Shooting Stars

We sold our milk cow.  Lily, our Jersey Lily, our milk cow.  We left her and Bossie and Carmen at the auction house last week.  When we unloaded her, Lily looked pretty.  Her coat had a good sheen; she stood tall and erect.  When my husband said, “Good-bye, Lily,” an auction employee looked at him funny.  My husband replied, “Well, there was not a lot of love between me and Lily.  But when you milk a cow twice a day, for a while, you get attached.”

And Lily looked at him one last time: head high, a last glance of derring do, of pride, of rebellion . . .


When Cultures Touch

Tutoring is supposed to be about teaching someone else.  But as a tutor of college English, I have been the one to learn about love and boredom, the innocence of dirty words, and the death of dogs.  A Korean student comes to my office everyday.  Fern and I have struggled through The Monkey Wrench Gang . . .




Trials and Tribulations

As I rolled out the dough for a piecrust, I noticed two neighbors coming down our drive, frowning at the flower garden.  The men gesticulated and scolded.  Then they lowered their zippers and urinated, right on the calendulas.

After five years of organic farm life, I knew the biggest challenge was not the hard work, but the uncontrollable variables—the animals, the weather, and the neighbors.  The neighbors disapproved . . .


NOTE:  The essays presented here are shown only as a beginning excerpt.