Day 74, July 31, 2010

Today I'm spending quite a bit of time with my tomato plants, I pick a bunch of tomatoes, but when I encounter a horned tomato worm covered with white cocoons, I'm terrified. I use a stick to remove the caterpillar, and only when it lands in the container of soapy water, do I realize that the caterpillar is already dead.

A few plants down, I find another horned tomato worm with a coat of cocoons. I'm still nervous... have no idea what the worm can do. Is it poisonous; can it shoot the cocoons into

my fingers?

Mustering the best of my courage, I pry the worm from the tomato stem, and the worm plops into the soapy water, along with its entourage. I learn later at Gardengrapevine.com (http://www.gardengrapevine.com/HornWormBraconidWasp.html) that an adult Braconid Wasp has laid larvae inside the horned tomato worm.

Over one hundred wasps will hatch from the back of the tomato worm. Within minutes, they will seek out new hosts to continue the cycle. Gardengrapevine.com recommends that one leave the worm, with its cocoons, undisturbed to allow the cocoons to develop and increase the predator population.

Day 73, July 30, 2010

Had no time yesterday to reflect and write about farming. Besides, I was still digesting my previous post, which my son, Jay, took to be a bout of embarrassing diarrhea of the pen.

On Day 71, I dedicated this space to the awkward reality of human waste management in the farming field. Jay, in fact, is the only one of my three kids who has not visited and helped out in the garden. Even so, my social media-savvy eighteen-year-old wants to know where the treasure-turds are buried in the field... just in

case he should pay a visit. He makes his request, likely, in the belief that the daddy droppings have been laid out, in crop rows, like achievement prizes in FarmVille.

Meanwhile, Lilly Hinckley, Elizabeth's decidedly feral cat, inspects the crates of produce in back of my delivery truck, as Jay and I chat briefly.

"Friends giving you a ration of crap about my post, Jay?"

"No. Nobody's said anything."

"There you have it."

"Huh?" Jay looks at me like I have two heads.

"Exactly. Nobody gives a shit about this blog... except me."

"Jay shakes his head and moves on." He and his friend, Scott have decided to stay for dinner. Debbie and I have invited her friend, Lisa, to join us. This is an impromptu gathering, as Lisa has come to Noank, of all places, to buy two saddles for her family's equestrian business, White Birch Farm in East Hampton, CT (http://www.white-birch-farm.com/). I decide to serve hamburgers, with garden-grown early onion mixed into the ground chuck.

As the menu comes together, the events of the day play significance. For example. just as Deb and I are confronting the reality that this garden has totally overwhelmed our agricultural capabilities, Farmer Brown and his farmhand, Jimmy, come puttering down the path, in his utility cart, for a visit.

"Hey! Anyone want some sweet corn?"

"We'd love some." It's the first time Farmer Brown has come to visit in over a month, and it's good to hear him remark at the lushness of our plants and the advanced state of fruit set, especially on the tomato vines.

As we banter, Jimmy sets off into my tomato jungle.

"How much corn you want?" Farmer Brown asks.

"We'll take a dozen ears, thanks"

"They're a little small. Sure you don't want more?"

"No, thanks, we're good. You think the drought dwarfed them?" I ask, like I think I seem to know what I'm talking about.

"Probably... we got hit bad for a while."

"Would you like a few beefsteaks, George?"

"No thanks, we got some."

"Cukes?"

"Have more than we know what to do with!"

"How about a few jalapeno peppers?"

"Love a few."

I'm liking this agrarian exchange. This bucolic banter. In a short time, I have learned that farmers are very self-sufficient. The best never waste. I'm realizing that I am learning simple, but valuable lessons to take back into life, and into my future business dealings. Standing tall with a smile. Partly tanned and partly dirty. I'm sweaty, humble and able to offer a simple fruit, like a Jalapeno pepper to my host farmer. This is big. In spite of the season's fits and starts, Farmer Brown has been a friend. Generous with his land and well water. Magnificent in his pragmatic candor.

As we wind up our discussion, Jimmy appears between a stand of immature Brandywines and the transformational Beefsteaks. He has two ripe beauties in his hands. As he catches my eye, he tosses one tomato, which I gently grab, in slow motion, on its way down. This one-sided game of field fruit catch continues for about eight tomatoes. In my mind, I'm thinking that I have enough to bring Frankie, at Universal, his first local tomatoes. I learn that I'm right, about an hour later, when the Noank grocer buys all that I have from the back of my truck.

"Gotta look low, Ben," Jimmy calls. "You have a whole bunch coming in."

"Thank you," I answer, meaning it.

Dinner is delicious. We boil the corn, slice the tomatoes, and Debbie prepares a delicious cucumber salad, topped with dill from the garden. Jay trims a pound of bush beans,

and we steam them in a pot. "You know why these bush beans are so big?" I want to joke with Jay, but think better because he's taking an interest in them. I suspect his enjoyment of fresh beans is in better taste than a cheap scatalogical quip.

For an appetizer, we broil a bunch tomatillos and add them to our guacamole. But when it comes time for the main course, I realize how deliciously fresh everything is. Even the frozen lemonade feels homemade because Debby has added lavender, which gives it an earthy, special flavor.

The day has gone so well, and when I fall asleep trying to catch up on "The Fabulous Beekman Boys," I realize that my life's reality is so much more fabulous!

Day 71, July 28, 2010

In a little under an hour, Elizabeth will be leaving on a field trip to the Heifer Learning Center at the Overlook Farm in Rutland, Massachusetts. The kids will learn about the Heifer International empowerment program that provides livestock to third world villages. I believe that the kids will likely do volunteer work on the farm, and I am glad that Elizabeth has had an opportunity to work a couple of times on my farm garden, especially before leaving for the big leagues!

I believe that the Heifer Farm, no matter how primitive its premise, will have proper facilities for the comfort of the campers. At the same time, my farming experience is one of sustainability. I was told that deer are frightened by coyote urine, and so being the wily farmer I am, decided that since we have no comfort facilities at my host farm, I would spray my bladder contents along the perimeter of the garden. To date, no fences, and not a chomp from Bambi. In fact, yesterday, we delivered over 250 pounds of two varieties of cucumbers to a customer, along with basil, dill weed, bush beans and green peppers.

Early American farmers must have had to be a rather immodest lot. Matters of comfort had to likely give in to urgency. And so it is with me, Mr. Sustainability, especially when a stomach rumble interrupts my normally disciplined digestive schedule. First I wonder, can I make it back home, or to my office? When my intestines tell me, "not likely," and they have told me this a few times this season, then I have to note my location, which is normally near the field's edge, preferably away from picking rows. And then there is a glance about the property.

Even contemporary farmers crave some privacy. I rationalize this compromised moment by deciding the same would be no big deal to one of my many role model farmers. I decide that it would be such a minor event, that none of them would even Blog about taking a dump in a farm field. And yet, I must! I pledged to share all, or as many facets of my farming experience.

Relief comes quickly to my gut, flashbacks of camping as a kid come to my mind. And flies come quickly, too. It's amazing how fast flies gather. Of course, there is no roll of paper anywhere, and so I find grass and non-poisonous leaves, thankful that I don't have to be a Total Man, and "Wipe if with my Hand," as the old "Stranded" kid song goes.

After pulling up my shorts, I find a sharp medium stone and dig a little trench. The product goes into the trench. Cat-like, a few scoops of soil, tamp it with the stone, and back to the fields, lighter!

Day 70, July 27, 2010

Sure seems like a full moon. A customer wants as many cucumbers as we can deliver. I've been away all day at an out-of-town meeting. It's time to call in the varsity harvesting squad. That would be Elizabeth and Debbie. We arrive at the farm some time after seven-o'clock. The sun is low on the western horizon, and it dwindles long enough for us to fill a wheelbarrow and a teal plastic wagon with fresh cucumbers: slicing and pickling.

By the time we finish, the moon has risen. Debbie and Elizabeth are transferring the cukes into shopping bags. It is almost pitch black.

"You guys sorting the slicers from the picklers?"

"No."

"No?"

"Do it tomorrow," Debbie suggests.

"Yeah, we have to get ice cream," Elizabeth adds.

For a moment, facing Elizabeth and Debbie, the warmth of the moon on my back, I realize that there is amazing fun in sharing the miracle of farming with a kid. I hug my daughter, thank her for her hard work. I note the pride in her face as she gets into Debbie's car. I have to stay behind and do a few chores while they go for their ice cream.

About the bush beans. I haven't mentioned them for a while, and have wondered when we'll see beans. While I've been marveling at the orchid-like flowers and the tiny bean forming at the top of the bush, there is an entirely different world hidden below. I finally discover fully formed beans at the bottom of the bush, much in the same way that the ripest cherry tomatoes

are found from the bottom of the vine. This seems logical, as the bottom of any plant is the oldest part. Therefore, "low-hanging fruit" gets eaten first.

While Debbie and Elizabeth harvest the cucumbers, I go after the bush beans, realizing that the labor to harvest a few pounds of bush beans is priceless. There must be a better method, and why do some bushes produce no beans?

Time will tell. It always does.

Day 69, July 26, 2010

TELEVISION REVIEW | 'THE FABULOUS BEEKMAN BOYS'

Animal Husbandry, SoHo Style

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Well, looks like we're not unique, or perhaps, that there's room for a variety of versions of our transitional story!

I agree with the reviewer

By MIKE HALE

Published: June 15, 2010

The premise of “The Fabulous Beekman Boys” — a couple, uptight Brent and laid-back Josh, give up the Manhattan media world to become gentlemen organic farmers in upstate New York — inspires hopes of a gay “Green Acres.” The chores! The culture wars!

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Joao Canziani/Planet Green

Brent Ridge, left, and Josh Kilmer-Purcell, gentlemen farmers.

Related

Books of The Times: Rusticating Sophisticate Commits Chicken-Lit(June 3, 2010)

Away: The Old House That Became a Way of Life (February 27, 2009)

Campaign Spotlight: Maybe They Should Call It ‘Greener Acres’(June 14, 2010)

Preview: 'The Fabulous Beekman Boys'

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Alas, reality is less fabulous than 1960s sitcom, at least in the first two “Beekman Boys” episodes, Wednesday on Planet Green. So far the show favors dour bickering over fish-out-of-water rural humor, much to its detriment. It’s as if Jon and Kate Gosselin had spent every episode taking their children to see farm animals: Brent and Josh Plus 100 Goats.

The “boys” are Josh Kilmer-Purcell, a writer, advertising executive and former drag queen, and Brent Ridge, a physician and former “vice president of healthy living” for Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia. The “Beekman” refers to an old farm near Sharon Springs, N.Y., about 50 miles west of Albany, with goats, pigs, tractors and, crucially, a beautifully preserved, stately white house with a wraparound porch, the kind that makes weekenders go weak in the knees.

The couple bought the 60-acre spread several years ago, and now Dr. Ridge is there full time, overseeing operations with a compulsiveness that’s more off-putting than funny, at least on-screen. Most of the actual farming appears to be done by Farmer John, the manager, who has his own quirks, which include dissolving into tears at the thought of his beloved goats. “I become very emotional about my animals,” he says.

Mr. Kilmer-Purcell still spends his weekdays in Manhattan, where he brings in a paycheck by working for the advertising mega-agency JWT. This means he’s often unavailable to help with mucking the pens or cleaning the barn windows, which leads to snippy remarks from Dr. Ridge, then tart rejoinders from Mr. Kilmer-Purcell like, “Brent comes from a world of Martha Stewart parties, where everything looks perfect but nobody’s having a good time.”

Much of this sniping is inspired by money. The farm is the locus of the Beekman boys’ “ethical” and organic retail business (hence the involvement of the environmentally minded Planet Green), with products like goat-milk soaps and cheeses. The TV show is part of their omnimedia approach to marketing, along with Mr. Kilmer-Purcell’s most recent book, “The Bucolic Plague.”

The book, which “reeks of charm,” Janet Maslin wrote in The New York Times, is more forthright than the television show about parts of the boys’ story. Of his job with Martha Stewart, which is invoked repeatedly on-screen, Dr. Ridge says, “I gave that up to be a full-time farmer.” But readers of the book will know that Ms. Stewart’s company gave him up, laying him off, which could be one source of the tension coursing through “The Fabulous Beekman Boys.”

It’s also possible that the tension is being manufactured to set up feel-good reconciliations in future weeks. If Mr. Kilmer-Purcell and Dr. Ridge are, in fact, pretending to be angry with each other, it could explain why they come across as so dull — nonactors are automatically less interesting when they try to act.

In the meantime the audience that fiercely defends all things purporting to be fabulous can adopt the Beekman boys and enjoy the moments of sylvan burlesque (if they can tear themselves away from Bravo). But they should cross their fingers for the animals while they’re at it: in one scene Dr. Ridge, having transported a pair of piglets in the unpadded bed of his pickup, drops one on the ground from a height of about five feet. (It manages not to break any legs.) In reality television, there’s no crying over spilled pork.

The Fabulous Beekman Boys

Planet Green, Wednesday nights at 9, Eastern and Pacific times; 8, Central time.

Produced by World of Wonder for Planet Green. For World of Wonder: Randy Barbato, Fenton Bailey and Tom Campbell, executive producers; Angela Rae Berg, co-executive producer. For Planet Green: Jeff Hasler and Lynn Sadofsky, executive producers.

Day 67, July 24, 2010

"Debbie, whatcha' think'll happen if I stir up that hornet's nest?"

I'm looking at a nearly completed gray paper vespine nest. It's a gigantic digested bark masterpiece glued into the corner of a large window frame on Farmer Brown's barn. The nest overlooks our garden. Of course, it brings forth the true meaning and potential feeling of the classic idiom: To stir up a hornet's nest.

"No Ben, don't disturb it!" Debbie pleads. She's aware, as is Wikapedia that hornets are capable of "mobilizing an entire nest to sting in defense, which is highly dangerous to humans."

I would never disturb a nest. When I was four or five-years-old, living in the back country of White Plains, New York, I used to watch, what I thought were flies

buzzing in and out of the cocoa shell mulch. This sweet, chocolate-smelling ground cover supported foundation plantings around the perimeter of our home.

One day I decide to stomp the pesky bugs out. I remember raising my fat leg and the sensation of sinking up to my right hip in a yellow jacket's nest. I remember excruciating pain and the cold sensation of an ice bath. Geraldine, my babysitter tells me that Chipper, my Airedale had tried to fight the "bees" but, "Nicky (my nick name) they stung her twice as bad as you."

"Is she OK?" I ask, in tears. I cry because of the pain of the stings Geraldine's pulling from my welted body. I cry for Chipper. "Ooh, that brave dog's licking her wounds, rolling in

the cool mud down by the brook." Geraldine snaps her gum, hums a soulful tune and plucks stingers like a piece worker in a textile mill. Days later I catch the mumps. Chipper and I keep each other company. We're contrite companions. Partners in crime.

I suspect that this latest nest was founded by a clever queen wasp. Likely, early in the season, she reckoned that there would be thousands of bees and other vulnerable bugs populating our garden. Deb and I have noticed that we can work peacefully in our garden, weeding, picking cucumbers and cutting flowers with bees all around us. When we reach into a cucumber vine, the bees simply move on. If I wish to take a macro-photograph, they simply continue with their routine, never snarky-grinning or photo bombing!

After the excitement of the giant hornet's nest, the wonder of its construction, and the sheer potential of its danger dies down, I start to think about my tomatoes. I now realize that tomato plants and children have greater similarities than we parents would like to admit. O.K. It's easy to create a child, as simple as planting a tomato seed. As the tomato grows, it needs pruning, staking and nourishment. As a child grows, it needs pruning and grounding (or staking), and nourishment. When we see a child we do not approve of, we sometimes judge, "What a rotten child!" When we see some of my early tomatoes, we simply say, "Rotten."

This brings me to the question of various forms of tomato rot. Had I been more studious and disciplined in the raising of my tomatoes, might I have avoided the problems I am now writing about daily? Had I taken soil samples, sent them in to UCONN, might Farmer Brown's nitrogen rich turkey mulch have been an early red flag. Had I simply taken Farmer Brown's early advice, and sent in the soil samples, might the fruit side of my tomato

crop have been as impressive as the stalks and blossoms?

The day is cool and overcast, and we get a lot of work done, picking and weeding and discovering. The melon patch is bursting with immature cantaloupes. I am seeing evidence of pumpkins forming amongst their impenetrable madness.

The rain settles in and Debbie declares it a perfect work environment. The bees continue their work, I realize, in the rain. I see no hornets in the garden. This place is quiet, except the percussion of soft rain on the canopy of the pumpkin patch. If I listen, I can also hear the determined buzzing of our worker bees below.

Day 66, July 23, 2010

A friend and blog follower writes me on Facebook earlier, asking, "How's the farming going??? The rain should help. Did you find out why your plum tomatoes are rotting???"

I respond, "Learning lots, and some rots..." I don't refer her to "Day 57" blog and the question of moisture and calcium deficiency... I am just happy that people are reading, and thrilled at their curiosity... albeit morbid, at times.

After all, as I think back and read older blog posts, over a trying two months, I realize that this was intended to be an experiment. It has become, a grand discovery. As I stand before my corn plants, some of which are already much taller than I, I realize that my pale green fingers have done more more right than wrong. As I look up at Debbie's towering Sun flowers, which are on the verge of bloom, at five-to-seven feet, I am thankful for her spirit, her loving support, and unconditional companionship.

As my garden buds bloom, some bare blossoms, while others bring fruit from the musty, dirty depths. There can be no greater joy than love and

gardening, especially when they come together on a stranger's farm... for no apparent reason.

Today I am particularly impressed by the bush beans. They've been flowering for the past week, and today I have noticed how much these delicate, white flowers look like orchid blossoms. From each surviving flower, a tiny bean shape is emerging. It is so amazing, almost child-like how vegetables and fruit present themselves... like preschool drawings expertly glued onto their host plants. I really cannot explain it except that plants are surprising in their formation and delivery of goods.

I am still uncertain what the yield of my bounty will be this season. I know that the cucumbers are prolific, and my customers seem very happy with them. As for the tomatoes, I am preparing for disappointment and hoping for a miracle. Let's just say, I'll hang on the vine, do what I can, and know I'll keep ya'll posted.

Garden's Edge. Zinnias in bloom, Brandywine Plants, Fading Dill Hedge beyond.

Day 65, July 22, 2010

Lilly Hinckley is a thin, mostly black rescue cat who belongs to Elizabeth... my ten-year-old daughter. The cat still has feral tendencies, most annoyingly her hauntingly insistent call. It's a cross between a meow and a growl. It can best be identified with the laconic vocal competition between territorial cats on a hot summer's night.

Lilly, no matter what her bravado may be, is not a farm cat, and were she to be, would require months of training. In fact, on the other hand, I think that she might be a reincarnated bovine... based on her behavior the other night.

Elizabeth had her friends, Kate and Kara, over for supper. After the movie, Deb and I offer to walk the red-headed twins home. Elizabeth joins us, and soon after, Lilly follows. She doesn't heel, like my old Black Lab, Chelsea, did, off leash. Instead, she skitters across yards, through shadowy hedges. In the harsh glare of ancient sodium vapor street lights, she boxes in silhouette with local moths.

Of course, I'm terrified. The streets of Noank are narrow and hilly. We've lost three cats to cars in the village. Honestly, our fourth, Lilly Hinckley, seems more street-wise than Pumpkin, Skipper and Rachel ever were.

Back to bovine, and this nonsense and its relevance to farming. This cat followed us for at least a mile. In further support of my argument, she has an affinity for the products of silage, namely maize. About a week ago, we 're finishing supper, on the deck, when Lilly springs onto the table and proceeds to clean my corn cob. The shot's a little fuzzy, but then again, I take these animal pics at great personal risk.

Corny, for sure. Unique? Not sure... I'd never want to compete with funniest pet peeps!

Day 63, July 20, 2010

Looks like we're finally starting to get internet access, just in time for a tomato crisis. It's strange, there is so much going well in this garden. We are having a bumper crop of pickling and standard cucumbers. The cherry tomatoes are, indeed, large, juicy and delicious. The pumpkins are running rampant, although one cannot tell how many pumpkins the jungle will yield.

Yesterday I noticed that a few beefsteak tomatoes had ripened and had lesions on them, which I believe

to be Alternaria Canker. The first picture comes from aggie-horticulture.tamu.edu. The following picture is one I took of the suspect Beefsteak. What I am learning is that tomatoes can be infected very early. Very often the blemish or disease does not become apparent until the fruit ripens. For example, stink bugs, which thrive in weeds, can eat the green tomatoes, and only once the fruit is in its mature/ripening stage will one be able to see the true horror. The Tomato Problem Solver Site suggests that we spray a fungicide on the crop.... Any one out there have any ideas?

Day 57, July 14, 2010

This garden has taken on a life of its own. In doing so, it has chosen to take life from some of its plants.

Excited about the popularity of Roma tomatoes, I decide to inspect them closer, attracted by a reddish hue inside one of the vines. As I get closer, I notice that most of the fruit is miniature, that the bottoms of the tomatoes are not a nice plum shape. They're squared off.

My heart sinks.

Instinctively, I strip all 36 plants of their bad fruit. I fear blight as I notice the sky thickening and an eagle atop the blue silo. This garden has flourished through the dry spell. It is massive and in need of management, and there is a clear threat to my most lucrative crop: tomatoes. After I strip as many of the bad roma tomatoes as I can, I carry them away from the garden. As I stare at the back side of the eagle, I expect it to swoop down and carry away the seven foot black rat snake that frequents the area around my garden and the barn. The snake is the only creature I can imagine that would be worth the eagle's time.

As the eagle swoops low and soars away, I turn my attention to the problem at hand, and call the local University of Connecticut agricultural extension office. I am given to a master gardener associate.

"Sounds like end rot," the master gardener tells me.

"What should I do?" I ask.

"Get rid of the bad tomatoes."

We talk awhile, and he tells me he will mail more information. I research at home, and realize that end rot, or blossom rot, is not a blight. It is more a function of dry soil, and calcium deficiency. As we say goodbye, the rain starts to fall. I am sweaty and filthy. The rain feels great; I imagine the plants will love it more than I do.

I tie a few plants as the water streams from my straw brim. Shambling through the garden, pulling a few weeds, I wonder if my pumpkin jungle will yield healthy pumpkins.

I am seeing a few pumpkins forming: swollen creamy-green lumps between stems and blossoms. I cannot enter the patch to peer for pumpkins the way I can check for cucumbers and tomatoes. Pumpkin yield will be much a surprise as they begin to color. As August yields tired leaves that die on their vines, the pumpkin patch should open up for inspection. Hopefully there will be pumpkins to pick in the patch.

Whenever I spend a few hours at the farm, I feel productive, tired, and often exasperated. I leave with a respect for the generations of experience that farmers pass on to one another. I am starting to understand the gut instincts of a farmer, the life and death decisions that are made every day. The science and the biology that are ingrained in people who grow plants and animals is humbling.

Day 56, July 13, 2010

Our first official harvest, July 11, 2010, consisted of 22 cucumbers, 45 pounds of pickling cukes, 2 lbs. of dill, two green peppers, and a pound of basil. I realize, now, after seeing the animated face of an executive sous chef at a major spa resort, that our hard work is about to be rewarded. Even if we are not able to meet the complete demands of our de-facto customers, there is that nice feeling that comes from caring and succeeding.

I now realize that a half acre is a small plot, in a commercial sense. I'm excited to test the production of my tomato plants, but am aware that my spa account, alone, will be able to take all that we can grow. I'm wondering if there is still time to plant a back-up crop. Probably not.

On July 2nd, I started the following post, which I was unable to complete... due to an internet outage....after receiving some good news from The Old Mystic United Methodist Church:

"Revelations. Now that I have a neat spot to try a farm stand, I am learning that crops don't necessarily cooperate, nor do local farmers. Seems everyone has planted, down to the last ear of corn, exactly what they'll need. On top of that, the only plants of mine that are ready to sell are some half-sized green peppers and the same for the jalapenos. Of course the dill is overgrown and the basil is bushy... as for the tomatoes: The Brandywines are producing miniature crowns, and the beefsteaks, large cherries and Romas are a sea of green christmas ornaments hanging at various stages of immaturity."

After realizing that there really does not exist an immediate supply of excess local produce, short of a commute to the Hartford produce market every morning, I have decided that it

is safest for me to find wholesale accounts for my garden growth. As for my farm stand, it will have to wait, or perhaps a higher power is combining with my practical experience and is guiding me along my metaphorical garden path.

Assuming my pumpkins continue their unchecked growth, I believe that there may still be time to thank the church for their kindness and belief in me, and maybe we can stage a harvest festival in late September, early October. It's funny to look back over the past two months, to realize that no matter how old we become, we continue to grow. In the case of humans, even if our bodies have begun to age, our minds are, generally, still growing. Imagination is strong in the motivated. To meet people who support a new idea, regardless of its scale or practicality, is a precious gift. I have met a few of these people, and am grateful to each.

Day 55, July 12, 2010

We have been without a modem from our friends at Comcast... they call it an unscheduled interruption of service, but I think they're full of crap! Cable TV seems pretty robust, so why no phone or internet????

Nevertheless, sorry to disappoint. Everything is growing, in spite of the mini-drought.... Cukes are out first, and the tomatoes cannot be far behind!

More soon!