For years the raised beds have been a dismal gray dusty failure zone, inhospitable to carrot, beet, potato; acrimonious to buckwheat, oat, alfalfa.
With Walden, the mf has abandoned his beloved practice of looking things up and simply inserts “antiquated tool, carved from wood.” Even if he understood, he wouldn’t understand.
The penumbrae came upon the mf suddenly, along with immediate understanding they had been with him ever since he became alive. “That’s a prismatic lens flare,” the mf’s self-dispensing optometrist spoke into his ear. “Very much so,” observed the mf’s True Inner Self, the Standard-Bearing mf among the many varietals of personality inhabiting his brainpan.Continue reading “The Mushroom Farmer, Book Two, Chapter 3”
Oh silly mf. He could easily be doing the dance of the fulfilled right now!
The mushroom farmer is eager to discover if his chickens have survived the deluge.
The mf is a birthday balloon flying away and away and away, transforming from lost toy to miracle of flight to speck in sky to nothing. Come back, mf! We need you!
He had a renewed sense of purpose now: to make his sidewalk produce giveaway better than the neighbors’.
Say this for the mf, he had spotted the bedraggled purple cauliflowers and delicately transplanted them into this spot where they were now not merely unbedraggled but also thriving, thriving, thRivNG on a cold peak COVID-19 pandemic Southern California winter morning of more clouds than sun; rain hanging in air barely mid-50 degrees Fahrenheit.
Additional fallen Canary Island date palm fronds are required for the chicken coop, where the hens got drenched overnight in a lightning storm centered a few miles to the south of the cozy bed in which the mf kept his little doggie Blip company during the thunder. Blip quivered but did not shudder, comforted asContinue reading “The Mushroom Farmer, Chapter 16”
The mf’s go-to ethical rule of thumb is that we don’t have to repair the entire world, but we have to do our part.
Is the mf doing his part?