The farm.

July 15, Southwood.

All along those country roads small farms, and I happen to be reading We Were the Mulvaneys, by Joyce Carol Oates (on loan from Vickie,) which is set in upstate New York, on a farm, and the yearning for that life, living on a farm, working the land, working with animals, and I wouldn't last a season for sure, although getting up before six o'clock I have training at, but the chores in hot and cold and wet and damp, the calloused hands and aching back and sore shoulders, I wouldn't last long probably but the yearning is real and there isn't a farmhouse I pass that I don't want to stop and knock on the door and say, will you take me in?