Eighteen hands

Eighteen hands

Eighteen hands on the farm.  Holding coffee mugs, slathering sunscreen over bare arms, gesturing and waving in the morning.  Hands to open bolts first thing, and different hands to lock back up at day's end.  Hands to hold ladders, tie knots, write bold black letters on white sticks.  Hands always moving, and eyes watching to keep them moving right.  


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Closing time photojournal

Closing time photojournal

For all those times I thought to take a photo, I didn't take one until I was making the final rounds of the day: closing up the high tunnels to trap in heat, watering in the army of eggplant and pepper starts we potted up, soaking up the harvest. 

A short photo journal of the end of a sunny day in April: 

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Winter abundance

Winter abundance

After some time of my detailed rambling about how to find the last of the Napa cabbage, I hesitated after mentioning collards.  They're behind the greenhouses, hidden amongst a sea of overwintering (and very similar looking) cauliflower.

"Why don't you just come with us?"

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