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.
Isn’t it funny how the mf, alone among humankind, ignores the answers that are right in front of him.