these mad windows that taste life and cut me if I go through them
That's Bukowski. Again.
I forget what he was talking about in that one. Drunken women and classical music. Something like that. His love life and his booze intake.
The weather is a common topic of conversation when you're in my business. My standard response when asked about the weather this year has been it's damn near perfect. And it is. Plenty of sunshine and plenty of rain. Everything about even. It's hot when it's supposed to be hot and it's cool when it's supposed to be cool. Just when I feel like the soil is getting a little dry, along comes a rain shower. And in case the rain doesn't come, I have a nice little pond tucked beside the upper field that sends water where-ever I want.
I have a feeling of supreme gratefulness for all this. There are some people in the world surrounded by a very large amount of water that just isn't supposed to be there.
The farm in its beauty and serenity seems so far removed from the rest of the world, at least, the world as I learn of it through various electronic media outlets. I try to keep it and myself as connected as possible but at times the disconnect seems a gargantuan chasm. No floods here. Record rains, last year, and what happened? My tomatoes died. Big deal. No bombs falling from the sky. No one shooting at me. No one trying to repossess the farm. I don't sit in a car in rush hour traffic everyday. I don't wait for a bus that never comes to take me to a job I hate.
Calling relatives along the Gulf Coast has been another emotional roller coaster, and made vivid the difference between my life on one side of the mad window and all those people on the other side. Phone conversations have been a litany of what has been destroyed and who has been displaced, always culminating with a and how are you?
Me? Um, I'm fine. We're having a great year on the farm, and it's because the weather has been ... perfect.
I forget what he was talking about in that one. Drunken women and classical music. Something like that. His love life and his booze intake.
The weather is a common topic of conversation when you're in my business. My standard response when asked about the weather this year has been it's damn near perfect. And it is. Plenty of sunshine and plenty of rain. Everything about even. It's hot when it's supposed to be hot and it's cool when it's supposed to be cool. Just when I feel like the soil is getting a little dry, along comes a rain shower. And in case the rain doesn't come, I have a nice little pond tucked beside the upper field that sends water where-ever I want.
I have a feeling of supreme gratefulness for all this. There are some people in the world surrounded by a very large amount of water that just isn't supposed to be there.
The farm in its beauty and serenity seems so far removed from the rest of the world, at least, the world as I learn of it through various electronic media outlets. I try to keep it and myself as connected as possible but at times the disconnect seems a gargantuan chasm. No floods here. Record rains, last year, and what happened? My tomatoes died. Big deal. No bombs falling from the sky. No one shooting at me. No one trying to repossess the farm. I don't sit in a car in rush hour traffic everyday. I don't wait for a bus that never comes to take me to a job I hate.
Calling relatives along the Gulf Coast has been another emotional roller coaster, and made vivid the difference between my life on one side of the mad window and all those people on the other side. Phone conversations have been a litany of what has been destroyed and who has been displaced, always culminating with a and how are you?
Me? Um, I'm fine. We're having a great year on the farm, and it's because the weather has been ... perfect.
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