Brandywine, Roma, Mountain Fresh(what's that), Better Boy, Early Girl, Delicious-some sit in a homemade, used window hot house and the rest lie snug as a bug under old kraft paper organic feed sacks used as mulch in garden number eight. At last count I'm up to 9,250 sq.ft. of garden plots, 14 separate plots, each squared off with sisal twine to let my blue heeler puppy know that she can't run through the soft dirt or dig for moles anymore. The cat prefers the sand pit under the onion drying tent as his litter box but occasionally messes with my corn garden. When I catch him in the act, he gets a sousing with the garden hose. The deer walk through as if they owned the place.
I practice my waves at highway travelers, my favorite being the Queen Elizabeth wave with palm out, turned slowly rotating it 45 degrees like the sprinkler Dawn bought which sweeps the corn patch in a long arc.
Frost caused havoc early in the week, entailing an extra 90 minutes of covering tender babies with cardboard boxes and old plastic pots. Because the pots have drain holes in the bottom, Jack slipped in the pots and burned the tops of precious salvia, turning the leaves black in the light of day.
It's what I do best.
Listening to a chorus of migrants twittering their hearts out, spying on Canadian honkers who roost in the corn field behind us, smelling fragrant, blossoming trees and bushes, marveling at the sound of the thrust of wind against the wings of geese flying just above the tree tops, dog and cat craning their necks in wonder at incoming feathered aircraft and sitting in a lawn chair in the garage while Pooch the cat sleeps on his back in a tote box on a work table and Mandy looks for a cool spot on the concrete floor.
I may not be back for awhile. There's blue bird nest boxes to make and sixteen one hundred year old church windows to be turned into a greenhouse.