Carry the figs in at night; carry them out in the morning. Next year, they’ll join their compatriot figs and keep their roots in the ground overwinter. We’re not getting any breba crop anyway.
Yesterday we went to a baptism in one of the fastest growing communities in the U.S.A., north of Indianapolis. Roundabouts and Homeowner Association approved Bradford pears. The holy family that left their lawn full of dandelions gone to seed stands out like a soar thumb. Blessed are the meek and the last shall be first.
We came home to the farm before milking time and cleansed ourselves with a walk through the woods. We traveled counter-clockwise, “sun wrong” direction as the Mongolians say, so that we could pick up some wild onion at the end of our loop. For the dinner pot. Who needs store onions now? The wild onion is thick. It’s little bulblets racing to jump the mothership. Onions, even wild ones, always remind me of Sancho Panza. Good old, Sancho Panza. Come rest yourself on our farm, Sancho. Have some wine and tell us about the good times.