Jimmy, Mildred, and Grey Rabbit

First harvest, some thinnings from the spinach and beet rows. Baby spinach and baby beet greens for dinner tonight.

I over-mulched the tomato plants, they seem a little suffocated, leaves wilty and yellowing. I knew I wouldn't be here to water for a week, and the weather called for full sun, so I was worried about moisture loss. Sigh. At this stage, when first transplanted, they really do need careful attention, more than once weekly. They are infants, after all. Hopefully they'll bounce back, I've given them a little more air.

The back and forth between city and country is wearing on me in a new way. Can't quite identify it, but something is shifting, something is pressing. I think more and more about laying roots somewhere, about committing to a place; no more this life of halvsies. Every so often I read a biography of a rural life (right now, Jimmy Carter's "An Hour Before Daylight") and I ache for a life rooted in place. Even if the place is not native, even if it means fabricating home, consciously locating and dropping the anchor.

This article from the NYT a few days ago also I think got under my skin. Ms. Puett's Mildred's Lane must be a stone's throw from here. The hippie communal quality doesn't so much appeal to me as the simple longevity, the life work of several years, making home and art in a place. Making art of home, making home of art.