Home Sweet Home

I'm unpacking.
Stuff is spread out all over the floor - socks and wrenches and stuffed animals and books and pots and pans and spray paint and chocolate and socks and cabbages and bread and socks and notebooks and socks and colored pencils and sandpaper and socks. But, rest assured, each object has its own special significance to me. Especially the socks.
There's something about the way things are draped over the couch ... the juxtaposition of the overalls, the thermos, and the toothpaste ... oh, I don't know - it looks like home.
Everything goes in its own little place now - drawers, cabinets, shelves, toolboxes .... I'm not crammed into a little travel trailer anymore.
There's still kale growing. The clover and the rye look good. The chickens seem like, well, chickens.
The table in the shop is ready to be covered with broken rusty metal stuff - I need to get the equipment ready for next year. The greenhouse is ready to be cleaned out - the weeds have died. Catalogs are drifting in - seeds need to be ordered. The woodshed is half-empty already - more needs to be cut.
The spinach is spinach and the strawberries are strawberries - they survived the solstice. The hoes and rakes are hung on their appropriate little nails - like stockings over the fireplace. Weeds have died in the back field - you can see the hayrake and, more importantly, the Toyota Corona.
Tonka trucks are scattered all over the place. Half eaten crackers are under the sofa. Tricycles are up on blocks in the front yard.
The school bus is parked just where I left it. It leads me to places I don't expect, teaches me things I didn't know.
I walk around the farm and take stock. There's old pieces of irrigation hose and parts of a table that need to be taken to the dump. Old Chevy hoods that need to be put away. Everything needs a coat of paint.
I need to build a greenhouse and a new fenceline. Work on the chicken coop. Maybe build a swing set.
Fortunately, the days are getting longer.