THE LAST OF THE FIREWOOD

is split and stacked in the shed. Ricked, as they say. The firewood was piled in the front yard, under the chestnut tree, since B* dumped it there in August. And when I say dumped it there, I mean just that. Three dumptrucks full of logs in the front yard. (It made a hell of a jungle gym.)
It’s gone now – sawed and split and ricked. It’s neat now, where it’s supposed to be.
The trucks are up in the barn now. I drove Ol’ Blue up there this afternoon, after she’d been in front of the house since sometime last Spring. New Blue gets parked up there every evening, now, out of the weather and away from the cats. The tractor’s in the packing shed. The equipment is lined up outside the barn. Some of it’s freshly painted.
This Spring clean up started about two weeks ago – not so coincidentally with Martha Stewart’s release from prison. I thought I’d feel better if I tidied the place up a bit. Instead, I’m feeling lost and undefined. I spent a lot of time carefully cultivating the overall "look" of the farm, something between an abandoned logging camp and a clandestine militia training facility. That’s all gone now. You could even mow the grass, if you took such a notion.
I need to redefine myself, and Martha’s liberation will hopefully inspire me. There are many possible directions in which to go. I just need to choose one.
I’ve learned that things can be planned too much. Things can be too well thought out. I need to relax a bit and let the farm evolve into its next phase. It’ll let me know where it wants to go.