Linoleum

I haven't yet paused for a complete analysis of this whole blog thing. I do, from time to time, attampt to define it in my mind, to consider it's purpose and try to integrate that into the greater meaning of my life. I ask myself its best use and how it may be optimised. I consider whether I do my utmost to realize its greatest potential. I ask of its place on the farm.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I have a notion of a running commentary on the farm. An idea of a portrait of a season on an organic farm. I sometimes think others in far flung places will read these posts and come to an understanding of family run sustainable agriculture. That when I'm old, I'll review these posts and find them to be an accurate portrayal of this portion of my life.
I sit to type, thinking I'll represent my day, its labor, all the plants and insects around and the people who I see. How could I best record this day, I ask myself. And I find myself writing about the intern's house, and how the floorboards fell apart when we pulled the linoleum up. The idea was simple enough. Get rid of the linoleum and expose the wood planks underneath. More pleasant to look at and more pleasant to walk on. It'll take half an hour at most. What I didn't anticipate was how the linoleum was holding everything together. The floor fell apart under us and we spent the rest of the day ripping up wood. Tomorrow will be spent putting a new floor down.
All this to help a new intern get moved in. It was an afterthought, really. Let's get this linoleum up before before you move your stuff in. And now we're all into it for two day's worth of labor. Not doing work 'cause we're fixing broken stuff. It's just that kind of pattern that prevents you from hilling leeks.
I'm grappling with Maxwell's Demon, I've discovered. I'm searching for perpetual energy. I'm attempting to violate the very laws of entropy. (Yes. It's that bad.) I've got this idea that when interns are here, they'll work for me and help me get a lot of stuff done. Wee-ell, they do. But they require attention and energy, too. And so do their houses. Hopefully I invest a wee bit of time with them and parlay that into greater vegetable production. Hopefully I don't spend too much time ripping up linoleum. Maybe everything is alright and fine. The leeks are hilled and the floors are rotten. Maybe the glass is half full. Maybe a fifty per cent chance of rain means it won't rain. Maybe it means it will. Maybe I need a weatherman to say which way the wind blows.