When we meet someone farm-related, Larry seems to be most comfortable asserting that he’s a “city boy,” which is somewhat different from a “city slicker,” though that may be what the new acquaintance hears. Not me. I’m always looking for a way to slip in my rural bona fides. “Grew up in the country,” I’ll say. “Chickens, milk cow . . .” Let them imagine the rest. “Odd,” I can hear them thinking. “Them boots of hers don’t look like they been any closer to a barn than the nearest Ralph Loren outlet.”

But it’s true. Although I didn’t exactly live on a farmed farm, if that makes sense. In any case, it’s strange that Larry knew what a turnbuckle is and I did not. A turnbuckle is, for any of you other urban folks, a lovely device used to tighten fence out on the range. In our case, to repair the sagging gate across the driveway. Larry proceeded to invent and execute the solution with some cable, a couple of clamps, and the turnbuckle.

I like the word. It would make a good nom de plume, should I ever want one. Jane Turnbuckle. Of Turnbuckle Farms. I believe I’ll make some blueberry turnbuckle for dessert. Okay, I’ll stop.

We had another mission on Saturday, when we were last at our un-farmed farm, which was to approach the neighbor to the south with the hope of securing her permission to extend the power easement from the corner of her property onto ours. This would save us who knows how many thousands (I exaggerate, of course) of dollars of trenching and laying cable from Llewellyn. We found this to be a difficult task, for some reason. So we put it off. Had our sandwiches up at the top, watched a bald eagle fly directly overhead, then mustered our courage and drove to her home on Nicole Road. Don’t have her phone number, which must be a cell as there’s none listed in any directory.

But no one answered the door. Both vehicles in the driveway, garage open. But? I’d brought a little jar of blackberry jelly from this summer’s crop as a neighborly greeting, which, in her absence, I propped against the garage door with a note asking her to phone us. So far, nothing. Frustration!

We wanted to check on the creek, so drove back onto the lower property, put our boots back on and set out across the boggy field. Just looked up “bogs.” Nope. There are four types of wetlands, Google tells me, and apparently, we are marshy, not boggy. Bogs accumulate peat or other plant material, and that’s not us. But when we neared the creek, one could believe we might see alligators and some sort of unpleasant large snake swimming by. Trees with their feet under water, looked like a swamp for sure! We were very impressed, and if we could have crossed the busy channel with it’s mini waterfall, we would have hiked the length of the creek’s bank.

Back at the car, a truck pulled to a stop out on Llewellyn and a man came over to introduce himself. He’s Josh Nelson, lives in that blue house five up from the corner on Bell Fountain. He’s youngish, raising a couple of kids, super nice. We are to stop by any time we need anything or just to say hey. He had some good ‘hood gossip, so we talked for half an hour or so. One nice bit — seems the property across the road has been purchased by someone who wants to graze sheep there. Perfect! And also that the cows usually don’t come onto the hill properties like ours until they’ve grazed the newly planted seed grasses on the flats, and although why anything newly planted wants grazing I don’t know, it does suggest that our cows may be back sometime after all.

On Sunday, Larry went out to see a pick-up he’d identified on Craig’s list. I think this will not be the way for us to shop. A pick-up, yes, but. With Louisiana license plates. Cracked windshield. Parked among 6 other somewhat derelict vehicles. Dirty inside and out. Now this last detail means nothing, but the owner was missing several teeth and rocked a full-on Honey Boo Boo-family beard. Well, it did mean something, and Larry effected a strategic retreat. He’d call and let the man know if he was still interested. Probably not!