“It’s not really a farm.”
I know, but we have to call it something. We can’t say we’re going to Llewellyn, or . . .
“Why not?”
Because I don’t like that name. Sounds like Lou-Ellen, which would be a silly name for our property.
“Then let’s just call it ‘The Property?’ Or how about ‘Corvallis’? A ‘farm’ would have a barn, chickens, corn growing in the field.”
We have a barn.
“No one would call that a barn. At best, it’s a hay shed. Whatever. Barns have doors. Ours does not.”

Such is the conversational depth we enjoy while driving south to . . . um, well, you know.
This was a much-needed trip for me, who’s spirits were well below sea level after my yearly trip to my doctor for my “well-woman,” medicare-sponsored visit. I’m FINE! But dear God, not because of my interface with the new practice of medical care obtaining in my physician’s office.

Okay, I do know how old I am. And I do know that the future is one bad moment of hard luck down the road. I get that. But, sitting in the exam room, answering a series of questions posed by three (!) young assistants (one, for whom I’m her first patient, the other two there to supervise and mentor her)?

“Are you able to dress yourself?” First question.
“Can you get up off the toilet unassisted?” Next question. And so on, for half an hour. “Have you visited the dentist in the past year? How do you get around when you have to leave your home?” Again, dear God.

Next, the actual physician, Doctor Molly’s team mate, whom I have never before met, takes over, insists that I fill out a PULSE form, which means that if I am incapacitated and not able to answer for myself, the attending physician will have guidance to what my wishes may be. Yes, fine, a good idea, but seriously, I’m beginning to wonder. How long do I have?

So. Four practitioners, none of whom I know, and who may not be able to tell from looking that I am probably able to dress myself.

Wait a minute. Maybe this was BECAUSE of the way I was dressed? You know, an actual dress?

Let me out of here!

At the farm, the sky was blue, the air warm and fragrant with the first ripe blackberries. Larry suited up in his good farmer-armor to attack the above mentioned blackberries, which are vastly out of control. My job, as sous-farmer, was to rake up the fallen brambles and pile them, maybe to be burned, come winter. Don’t know for sure. While waiting for Larry to chop down enough vines for me to collect, I wandered the property, looking for tansy ragwort, an evil invasive plant. I tried to chop out the specimens I found with one of our new tools, but discovered that I could simply pull them. Much easier. I saw a yellow bird, two deer, a dove. I think I heard our hawk.

And I began to regain my usual optimism. The oak trees are even older than I am! And they don’t care! We ate our lunches in their shade and felt alive and healthy. And very, very lucky.