The mf is now 60 years old and he is not climbing trees willy-nilly anymore.
Before the mf left, he was frantic to weed Row 6, which was choked with crabgrass. The crabgrass in particular recalled the zig-zag stitches of Frankenstein’s monster, that lonesome and vicious brute. Row 6 altogether made the mf feel the sharp-tooth wound of raising a miscreant. It was neither this nor that. Yes, nigella thrivedContinue reading “The Mushroom Farmer, Book 3, Chapter 14”
The chickens really liked the home-grown oats the mf and his grown-up daughter took turns flinging upon the compost heap.
He would like to stick his face right up to where he has planted corn and scream, “Why won’t you grow!”
Hah-hah on lead poisoning, he had been thinking.
Will it trigger Armageddon to plant a supermarket yam?
The mf had plenty of opportunity to observe billowing clouds and blue-blue sky because there were no kids performing antics or sulking, and all the grown-ups were standing around dumbstruck by the emptiness.
The mf was still getting used to the single sunbeam glinting off the angelic-looking woman’s short blonde hair and reflecting her calmly cheerful demeanor but not her tactfully invisible angel wings and harp.
I proclaim this current door a huge improvement.
Ghost pumpkin seedlings looked down on the mf from vegetable heaven. They shook their first true leaves and called him names.