The Theoretical Farmer's Almanack

Spent awhile looking over the weeds in the garden. They’re dried up now, sort of
like snake skins all brittle and crackly. Weeds don’t look so bad in the winter;
nothing is growing anyway, so they fit in with the general brownness of everything
else. Only the mint and the strawberry plants insist on staying green. Seems like
they’re waging a personal war on drabness and decay. I love the sturdiness and steadfastness
of herbs. They eventually become dormant, of course – wait underground as patient
as pupas until it’s time to push their way up through the stubborn sod. They perform
this natural miracle every year with no coaxing, pampering or assistance from me
or from my theoretical gardening.

Guess the seed catalogues will soon be filling the mailbox. Long about the middle
of January those glossy pictures tantalize me into spending ‘way more money than
my budget allows. If I would plan ahead, I could possibly get somebody to fill my
stocking with a few of these heirloom treasures. But forward thinking and theoretical
farming don’t usually coexist, especially in my little brain.

Speaking of stockings and gifts, I guess I should be picking up some last minute
trinkets today instead of waxing philosophical about weeds and seeds. Edna Smith
invited me over for coffee this morning, and you could hardly walk through her living
room for the piles of presents stacked in every corner. She buys everybody over
at the Farm Bureau a fancy treat; rumor has it she even takes a box of stuff over
to the men who have been working on the Kingsley bridge for the past two years.
(Why it’s taking twelve men two years to replace a couple of broken slats is beyond
me!) At any rate, she has a generous, if nosey, spirit. She tried her best to pry
some gossip out of me this morning – something about the town librarian shooting
squirrels illegally – but I remained tight-lipped as usual. You’d think she would
soon give up and stop trying to pull bits of information from my stubborn head.
Just between you and me, I think the scholarly Miss Caraway might have blasted a
few grey squirrels yesterday, but the varmints insisted on raiding her bird feeders.
She kept trying to get Marve down at the hardware store to order some live traps
for her, but he just laughed. Told her that nobody in their right mind traps squirrels
alive. Guess she just got fed up with the whole situation. But who am I to judge
or gossip? I have enough to do just fighting the weeds in my own garden.

Well, I must stop this scribbling for now. I hear the church bells clanging the
noon hour. I’ll catch up with you next week. Until then, keep the tractors oiled
and the weeds under control.