Find me in the flood

Find me in the flood

I wake at six o’clock to a steady, soaking rain. Yes. Not yes because I’m excited to be out in the cold and wet all day, slogging around in my mud-caked boots, or because I’m particularly ready to jump out of bed in the pitch darkness of late November. It just sounds good. It sounds right. It sounds like late November should sound in the Willamette Valley, finally.

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The Black Wave

"Woooohoo!  Who's ready to surf the waaaaaave?!?"  

We've run the rainwater off to the side, straightened the sheet out, spread out to each corner, and it's time.  The Black Wave comes to life just a few times in the spring: when the sky's dry but the fields are still mucky, and the sun plans to stay out for at least a few days.  It's a joyous time of year.  The rains are abetting and we'll be able to get the tractor rolling soon, there's a team of people sprinting up and down the 150-foot-long fields, and the sun is bound to be shining. 

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Racing spring rains

Racing spring rains

Lunch.  I rinse out a bowl from our kitchen supplies and start to wander.  Duck into the last greenhouse and cut a couple heads from a small patch of salad lettuce that still stands.  Pluck a few big spinach leaves from the neighboring bed, and slip back outside.  Turn the corner to the single bed of flowering arugula and mustards, smell the pungent aroma of arugula flowers as I stride past and snip off a few buds, mindfully and playfully.  A few semi-opened tat tsoi flower buds for yellow.  Across the roadway, I grab several red cabbage flower stalks and toss them on top.  Eat the rainbow, they say.  I walk back to eat at the picnic tables, grateful for sunshine and vibrant everything.

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