Sunday the Percherons came back to disc and level the field. I had never thought getting virgin dirt ready for seeds would be quite so much work. The Bahia grass was like an impenetrable force field weaving ridiculously spindly vines that acted like they were made of steel. Six weeks from the first discing, three trips from draft horses, talk of a burn, and finally the finishing touches with a tractor and we have a garden field.
It's still not perfect. I still have to go through every row with a hand cultivator/mini-hoe thing and manually chop out the thick winding roots that run deep and muck up my garden beds. I can't even explain this tool but it is now on my list of Things-I-Can-Never-Live-Without. I'll have to take a photo, maybe someone can give it a name other than "Wonderful".
Then we started dropping posts to run fence along the perimeter. The old school Percheron owning farmer tilted the corners of his moustached mouth ever so slightly when I professed the desire to contain my plants. His seventy-seven years of gardens needed no barriers. I'm the new kid on the block. Sometimes I wonder if I glow green in the presence of these Farming Gods.
I have no shame siphoning information off anyone that cares to respond to what I'm sure are assinine questions. The quietness I usually encounter after my mouth closes I'm not all together certain isn't their self control reining in a laugh or serious contemplation. Perhaps they're wondering when I'll leave, taking a mental bet on the month farming will break me. I'll bet they think "August.". Heaven and Hell both know I'm not looking forward to that month.
But I'm not leaving. I can laugh at myself and my questions. And I'll ask them anyway.