Still, something had to be done. A fan of direction and themes, I set myself a design goal: cozy and fresh and comfortable. Not fussy. Not mortifyingly dated or dingy. Machine-washable.
The settee cushions went to local upholsterer, as I knew I'd make hash of the long zippers. I did the rest of the sewing, with some help from my favorite sailmaker.
How long did it take? Probably longer than I think: taping the whole cabin was a full afternoon, but each coat of paint was a matter of an hour. Four coats of paint including primer, five when I went the wrong way with my choice of color.
I was hesitant about drilling holes in the walls until it occurred to me: this is a 2006 truck. What could I possibly do to make the interior design worse?
Here's how it turned out so far. Still some things left, but that's home life.
Warm-up writing prompted by –– what else? A PONY!
There would be no escape this day. Sqantahonoh-neehoit (a name that roughly translates to "rhomboid-shaped fruit of the false-kola cactus") resolved again to bide her time. The art of survival was patience. It was a thing she'd come to know, along with the feel of the saddle on her back and the tug of the lead-line.
She'd witnessed what happened when patience ended. Her herd-mate, Gohollin-ah (meaning "Speedy wooly caterpillar" or, with a slightly different inflection "Wooly kitten"), had been lost to such an event. A day like any other until the moment of impatience. Followed by panic, a loud outcry, and a beating that ended badly. Before even the moon had a chance to rise, Gohollin-ah was taken away in a vehicle that smelled of blood and fear and death.
A hard day and a sorrowful night it had been.
The scent of freedom came to Squantohonoh-neehoit now –– nearly masked by the carnival odors of corndogs and fry-dough, and the tang of hot pavement –– on the dusty wings of the breeze. She did not reveal the glowing coal that was her spirit. She snuffed deeply of the freedom-wind, and reminded herself: I am patient. Patient as the log that waits for water. Patiently waiting for the flood to carry me free.
She would run again, she knew it. She would run and roll in the sand. She would crop sweet green grass and drink clear water as it sparkled over rock.
She did not hear her own deep sigh of sadness and longing.
She did not know that her patience would save her. She did not know the shape of the freedom could shift and change like snowdrift in a blizzard. But it would.
That's a load of shiitake.
Okay, it's a handful of shiitake, enough for Mr. Linton and me to both enjoy one mushroom uncooked, and then plenty for a pan full of butter-sautéd beauties to go into his ommette and on top of his leftover pizza.
In a word, they were amazing. So much flavor in a tender bite of fungus!
For all I know, mushrooms have been popping up all summer, but we happened to be on hand in time to beat the squirrels and the slugs to harvest this autumn.
A small harvest, perhaps, but a genuine farming success uncomplicated by late frost, drought, tent caterpillars, etc., etc.
The Would-Be Farm is. Hurrah.
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