Good morning, friends. The rooster (Whitey) is up. The sun is up. I'm up. Spring/summer, or the love child of the two has officially arrived to our woods. We spend the evenings outside in the yard with cups of chilled wine. Our children are back to being bare-limbed and dirt-caked vagabonds. Our shoulders and cheeks are pink from bike riding and weeding and watering and swinging and digging in dirt with backhoes. A learned to ride a two-wheeler this spring and now she takes off down my uncle's long and winding driveway on her own, hair a blaze behind her. What freedom! What unparalleled freedom. I have not let the chickens out of their coop to troll the yard this spring, which means this little garden of ours, now planted with carrots and peas and beets and spinach and kale and other good things just might have a chance of growing us some food. Regardless, my children are taking great pleasure. My children are taking great pleasure, raking and watering and planting and weeding. Seeds, seeds, seeds, seeds: every mother is a farmer of the utmost important kind. These heirloom seedlings of ours! What astounding variety. What delightful surprises. What utterly delicious limbs.