Adios, Farm

Today was my last day of work at the farm. And though I was only employed there for a month or so, it was one of the coolest places I've ever worked. I'll miss it. And I'll miss my morning commute across the ridge that spans the magical, motherly Pine Mountain.

This morning, I got up at 5:30 a.m., drove to the farm, and started picking squash as the sun rose. Drowsy bees, up early for some reason, buzzed like tiny chainsaws, humming the poetry of Li Po: "Waking up drunk and happy on a Spring morning..."

After that came onions, potatoes, mixed greens, and so on. Around ten a.m., Jenny rang the bell for breakfast. We had pancakes with honey and fresh sausage from a neighboring farm. A man named "Skip" shared his coffee with me. Skip turned out to be an organic farming guru, and a real nice fella. Interesting guy. "This is Faulkner reading weather," he said around noon, while heat waves undulated across the terraces of red clay. He said he reads according to the weather. "In the winter, I read Russian novels." I liked him. "Iowa, huh? Sounds like a real good time." I told him I thought so too.

On the drive home, I called my friend Matthew. But poor phone reception swallowed our phone call in frenetic chunks. I'd hear every other word he said, then he'd hear every other word I said. It was ridiculous. So I yelled "bye!" hung up and enjoyed the curves of the highway, which brought me all the way back home.