Between midden heaps and melting metal, the Would-Be Farm is giving us a rich archeological site to mine.

The barn has been a collapsed wreck for thirty years or more. Locals who come visit don't even remember even when it went. It's a little mystery. 

This spring, we hired a guy with a very large excavator to clear out the old foundation and haul the detritus away.

1. First, because Mr. Linton kept wanting to toss a match and some accelerant into the pile of rotten wood and rank weeds
2. Second, because we thought we might make use of a limned space already carved out of the side of the hill.  
3. And third, because, well –– squalor. 

The man with the excavator (and dump trucks!) showed up while we were racing sailboats in Massachusetts. By the time we arrived back on the farm, only an invoice, some dents in the turf, and a void remained.  

Knowing how brambles quickly re-colonize an area, we got to work clearing the rocks* that had tumbled outward from the collapsed western and southern sides of the old foundation. Decades of fallen leaves helped the old timbers and cow manure compost itself into some good-looking soil. We took the opportunity to carve out more garden space.

(*Rock-picking. One of the harder jobs on a farm. Oddly, it did not seem incongruous for me to find myself, decades and degrees later, once again picking rocks from the clay soil of the North Country.) 

The metal chunks range from the obvious –– hinges and horseshoes –– to the arcane.  

Nails were evidently cheap, and our guys never used one nail when three were possible. 

​Astonishing amounts of leather survive, the linseed oil preserving the bits of harness and halters even after half a century or more. 

So much peculiar loot!  We could open our own Agricultural museum –– or stock a display case or two at least. Until then, we have a level spot to park the tractor, a stretch of reclaimed field, and a new couple of gardens.

I am thinking horseradish and rhubarb, plus a protected winter bed for daffodils and iris.  Ahhhh.

It took two and a half years of procrastination and one short day of work to get solar power at the Would-Be Farm.

Some readers may remember our solar ambitions and my brief return to calculus. What I neglected to mention is that I didn't finish that class. Stupidly enough, I lost my notes from class while transporting myself and the late small dog across the Philadelphia International Airport. 

I know: duh.  

Anyhow, the notebook contained my calculations for the first weeks of class as well as the splattered remains of those four brave brave brain-cells that had remembered something about calculus. I honestly couldn't face doing that homework over again. Never mind the work for the rest of the semester.

I was raised to look for solutions in the pages of a book. Thank you, O Beloved Bookworm!

So, to book! The class in solar system design was actually a bit of overkill. I just wanted to set up a couple of batteries and some panels so that we could have light and be able to re-charge our electronics.  

​(Oh, which reminds me of this potty-mouthed and funny political Tweet. )

The go-to-solution book this time was Stand-Alone Solar Energy by Oliver Style, a clearly-written, solution-oriented reference that focused on installing systems in remote, underdeveloped areas with ITACA and Concern America. 

So, two panels, a controller mounted on the side of Base Camp, two batteries, an inverter, and poof: we have power for the water pump, lights, various small electronics, and we can charge battery packs for our power-tools.

Utility! Civilization! No unsightly power-lines and no monthly bill.  

​And as if their great-grandparents didn't say the same damn thing about the egg-head scientist working on penicillin, chemo-therapy, seat-belts, gel insoles. Jupiter!

References
www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/the-secret-life-of-bees-99559587/
www.goldengooseaward.org/awardees/honey-bee-algorithm
www.npr.org/sections/krulwich/2011/05/24/136391522/natures-secret-why-honey-bees-are-better-politicians-than-humans
https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/grade-point/wp/2016/09/22/how-honeybee-research-improved-your-internet-experience/?utm_term=.01028bb510d3

Imagine sitting in the tiered seat of a dark movie theater late at night. You are among a group of outgoing, cheerful, and odd strangers. It's a scene. Then begins a not-quite-chaotic game of call-and-response that seems a little like magic.

People in the theatre make a suggestion or ask a question, and the movie provides an answer.

"What's your favorite Ivy League?" the crowd hollers in unison and up pops the Columbia Pictures icon.

It's a giddy, cheerful experience that blurrs the line between watching a performance and becoming  the performance.

We have no particular audience cheering us on at the Would-Be Farm, and heaven knows our meals are both low-drama and Meatloaf-free, still, this tangent eventually leads to the Would-Be Farm...

Mr. Linton and I ventured North for Thanksgiving. We deep-fried a turkey, played in the snow, made pie, and visited folks we care about. 

And while we were up there, we fired up the chainsaw and did some more upkeep on the elderly apple orchards that came with the Farm. It's a long process, as these trees were left to run wild for decades. When we first found them, the trees were scraggly and snarled and over-crowded.

Three years later, they are slightly less so, but  –– evidently –– the Would-Be Farm will always call for some level of lumberjack work.

The process goes like this: I'll select a branch or a whole tree that needs to go. If I can use the loppers, I'll nip the bit off, but the big stuff I leave for Jeff and the chainsaw.

Unless my skill as a sawhorse is required, I generally watch Jeff work from a short distance away and wring my hands.  

It's not an irrational fear of power-tools. I once saw the result of a chainsaw rearing back and catching someone in the leg. Yurp.  Anyhow, each time he leans over the chainsaw to yank on the pull-cord, the phrase "Transvestites, start your engines," drifts idly across my mind. I rarely say it aloud, but it's a bit of comfort for a worrier.

We dodged disaster again this trip, and left giant piles of brush for the wildlife to enjoy over the winter. Some of the logs we made last year got hauled back to basecamp, and I only wish there were a scratch-and-sniff option on the internet to share the scent of that apple-wood as it burns in the campfire. 

So there are presently two foils extending from the sides of the boat. They resemble the tipped wings of some airplanes. 

​
To put them in, the fellas first cut a pair of holes in the sides of the boat and then fitted them with daggerboard trunks from an A-Cat. 

Why yes, it does seem ironic to cut holes into the hull of a boat that was a good floater. But progress is not made without some revolutionary thinking.

When the team chooses not to use the foils, they can seal off these slots with a strip of tape. Good old duct tape would do, though they are more likely to use Insignia sail tape.

A few test-runs (thanks to guest test-pilots Bill Wingrove, John Paulson, Ben Givens, and Dave Clement) to adjust the angle of attack, and poof! The bow lifts to reduce wetted surface and make Spawn a more stable creature. 

The team will take to the water this coming weekend for a longish trial. Crossing fingers for good sailing weather. 
​​​

The "fun size" candies start coming home as early as mid-September.

​I'm a sucker for a good deal, and it's appealing to load up on the cornucopian selection of kid-sized chocolate bars in the grocery store. Probably a signifier for an under-served childhood.  

And without fail, the supply fails to meet the trick-or-treating demand. Somehow, we find ourselves in a darkened house with only three or four dejected-looking candies lurking at the bottom of orange plastic jack-o-lantern when the sun sets.  

And with this annual candy ritual complete, we mark the halfway point of the football season. Followed rapidly by the slightly panicky realization that the Earth has nearly completed its annual circuit.

This year I'm feeling the ghostliness and harvestry of the season changing. It's like the tide, pulling at my attention.  

I've been reading scary books (Joe Hill's Horns, and S.E. Hinton's Hawke's Harbor, and Holly Black's Dollbones).  

Songs like these have been playing in the back of my mind:

It's been a long time since we costumed ourself for Halloween.

One year, Mr. Linton was a convincing caveman to my school-marm. Another time, he rocked a magnificent black marlin mask constructed of paper and a ball-cap.  And –– oh, innocence! –– a whole boatload of us dressed as oil sheiks with squirt guns, decades ago, back when the idea of dressing up as a terrorist seemed light-hearted. 

I think the last time we had Halloween outfits, we did a simple zombification. Cornstarch and lipstick rendered us fairly convincingly undead.

That red proved to be surprisingly durable, and we discovered that in a stripe-y suit, Mr. Linton would make a passable Beetlejuice (Betelgeuse! Betelgeuse!)

This time, under the tidal pull of All Saint's, I have something a bit more elaborate in mind.

Something Nordic. Something a little bit Floki. Something a little bit Ragnar Lodbrok. And, given the hair, something Lagertha-esque... 

Shoehorning a bit of boat-work into the summer, my favorite skipper continues the construction and refinement of Spawn ​the adventure boat.  

​Despite the onslaught of mosquitoes and biting gnats, and undaunted by what he describes as 1000% humidity, he's made improvements and tweaks in preparation for the next adventure*.

There's some cleverly thought-out modifications to block placement and chafe-plates on the rudder control system. Plus a new metal rowing seat that will be semi-permanently bolted in place. Thanks, Derek Dudinsky at JTR!

Modifying where the oarlocks will be placed and some height adjustments (hello Sir Hacksaw!) to the rowing seat follow after an afternoon of on-the-water testing. 

And then we are off again on more travels. Spawn will be waiting when we get back...


​* Which next adventure race? Well, there's the Black Beard Challenge, possibly.  It's 300 miles that include active gunnery ranges (avoid!), unlit fish traps (avoid!), unavoidable low bridges, black bears and skeeters, all on a challenging loop past Pamlico Sound and Beaufort (Bo-furt!).  

​Shore duty is looking sweet on that one. 

It makes some sort of sense: like writing, where one pieces together a narrative from scraps of conversation, specific detail, and overarching themes, quilting is a way to make something new.

It's the same impulse: to create something substantial, to create something that will comfort or envelop someone, that will please someone else also. One might spend these hours with imaginary friends and their tribulations, or one might think about color, pattern, texture, and size. ​ 

But when I'm done and it's bound, instead of selling it to a reading public (or editor/agent), this finished product can be used or given away on an individual basis. Or maybe –– rather like the stories I haven't sold yet –– they'll wait on a shelf until the time is right for them to move along. 

Every spring on the Would-Be Farm, I go on rock safari. Not like it's a real challenge to locate stone –– the hilly landscape was created by glaciers and its only half a joke to say that the Farm's three most reliable crops are porcupines, burdocks, and rocks. 

But in the spring, small boulders appear as if by magic in the middle of the fields. It looks as if a bear has come along and pried chunks of granite from the ground. Maybe cranky from the long sleep? Perhaps searching for grubs? What if it's a mysterious ursine ritual feat of strength? And, not for nothing, they've got a problem with you people!

But no, this is "frost heave" at work. A prosaic name for the kind of amazing thing that happens with sub-zero temperatures, wet clay soil, and rocks. 

As anyone who has ever left a bottle of beer in the freezer knows, liquids expand on the way to becoming solids.

In clay soil, water tends to pool. A small bit water pooling between a rock and the soil around it will expand and widen the gap between rock and dirt. A cycle of thawing and freezing allows more water in, which widens the gap farther and farther until there is enough volume for ice to pop the rock (this one pictured about 45 pounds of lower-back discomfort) clean out of the ground. ​

The field doesn't care where the stone lands. Grass grows up –– and the next thing you know, you're clanking into the chunk of granite with some surprisingly delicate part of a large and expensive piece of mowing machinery.  

​Smart money says to relocate the thing before the grass hides it.

Enter the Bobcat.  This summer's unexpectedly large project involved culverts and ditches (that thrilling tale to be told another time) and rental equipment.  Because the cost of a week's rental is the same as four days, we ended up with a small diesel Bobcat for a week.

Only a couple of frost-heaved (frost-hove?) rocks appeared over this past winter, but the rockiness of the Farm seems nearly endless. At least four outcroppings of pink granite lurk around Base Camp, just waiting to catch a blade on the weed-whacker or trip a distracted walker. ​

After attending to the thrilling culvert and ditch issues, we still had a few days custody of the equipment. Rock safari went into a higher gear: we cleared the rocky path to both old orchards, we dug up inconvenient boulders, we nudged large stones into more desirable spots.