I dread crossing over...in the non-afterlife sense.

I dreaded today.

It's my 56th birthday and I can barely say it out loud let alone write it.

So I dreaded it happening because it crosses one over, so to speak, to your late 50's. Eww. Ick. Ish.

But it happened and I couldn't do anything about it.

Nothing good about it.

Nada.

Ok, so I may be overdoing it but tomorrow is a new day.

I will be over the shock and the feeling of utter aloneness will subside. {It better or I may have to kick my own ass!}

I should be glad, really.

{Trying to convince myself here.}

This may be the year I meet my smart, funny, dashingly handsome and rugged man that loves farming and is the love of my life.

The ONE that "sees me" for me, gets me and embraces it all.

I imagine he will love blueberries and be magnetically drawn to me at the farmer's market this year. 

{...because I sell blueberries?}

Don't be mistaken.  I am completely happy living here on my farm.  It is just that loneliness and living alone are two very different concepts.  And I am lonely at times still waiting for that one that is out there and needs me, too.

This is downright depressing, so please forgive me!  It is just real, realness. It hurts a bit more after just losing my father.  He may have been the last real man in my life.

Let's keep hoping the blueberries do the trick. 

I keep hoping.

Mother Nature forced me to do my taxes today!

When you live on a farm, you spend alot of time outside...no kidding, right? Well, not today and I'm pouting.
I had plans...big plans to keep expanding my new garden bed.  But last night we had snow and although it is all melting away today you'd think business as usual could commence. Nope! Frozen ground...frozen everything, in fact! (I thought I could prune some grapevines but my feet froze, too!) So I am here, stuck inside, sharpening my pencil and about to begin the second most certain aspect of life...my taxes. At least I won't have to waste any good weather days on them!



My "door" to my blueberry patch.



My way to Le Farm was paved by a very courageous woman...

I bought Le Farm in May 2012 from a man that has never lived in this beautiful spot but enjoyed this wonderful property, nonetheless.  He was an ambitious, retired engineer that exercised his green thumb and his ability to design and layout irrigation lines and electrical boxes reaching every corner of its 4.15 acres. It certainly has made my job much easier, having the hard stuff already done, allowing me the freedom to pick the fruits of his labors from the hundreds of blueberry and blackberry bushes he planted. But his mark is small compared to the extensive family history attached to Le Farm and the wonderful legacy, I recently discovered, about the special woman that paved my way here.

Mrs. Edith Parrott Savely was born on this farm.  Her father, T.H. Parrott, built my home for himself and his fiance, Mary Frances Jones in 1869.  They raised their family here; five daughters and one son, who died in infancy. After the parents passed away, three of the daughters lived here until their deaths.  With all this living and dying one might think that would present an element of "creepiness" to this house.  That could not be farther from the truth.  One only feels the warmth of  "home" and complete and utter serenity here. As Gaston Bachelard writes, "...the house protects the dreamer, the house allows one to dream in peace".  This is that house.

Mrs. Savely, as it turns out, was a champion for farm women.  She was the first South Carolina Home Demonstration Agent, teaching other agents to give home demonstrations to farm women and girls. Their mission was to disseminate educational information on agriculture and home economics to rural women and girls who did not attend college.  Here is a picture of Edith Savely and an "unnamed kitty" in front of my home.

I used to wonder what the Parrott patriarch would have thought about a single woman, originally from NewYork state, now owning his farm that held generations of South Carolinian Parrotts.  Having raised an enthusiastic daughter like Edith, who ended up running this farm by herself after her own husband passed away, I think Mr. T. H. Parrott would be pleased to see me here and the progress I have made in a short time.  This is a place that was meant for a woman farmer.  I am that farmer.



Starting seeds...the hope of spring

There is something magical about seeing seeds poke through new soil as slender green sprouts. No doubt about it, time seemed to stand still as I waited for the transformation to occur. And then, as if on cue, when the conditions were just right for moisture, heat and light, the show began.  It is particularly rewarding when the seeds I'm growing were saved from my own garden the summer before. There's nothing artificial added or needed to recreate new plants for this year's crops. That is amazing to me and a bit of a miracle.
Does it matter what phase the moon is in to have the most success? I imagine seasoned farmers have their own opinion of the recommendations the Farmer's Almanac puts forth each year on this subject.  I wasn't sure, so I decided to follow their advice to see for myself. 

Last year, no matter what I did, it felt like my timing was off and I couldn't get good results.  (I should rephrase that...I couldn't get any results!)  The heat, the flooding, the pests, all took a toll on my garden. I started to worry that I had lost my touch; that my proverbial green thumb had picked up and left the building with Elvis. 

This year, at least for now, has started off well and I am still diligent to pay attention to the moon.  I planted these little beauties on "good planting days" per the Farmer's Almanac gardening calendar.  Within 7 days they sprouted and they are continuing to grow quite well! Biological science works closely with mother nature and experts say it is predictable, but I prefer to suggest that there is a little magic involved and what springs forth is more than just a result of scientific practices. It is hope...the hope of spring...and that puts a smile on my face.