This gardening thing. This farming thing. It won't go away, won't clear up, won't leave me in peace to walk around on top of the ground without wondering, if I dug it up, what could it grow? And so here we are again, building another iteration of The Farm. The plan for this chapter involves a ton of cut flowers, and the farmer's market, and pennies and dollars clinking into childrens' bank accounts to plant the seeds for their own futures once they've flown from here.
So we have cuttings rooting everywhere, curly willows, hydrangeas, forsythia, pussy willow. Sweet William and snapdragons under lights in the basement, soon to be joined by Icelandic poppies. Then, later, in the field, sweet peas, larkspur, Queen Anne's lace, anemones, ranunculus, bupleurum. (Don't ask me to pronounce that last one.) We have a slowly-growing number of beds with soft amended soil. A fuzzy rodent-control crew. Sore hands, dirty jeans, tired backs, and a vision of a farm full of growing food, flowers, and futures.