This is a muskmelon, not quite as ripe as I prefer, but with a little careful carving we had it for dessert last night. I've discovered I need to plant enough -- of everything -- to feed free-range chickens and ducks. The problem is they lack discretion and discipline. My alternative is to figure out a fencing system that guides them where I want them, to make our friend, Pat Foreman, proud (author of City Chicks, The Chicken Tractor, and other books).
Scott, my friend who was concerned that the soil sample he provided me in a goat feed bag was too rich, need not have worried. My baby pomegranate trees are loving it,
as is the green pepper I'm hoping will enjoy an extended season in my greenhouse.
I used the rest of the soil to plant the peach pits from tasty fruit our dentist delivered.
"Um. I see," says Virginia.
Either she has x-ray eyes or she's using her impressive imagination. All I see is a crust-less mud pie.
When I look back thirty years
I wonder how I got here.
I did not expect my future,
I did not plan it.
I knew the dreams I had were fiction,
professional basketball player,
Supreme Court justice,
father of six or seven.
My short-term goals were something less,
chosen just before each gentle turn
I charged with focus down the line.
Then something happened,
I shifted right, then left, then right again,
and I landed exactly
where I wish I had dreamed
I would be today.