. . . which means no digging in the soil, too wet, too wet. No politely arguing world issues (with the two anarchists and undecided Evan) or quietly geeking out about how plants grow and our identification with the female characters in Cold Mountain (Tim, the menonite preacher) and zero chances to listen to Rashid (former harvard grad, Clinton employee, trailer lving, beat up van driving, world travelling, blue tooth talking man of mystery) tell story after story as he shapes an urban farm view of the future.
And no eating okra right of the plant, crispy like a po-tater chip.
No riding my bicylce thru East Point and having the girls outside the hair salon yell "You know you're wearing a helmet, right?"
I know, I know.
It does mean time to post on a blog. To build a blog cabin.
Time to take notes from Food Not Lawns and French Fries in the Food System for a possible Childrens Programming position at an organic farm in Deacatur.
Time to think of Sadi driving the Rav 4 up and down douglasville, his face bobbing and smiling as people stare at all the drawings he wanted to stay on. There's a giraffe on the roof. And a "I love Chocolate" on one of the headlights.
Time to wonder about the fact that I've done no volunteering of late. Except for wonderroot, which is more planting/bouncing around/music time than it is volunteering.
No processed food November. Are you ready?
p.s. - Love is Love farm became Love is Love swamp in the floods. New York Times, NPR, Georgia Fram Monitor and many others have been following their wet and soggy existence.
p.p.s - everyone move to Chicago on November 20th. I'll be there.
Billy
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