Political writing is feeling anticlimactic at the moment. The Democrat in me is glad for the Hillary endorsement, but the journalist in me realizes that a convention fight would have been great theater. Plus, I'm still not sure how to cope with having caucused for the winner, after my track record of Gary Hart, Jesse Jackson, Tom Harkin, Bill Bradley, and Howard Dean. This is a weird place for me.
So instead, welcome to the Smallest Farm in Iowa. Mr. Hoot Hoot (named by my then much younger daughter) was the only piece of equipment salvaged from my old garden, and stands ready to terrify any wabbits who are too stupid to see that he's plastic.
Companion planting is more effective; the eggplants are surrounded by catnip to scare away the flea beetles (and get the Furry Three buzzed)
The first pepper is starting much sooner than I expected.
Sunflowers are knee hight and should make a massive north wall on the northern half of the Farm.
Down on the South Forty, the pole beans are starting to pole, and the boys are calling them "beanstalk beans."
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