Maine. 14 juillet. Hot and sticky. Bastille Day with friends . . . many French. Who knew there would be so many Frenchies in Maine? Pesto, salad, homebaked bread, baseball caps, beer, frisbee, and mosquitos. Watermelon, zucchini bread, blondies and peach rhubarb pie with French flags. Perfect. Except for the mosquitos of course.
I think all men on tractors are happy. Or so it seems. They are also happy to talk to other men (or women) about tractors . . . to compare them, to fantasize about other tractors, and all of the attachments they own, or need. It is a whole new world, the world of tractors and men.
It’s my first garden, ever. It is growing. Everyone has well intentioned advice about soil, stakes, fertilizer and fences to coyote blood and human pee barriers. And Mr. woodchuck? The solutions vary from have-a-heart traps and releasing 50 miles away, guns, fire, fumigation to calling the local guy who trains attack falcons. And then we must contend with worms, bugs, storms, lack of rain, animals … the list is long. Will it be possible to actually grow food to fruition? I’m cautiously optimistic . . . and very determined. And, I have set aside a lot of time to weed.