We chant a continuous stream of blessings for our future farm. On our farm, things will work. On our farm, things will be in order. On our farm, we will do it right the first time. On our farm...

On our farm also, he suggested today, we should label by scientific name. I tried to point out gently that, while I appreciate the sentiment, it wouldn't work out so well in practice. A little stick that says Solanum lycopersicum - for instance - wouldn't cut it for the several kinds of tomatoes a body is like to grow in one season; Brassica oleracea wouldn't help us distinguish between brussels sprouts, cabbage, cauliflower, kale, and broccoli. But think of all the time we'd save on writing labels!

On our farm, we probably won't have cows. There is a sweet rhythm to the twice-daily chores, but also a slightly panic-inducing feeling of monomania. They are constantly getting into where they shouldn't be and out of where they should; eating or trying to eat objects as varied as plastic buckets full of manure, gloves, pants, elbows, and four-inch bolts; shitting in their (50-gallon, heavy, and difficult to move) water tank; eating their bedding hay instead the feed hay I just put out for them; deciding that the mucking fork is a terrifying enemy that must be vanquished; deciding that the water tank I just emptied by five-gallon bucket and hauled outside to hose out is a terrifying enemy that must be vanquished; deciding that if I'm wearing a hat they don't know me and I'm a terrifying enemy; and generally being a pain in the ass. Also, I'm pretty attached to them and I'm unsure about my ability to shoot them in the head when the time comes.

Though if they get out into the road again, I might reconsider that.