The longer I live in the country, the more I morph into a farmer.
When I first moved here, I strived really hard to maintain some semblance of an urban schedule. Take, for instance, my routine upon returning from vacation. I’d catch up on paper work, return phone calls, pay bills, check email, go grocery shopping.
But anymore, gardening has become my numero uno “back to work” activity. This morning, I picked nearly 8 pounds of sugar snap peas, a load of chard and some huge turnips. I tied up tomato plants, checked for and destroyed squash beetles (more about that later), weeded, weeded and weeded some more. By the time I came into the house ready to, you know, WORK for money, it was already 2:30 p.m.
Part of me feels guilty for this—playing outside when I should be earning money—but another part of me has finally accepted (four years later) that I don’t live in Manhattan anymore, and that trying to maintain my old computer rat routine only makes me miserable.
If I can’t get out and enjoy my surroundings, then what is the point of living here?
All original content © 2012 by Jessie Knadler