These days have been better suited to a cup of coffee, a Steinbeck novel and a warm bed than an early morning on a soggy farm.  After all, no hurry; the babies in the green house are not in danger of overheating and there is very little watering to be accomplished.  It seems that most the farmers in the valley are expressing the same concerns.  When will we have time to plant?  Do we just keep potting our little ones up until the sun finally shows itself, drying the soil and making it workable.  It makes me both calm and anxious, like one of those bad dreams where you can’t move, like your legs are full of sand and there is some sort of urgent matter that needs your attention.

I watch the rain from inside the green house.  Me, The Tomatoes, and Jackson Browne all watch the rain like some misanthropic travel troop, not that we begrudge humanity but the gods responsible for this extended season.  It is as if we are Sojourns from winter trapped in the summer months.  After all, our CSA starts in two weeks and we need the sunshine to mature our vegetables.  Maybe a libation to the gods would be most appropriate.  These days…

Regards, B

p.s. The Boy, I believe it is time for you to come home.