published. So I will try again to post all the lovely photos I tried to show you yesterday:

But first, a little note. I thought it would be fun to search back through the blog and see what was happening back in, say, August of 2020. Seems we were having chicken drama: Apparently Burnt Toast was attacking, and hurting, the others and we determined that she had to go. Yep. To the vet, where they “euthanized” her. Cost $243. We won’t make that mistake again. The present-day chickens will simply have to learn to get along.

Anyway, here are the latest photos of the downed trees:

This is an operation run by one of Allen’s friends from church. He and his dad have a business of moving these 13 thousand pound logs to the mills. Wow.

So while this has been the Year of the Ice Storm, it has also been the Year of the Tall Grasses. In the land immediately around the house, we are advised by Jarod from Fish and Wildlife in the cultivation of wild flowers. One such being Checker Mallow, whose nectar is particularly attractive to wild honey bees. It was a lush crop, and we would want leave it until the seeds for next year were set before mowing. Thus the grasses were at least waist high when Larry climbed on the tractor:

The second shot is a turkey vulture searching the newly mown field for dead mice or similar. She’s big, huh?

Larry has been afraid that he’ll have to trade up for a bigger tractor, as this little green guy keeps over-heating. Luckily, our neighbor Ted, who is a total gear-head, volunteered to have a look and will be coming over this afternoon to help Larry take the radiator apart to see if anything can be done. Fingers crossed!

As this is actually a “working farm,” we get a tax deferral on the property. Sweet. However, we have to prove that it is, in fact, a working farm, and for this, Larry suddenly needs a copy of the contract he and Ryan, Cow Guy, have for the grazing lease. Oh. It’s just a verbal agreement. It’s worked this way for 7 years, but now the gov needs a signed document. That’s okay, Ryan says, why don’t you stop by and we’ll write something up. And you can pick up another box of meat while you’re here.

See, we do get paid in cash, but also much beef as we want, whenever, as part of the deal. So from time to time, we pick up a box, mostly hamburger and stew meat, a few roasts, and keep it in the freezer. Larry came back from their meeting with a huge box, this time including quite a lot of lamb. Where’d that come from? Anyway, now we’ll have something to use with all the tomatoes we’ve been canning this year. Hamburger hot dish! Chili! (Wonder how I can work all the zucchini into the deal.)

I should report on the bees, having mentioned them earlier. They seem to be thriving, and if all goes well, we could harvest the honey next spring. Well, that was said lightly. I have no idea what harvesting the honey will look like. I’ll let you know.

Today is Larry’s birthday. To celebrate, he wants a loaf of pineapple zucchini bread, with a candle stuck in the middle to blow out for a wish. Yes, that is a little specific for his b-day cake — perhaps he heard me groaning when he brought in yet another specimen of the vegetable that will not stop?

So now I’ll try again to post this. Deep breath. Fingers crossed!

Oh what? You allow me to open my Word Press site? Shall I try again? Fooled me once? I wrote this whole blog yesterday when it was still, actually, August, and when I tried to publish, was informed that I was apparently “off-line.” Whereupon the entire thing vanished and I flung myself about in a fit of annoyance/anger/frustration.

Seems that Verizon, my web provider, may not recognize Word Press. So I’m going to try to publish this bit and see what happens. I am definitely on line. (I was definitely on line yesterday as well) IF it goes, I’ll get back to you with the real blog, complete with photos. Here goes:

Again with a post? Already? I know, but I wanted to get these photos registered. Alan, one of the landscape guys (the cute one) has started his own business, Stone, Soil and Wood, and has contracted with us to clear the huge mess left by the ice storm.

I’d like to get these side by side, but my program won’t let me, so:

Big job, and this is just the west side along the fence. On Friday he started down below in the riparian area, where there even more downed trees. He’s making huge slash piles, which he will burn when the weather and the county permit. Taking the wood suitable for his mill, stacking the wood to be cut into fireplace size and sold. Wow.

So back to the tomatoes. Larry’s garden is just now providing an enormous crop. Of course I want to get them canned and/or frozen. This means strapping myself into the kitchen with a long rope that does allow me access to the garage pantry and bathroom breaks. But whew. First batch, I put up by the “open kettle” method and scored 7 pints, cooked and slightly muddled with a stick blender. They all sealed. Went out to the garage and looked at the jars of frozen tomatoes already there from years past. OMG. We will have to eat tomatoes every night for the forseeable. But one does not complain of having too much food. Right?

We were talking to son David on the phone this afternoon, and Larry had the floor. He talked about the cat he’d seen in the orchard this afternoon. Which, on seeing Larry, ran, leaped to the top of the 12 foot fence post and disappeared.

“Cougar?” David asked. No, Larry said. “Long tail, but just a feral house cat. Gray.”

Parenthetical aside: “Grey” is meaningless when reported by a color-blind person. I’m sitting in my chair thinking that was no feral house cat. It probably wasn’t even grey, and what house cat can leap 12 feet in one bound? But I’m not a female cat person, so what do I know. “Probably a cougar,” I said. But Larry’s sticking to his story.

I was talking with my sisters this afternoon, as usual on Sundays, and we wandered into a conversation about religious faith. How had Mary chosen to become a Quaker, and why do we — some of us — insist that this is a “Christian” country. Mary is the smart sister and her knowledge of Christian history is vast (Martha and I just listen). But I remarked that we had not experienced a particularly religious upbringing, did not, for example, say grace before meals.

“Yes we did,” Mary claimed. “Of course we did.”

“No we didn’t,” Martha said, in a kind of snorting way.

So I know memory is fungible (does that word work here?) But’s so odd. Three of us, living together all those years, and we don’t agree on this simple thing.

So now it’s completely dark, one of the cows is calling her calf, the wind is still, and let’s all go to bed.

Started last Sunday when Vik and Gordon arrived at the farm with 10 pounds of pickling cukes from Sauvie Island, our historic supplier. The cucumbers have to soak in salt water overnight, so we left them in the sink and went off for dinner.

Vik and I have been making pickles for decades, I think. Maybe not, but a long time. We got to work Monday morning, and put up 24 jars of dills, and were rewarded with the pops of sealing lids on all but two. The pickles have to cure for some weeks, so they’ll be stashed for a while, and thus I can’t now report on the quality of year’s crop.

Would have taken a photo, but Allison (d-in-law for those of you don’t know her) arrived Monday afternoon. Allison is the most organized member of the extended family, and on seeing the jars on the kitchen counter, began to plan their correct placement in the garage pantry. I would never complain, she’s amazing, but I didn’t think in time about a photo for the record.

Amy and Charlie arrived the next day, and we got to check in on the grandkids. These two are both living and working in New York, both love it, although Charlie is newly arrived there. He hasn’t as yet found work in his chosen field — musical production — so may have to set up on street corners with his violin. The gig economy?

They all left for Black Butte, meeting up with Peter and Andrew, who had driven up from Altadena. After music lessons on Friday, Larry and I joined them for the weekend. Love it! Family!

Back on the farm, though, it’s still Pickle Season. Now Bread and Butters. And I took photos:

Larry and I had taken a trip to the Peoria Road Farm Store and bought another batch of cukes. Funny, you buy them by the each at this store, so we got exactly 17 for the batch. You have to process these guys in a boiling water canner, so a bit more work. But they all sealed, and we’re good for the cold winter ahead. Fourteen pints. Yum.

And there’s more kitchen news. As an early birthday present, the California kids purchased a pizza oven for their dad. Here it sits on the patio table:

It’s pretty cool! You put kiln-dried wood pieces into the burner, light it, and the thing gets up to 900 degrees. The pizza takes 2 minutes. Okay, some trial and error expected, and the first attempt was, not surprisingly, a little sketchy. Tasted good, though, and we’ll get better:

Chicken news:

Yes, the babies are laying! At least one of them is. Pretty little brown eggs. Not as big as Gracie’s, the white one, but we’re very proud. She, whichever she is, is even using the correct nest in the new little coop, so all good.

Widening the scope, on August 2, a crew from NRCS, a national conservational resource group, met here to assess the problem of the trees in the “copse.” Specifically, to see if they can find funding to have the stand of oak on the slope east of the house thinned. No word yet, but they’ve offered some names for us to contact.

Alan, one of the landscape guys, has newly formed his own company, and has begun work on the massive job of clearing downed trees after the spring ice storm. He has an excavator down along the fence line and the slash piles are mounting. He’s salvaging all the trunks of some determined width, and will use them to make lumber. Also is stacking any wood useful as firewood, which will be sold in some fashion. Then, come winter, he’ll professionally burn the slash piles.

Larry’s garden is, and has been, producing. Fennel! Cabbages! Zucchini! And now, finally, tomatoes! The apples in the orchard aren’t quite ripe, yet, but all this bounty does mean that I’ll be in that kitchen trying to “put by” the produce. Freeze most of it, but the tomatoes will have to be canned or frozen as sauce. Don’t know how to keep fennel over the winter . . . any ideas?

Until next time, be well, eat your green veggies, stay in touch.

Right. Been awhile. When we last talked, a screech owl was looking at you. To continue the theme:

This is Rhodie. Their names have become known, and they are Rocky, Rhodie, Lacy, Gracie, and Black. If said in the correct order, there’s a certain poetic lilt, even if we are talking about chickens. No longer cute, little, fluffy.

Rhodie is my fave because she will come and eat out of my hand. The others can’t be seduced. Yet. But they were here preparing to move to their new home. Choice of the new site had become challenging, as each of us, Larry and I, had our own opinions about the better option, and had retreated to our corners. Fortunately, neighbors Ted and Marjorie offered the use of one of their vacant dog crates as a possible home site, to be inside the orchard, but safe from Gracie.

This was promising, and in fact, proved quite helpful in carrying the birds, but during our on-the ground examination, it became obvious where they should go:

Of course. The plant box Peter and Larry had built several years ago, this year as yet unplanted with the tomatoes which would follow. You can’t see, but the top is screened as well, and water can be turned on to fill the canister which would now be hung from the top. Brilliant!

With them settled, let me back up a couple of weeks. Larry had planned to go on a trip with The Nature Conservancy to Southeastern Oregon, on May 23, specifically to Fields, a wide spot near the more well-known Burns. I had meant to go, but learned that 1.) I would be the only woman on the trip, and 2.) that there would be no bathroom facilities during the 8-hour or so excursions into the mountainous back country. How was that going to work?

On further thought, I guessed that Larry would enjoy the trip without my companionship, and settled in to spend the few days at home on the farm. Complete with running water. However, he had been on the way for about 10 minutes when I paused, reconsidered, put on my big-girl pants and called him. Could I change my mind? Could he come back and get me?

He could. The country is glorious, empty, vast, and certainly worth the money and attention the Conservancy is spending to influence the way the land is used. It is currently grazed, (over-grazed, actually) and planted with alfalfa. Which is mostly sold to Asia as fodder for the cattle raised there. Does that even make sense? Yes, economically. But otherwise?

Here’s the buggy in which we were to spend the next couple of days:

Not the most luxurious! Here’s the terrain:

What they mean by back-road, off-road travel. I know. But I would not have seen this stunning landscape without having manned up and gone along.

In the evenings we were fed delicious food cooked by — shout out here to Garth Fuller — East Side land manager for the Conservancy. The bedrooms in the newly acquired farm house were fine, and if the slope to the ceiling caused Larry a few head bumps, he soon learned.

The talks after dinner taught us what the program hoped to accomplish. Here’s one innovation. They can attach a sensor to the cow’s neck collar, which controls her/him by a virtual fence, as defined by a satellite. No literal post and wire and electricity fencing necessary. Sort of how your i-phone knows where you are. That’s the limit of my understanding, but it did give me pause. How soon before they learn to control women in the same way? Okay, just wondering.

Another photo of the moon rising over the desert:

Back home, Larry packed up and left for 5 nights at Black Butte for the famous B.B. Invitational. Men only. This time I did not pick up the phone and ask to be included.

Five days home along flew by. I was busy binge watching Netflix to find a movie for the Chicks and Flicks to watch this following Thursday afternoon. This is a way I usually do not spend my time, but it was fun and relaxing. No dinners to cook, hence no clean-up. Not much laundry. Read until my eyes closed in the evenings. As I have been disappointed in many of the books I’ve been reading, I did find the same lack of depth in the films. Fine. Entertaining. But.

Then Larry came home and daily life as we know it resumed. Work to be done. I’ve decided that we don’t really live on a farm. We live on a ranch. Cows and all. Not that we have to do anything with/for the cows. Still. See what I mean? The garden is providing its abundance and I am back in the kitchen wondering what to do with all that escarole. The berries are ripening. I made a batch of kumquat marmalade, which didn’t set up and thus must be reconsidered jar by jar as we come to them. The kumquats, btw, did not come from this ranch, but from our son’s tree in S. CA. Just so you know.

And now it’s lunch time. We leave for Portland in an hour for a performance at Portland Center Stage, and an overnight in our “apartment” in Park View. I told Peter I’d include an in-progress shot of the little sweater I’m knitting. Here you go, Peter:

Pretty sure it’ll be cuter with the sleeves.

Til then, see ya!

Larry cooks dinner. Gotta love it! This beauty is chicken thighs. Having overnighted in white wine, they were sauteed along with the endive. He added a chopped salad? Oh, maybe I made the chopped salad. Anyway, delicious! I always thought endive was pronounced “en-dive,” right? But learned from one of my more sophisticated friends that it is correctly pronounced “on-deev.” You can decide for yourself . . .

In farm news, the cows are back. Probably at least 50, yearling steers, chewing down the westside pastures up to and around the barn. I’m glad to have them back, but it does give me pause when I want to take my morning walk down the road. They see me coming and rush over to the fence, then start to follow, moo-ing, plainly wanting something from me. Whatever that might be, I don’t have it. Out? They just want out? I do think that, when they see a person, they believe that change is coming. And they are certainly eager for it.

We’re about to make the leap into raising chicks. Gracie-the-chicken has been living alone for several months now, and although she faithfully lays her egg every day, I’m sure she’d like company. She needs her flock. To this end, we need to improve the environment where the birds will be safe. This means tackling the run, which is lumpish, weedy, impossible to mow (must be weed-whacked) and, acutally, ugly.

So Mitch is here today. He wrestled the rototiller around in there yesterday, is raking it into smoothness today, and will help plant lilacs along the west boundary for shade, and then build a cage for the young birds when they’re old enough to be outside but still need protection from Gracie, if she doesn’t get broody and imagine that they’re hers. Could happen, we’re told.

So what have I been doing while Larry is farming, and cooking dinner? I’ve been struggling to dispose, one way or another, of the baggage we’ve been hauling around all these years. Not just from our lives, but those of several generations back:

You know the kind of stuff I mean. The tea and coffee service from Great Aunt Clara. Cut glass pitcher. Sterling silverware. Mom’s diaries. Larry’s and my high-school annuals? All those photos! Twin bed sheets and blankets. A roasting pan for a twenty-pound turkey. Okay, easy. Donate this stuff!

Last night we went to a meeting for One Hundred People Who Care About Corvallis, and heard about the Community Thrift Store. They take everything, and the proceeds go back to the community in the form of grants to various local NGO’s. Open Wednesdays and Saturdays from 8 to 6. Yes they’ll take my old Nikon camera. That sweater I knit but haven’t worn since Jenny was a baby.

Jenny successfully divested her family’s dining-room set, a grand piano(!) and other treasures, with the help of on-line markets when they moved to their new house. Even got a little cash for it. Maybe a little easier when you live in a huge city, but maybe that’s just an excuse.

And now it gets a little harder: What about my MFA thesis? “Who are these minor characters and what are they doing in my novel?” The vase etched with Larry’s name, presented on retirement from Columbia Management Company. The framed illustrations I did for the children’s book which never got published? The children’s stories I wrote but never submitted. Don’t think the Community Thrift Store is the answer here. But still. Throw them away?

I don’t know why my mom hung onto her diaries. Sister Martha keeps a daily journal of her every day’s life. Don’t know what Mary is up to, but she has a lot to write about, if she isn’t. And isn’t this blog a kind of diary? Hmm. I guess so. But. Ha! “But” means I’m about to argue my own position. See, I mean to entertain you with this record of old people who take up farming. I don’t think Mom had that in mind. Nor does Martha. But, if I don’t get around to tossing my MFA thesis, kids, just do it.

Changing the subject: About the new truck? We’d said we wanted Grandson Will to be in charge of naming the vehicle, and he obliged with the name Bob Junior. We’ve shortened it to L’il Bob, which sounds more down country. Larry says it isn’t a farm truck because it isn’t dented, rusted, dirty, but it’s getting a farm-truck name anyway.

Tonight we had the pleasure of Face Timing with David and Caroline. They’re in Wanaka, New Zealand, it being Friday afternoon where they’re living, Thursday evening here. We get used to it. Caroline is still recovering from a ferocious bout with Covid, but is up and around a bit. We had a long discussion about their plans, which more or less boil down to “we don’t know.” Apparently they can live in both NZ and the US alternately, so long as they don’t trigger some clock ticking with regard to which state gets to tax them.

Tomorrow, I plan to start a knitting project — a sweater for a baby boy. I love this! I love to knit, especially things tiny enough to be completed within the space of, say, a couple of good novels I’ll listen to on Audible while I work. This is for the expected grandchild of one of Allison’s great friends. No, you don’t know her and neither do I, and it doesn’t matter. I wonder. Maybe someday, in some future, a woman somewhere will be wondering if she should just keep this cute little blue sweater or take it to a neighborhood thrift shop. I hope so!