Because it seems the only writing I have time for in the summer is my farm newsletter, I feel compelled to share part of one here. My blog needs entries and followers and more attention then I can properly give it. But first, an important caveat, meet my publisher. UNSOLICITED PRESS. "No bullshit. Just books." For all you poets out there, they publish a good deal of poetry. And, of course, cutting edge fiction.
Now, for the dirt.
The rain in Spain falls mainly on the
plain. The rain in the Thumb falls mainly elsewhere. Sister swears there
was a sprinkle in the night, a mist, a dewdrop, a splattering of wind, a phantom
in the night on a whoosh of vapor.
I woke to a full moon, the light shining
on the plastic of the high tunnel stretched taut across the braces. The air is
still and the crickets chirp. I step outside to test
the air, the dampness on the wide walk, a trace of rain in the night. The
moon rides high in the sky, a beacon over the Earth, and a car passes swiftly on the road. The eastern sky is bright with the new day, yet still the moon
outshines it, high above the highest tree that banks the creek bed. The rain gauge measure three-tenths of an inch. We've been extremely dry so count the tenths as a blessing.
Thus begins the day—coffee time, writing time—till the rooster crows, the cat jumps on the windowsill demanding breakfast, and the corgi thumps up the stairs, all thirty pounds of him, wanting outside. He likes to chase the chickens, but with the new poultry fence installed none are getting out, and his fun has been stymied.
This week our CSA contains our second planting of cabbage. We
planted more lettuce and hid it from the rabbits. The summer has wearied us
with his weirdness. In checking last year’s garden log, I pulled all the winter squash between Sept. 1st and the 8th. Here we are,
as I write this, on September 12, 2022 and none appear ready. I thump the watermelons with my
knuckles waiting for the hollow drum sound, I turn the acorns in search of the telltale
ground spots. I wonder what imp stole my eggplant for surely there had to have
been more. We pull onions to dry and wonder why they are small. We pray the
peppers will turn red before frost. Our major successes have been our beets,
chard, tomatoes, and garlic. What garlic is left must be saved for replanting,
and we need speak no further on the tomato bounty.
For those of you who don't know (or care?) the tomato harvest has been phenomenal. Heirlooms can be finicky, but this summer's heat has agreed with them. Even the Costoluto, the Italian heirloom that craves Mediterranean heat, has been happy here in the Great Lakes Basin.
Now, back to writing before I have to pick up the hoe.
Over and out and hoping for comments. I insist, some day I'm going to be famous. 😃📖📖