Unlike those who have to drive to work in the dark and come home in the dark, I love this time of year. I just snuggle into it and live every minute of it with freedom and joy.
All the way around the year, I wake up pretty early and I lie in my bed and try to remember what I am supposed to be doing. Yesterday the top priority that propelled me downstairs was clearing the horizontal surfaces. It is a losing battle for me, trying to keep the various areas of the house distinct in their purposes. Other people like to have all the tools for their projects at their fingertips. (To be fair, Jon had just completed the long-awaited task of rearranging every picture on the living room walls to make space for the painting that we brought back from Lexington. He needed those tools.)
For an hour I energetically put things back where they belong. Hammer, drill bits, tape measure: three steps from the counter to a drawer, conveniently still in the kitchen. Various containers of ingredients from recent meals: pantry closet. Collection of empty canning jars: ten steps to the shelf next to the basement stairs. Piles of drying herbs: into a bag for future processing. Leather working tools: into a pile on a side table as those were an ongoing project.
When Benjamin and Jon got up, I lost interest in that morning activity and got in the hot tub. Ahhh.
Jon made a farewell breakfast for Benjamin and Anna and Gordon came to join us. There is nothing that signals vacation time like having breakfast at the table with guests. Jon makes delicious waffles, and waffles help to soften the blow of a batch of grape jelly that never jelled. Concord grape syrup is a rare delicacy. Anna brought mangoes, another delicacy from who knows where at this time of year.
Then Benjamin got to work on packing up to go. He travels with very few clothes, but he had quite a collection of materials that he needed to take on the bus. The most challenging object was a piece of wood that was about 3 feet by 2 feet. Anna looked at his pile of metal and wood and said she would make him a bag. She was back in about ten minutes with a snazzy looking portfolio bag with a sturdy red handle that could go over the shoulder. The cloth was leftover from some curtains that she had made for her office a while ago. Anna is a very fast bag-maker, and her machine is always ready. Benjamin was delighted and proceeded to fill the bag with all sorts of important objects for his project in New York. He noted that it would have taken him a long time to collect up these things at Home Depot -- it is so nice to have a farm with an inventory of miscellaneous materials.
While Jon dropped Benjamin off at the bus stop, I practiced piano. Of course I can practice when other people are in the house, but I most like practicing when the house is all mine. I can make the same mistakes over and over without feeling like I am imposing on shared air space.
Then we finally got down to the part of the day that we had planned. We knew that we had to go to Loudoun for a few hours to open up the tunnels and give the plants some fresh air, and it is always good for both of us to remind ourselves of the lists that are waiting to be tackled out there. We took the leisurely route and stopped in at Larry Krop's to see how many trees had had left. He was there, puttering around outside so we stayed for a visit. He had more than a hundred trees leftover and he was not happy about it -- his trees were disappointing. The whole business is a crap shoot.
We spent a chilly couple of hours in Loudoun. I opened all the doors, admired all the plants, and hoed some teeny tiny spinach Jon worked on setting up some irrigation for winter watering. I lost interest in the work when I started to get cold.
On the way home we stopped at an excellent Vietnamese restaurant in Leesburg and had an early dinner. There is nothing like a giant bowl of pho to warm you up from the inside out.
But we were still a little chilled when we got home so we got back into our delicious hot tub and poached ourselves all the way through. It is absolutely the most luxurious thing in the world to have a tub of steaming hot water just waiting on the back porch. And it weighs on my conscience if we don't use it often enough because it would be a waste of energy (Charles recently calculated that it costs us 50 cents a day to keep it hot, but it's not just the money).
Then, to finish off our day, we retired to the couches, with a fire in the wood stove. I read the rest of the new Barbara Kingsolver novel (she is still really preachy but her stories and her characters are so good), in between brief naps. Jon was entertained by all kinds of something or other on his phone, between naps. As the very last treat of the day, we had blueberry/banana milkshakes. I could drink those twice a day and never get tired of it.
And that was how we spent Christmas Day. I told Jon we should do this every year, and he said we might not be able to plan on having Benjamin here, but maybe another one of our kids might be home, you never know. It would be enough for me to just hang out with Jon all day long, with nothing to do but revel in the freedom of winter. There is no reason to rage at the darkness -- that is precisely what makes a day like this possible. Shechechyanu.
Wednesday, December 26, 2018
Tuesday, December 18, 2018
Light One Candle
It's December 18, almost the darkest day of the year, and the date that Lilah died. We just lit our first yahrzeit candle in her memory (other than the gigantic one that the funeral home gave us for the week after her death) and I am glad to realize that her candle will always light up one of the longest nights.
Lilah was the inspiration for this blog -- she was the most loyal reader, always appreciative, and she told me she often read these posts several times. This made me feel like I should write more often, of course. It's not the same now that she is gone but I think of her whenever I write these postcards.
Dear Lilah,
I don't remember the first time I met you (I was 21, you were 54. Wow.) but I am sure we were both on our best behavior. I am pretty sure you and I were both on our best behavior whenever we were together for the next 37 years. You were always kind, curious, warm, and uncritical with me. I understand that I got to have a special place in your heart -- I was Jon's wife and that was just about the only qualification I really needed. I never got the sense that you wished he had chosen someone else. You welcomed me completely.
I do remember a time quite early in our relationship when I did something that shocked Jon and no doubt surprised you and Leon. I rode my bike from Cambridge to Lexington, on a whim, just going a little further and a little further until I found myself at your house. It was a Sunday afternoon. I knocked on your door. You peeked out through the curtain at the side of the door and saw a sweaty, smiling girl. When I told Jon about it later, he could not believe that I had done that. He told me no one ever dropped in on you. Oh well. We all survived. Even though neither of you had your day clothes on yet, you invited me in, gave me a drink of water, and we chatted. You gave me a little sprig of basil wrapped in a damp paper towel to take home on my bike. At that time, none of us could have known that we would be in the same family for all eternity.
We were guests in your house several times a year between about 1983 and 2009. That's a lot of visits. Most of the time I spent with you was at Concord Ave, although there were occasions when the whole family was together for celebrations and reunions outside of the house, and sometimes you two came to the farm. When I think of you and Leon, though, it is in the kitchen and the playroom and the dining room. You had a later schedule than Leon (and I) so you and Jon would stay up into the night because you were both night owls. You would putter around the kitchen, washing dishes, tidying up. It was family law that the rest of us did not wash dishes. There was a longstanding matriarchal lock on dishwashing standards. Jon told me to just stay out of it, so I did for all those years.
In the mornings, Leon was always up first. He made coffee, and he even made orange juice from oranges with his mechanical squeezer. Breakfast was always cold cereal. He would take out about eight boxes of different kinds of cold cereal (all terribly healthy) and we would mix them in our bowls. You made an elaborate mix of chopped nuts and dried fruit to put on top of the cereal. Leon took the first shift at the narrow orange table, hunched over his bowl of cereal with his glasses on top of his head, reading the Globe (this is just how Jon eats breakfast today). You would wander in about an hour later, in your robe, and he would present you with your cup of coffee. He called you Schmoo. You always called him Leon, sometimes with an exasperated tone.
Our kids took all of these routines for granted, even though they were entirely different from our home routines. They didn't feel like they had to perform, or behave in any particular way. They were comfortable and talkative and easy with the two of you. They were allowed to read at the table since everyone else was reading anyway.
We never spent the whole day at your house. After a day of visiting other people in Boston, we would come home for dinner, if that was the plan. You were the chief cook. We didn't try to cook in your kitchen. After he retired, Leon became the salad chef. You always served the meal at the right temperature, and you might even use the warming trays on the sideboard to keep it all hot. Dinner was simple, with fish or meat and vegetables. Salad was served last. Dessert was usually ice cream and dark chocolate. I don't recall that you ever baked, but I can't swear to that. Sue was the one who brought rich chocolate cake from her kitchen. After we finished dessert, you would bring out the teapot and we would sit for longer while the kids went into the playroom.
It's so funny, how I always thought of you and Leon as being elderly. You were younger than I ever realized. Toward the end, you were actually elderly. But not for most of the years before that.
I told Jon recently that I remember how touched you and Leon were when your daughter-in-law and your grandchildren officially became Jewish. I feel like that was a real turning point in our relationship, even though you were completely welcoming in every possible way before my conversion. I was so surprised when you two announced that you were coming to the service. My own family has no such sense of duty -- I never expected my parents to come to anything (because they generally didn't). But the two of you drove down to Virginia and sat in the congregation and watched me get welcomed as a Jew. It showed me that this was more important than I had understood. And I think it made me an even more committed Jew, knowing that it meant something to you.
The last time I got to talk to you by myself, a few days before you died, I had a rare opportunity to tell you what you meant to me and what a perfect mother-in-law you had been for me, for 32 years. We sat in your dark bedroom, you in your pajamas (since you were no longer getting dressed, what was the point) on your bed, me on the other bed. I told you that you had done everything just right for me. You said, "I was always hands-off" and you shrugged in your Lilah way. I repeated, that was perfect. I think it might have been a little embarrassing for you to be told so baldly how I felt about our relationship. But there was nothing to lose and I wanted you to know. We had never been close or talked about feelings much, so this was my one chance. You accepted my appreciation gracefully.
I realized many years ago that you were much stronger than we realized. You seemed delicate, and as if you didn't have too much to say about most things. I know that in other company you probably had much more to say. But around your family, all very fast talkers, you didn't try to compete or even keep up. You had questions, brief comments, but while other people spoke in paragraphs, you did a lot of smiling and listening. But it became clear that you had patience and strength that was always in there, and when Leon began to decline, your powers became evident. I admired that.
You were so much smarter than you ever let on. I don't even know what I mean by that, but you were a match for Leon, the mother of four super intellectual children, and the grandmother of another six very sharp kids. Those of us who showed up late in your life didn't get to see all that had come before us. But I know that you were extremely intelligent. Just kind of bottled up and not very showy.
I am sure you are wondering how much longer I will go on. I have only just gotten started, but I don't need to say every little thing right now. We have missed you, I think of you much more often than I ever expected, and I remember you perfectly. I remember you with much fondness and huge gratitude. And not only because you produced Jon. Because you loved me so much, and that meant a great deal to me.
Your memory will always be a blessing.
Hana
Lilah was the inspiration for this blog -- she was the most loyal reader, always appreciative, and she told me she often read these posts several times. This made me feel like I should write more often, of course. It's not the same now that she is gone but I think of her whenever I write these postcards.
Dear Lilah,
I don't remember the first time I met you (I was 21, you were 54. Wow.) but I am sure we were both on our best behavior. I am pretty sure you and I were both on our best behavior whenever we were together for the next 37 years. You were always kind, curious, warm, and uncritical with me. I understand that I got to have a special place in your heart -- I was Jon's wife and that was just about the only qualification I really needed. I never got the sense that you wished he had chosen someone else. You welcomed me completely.
I do remember a time quite early in our relationship when I did something that shocked Jon and no doubt surprised you and Leon. I rode my bike from Cambridge to Lexington, on a whim, just going a little further and a little further until I found myself at your house. It was a Sunday afternoon. I knocked on your door. You peeked out through the curtain at the side of the door and saw a sweaty, smiling girl. When I told Jon about it later, he could not believe that I had done that. He told me no one ever dropped in on you. Oh well. We all survived. Even though neither of you had your day clothes on yet, you invited me in, gave me a drink of water, and we chatted. You gave me a little sprig of basil wrapped in a damp paper towel to take home on my bike. At that time, none of us could have known that we would be in the same family for all eternity.
We were guests in your house several times a year between about 1983 and 2009. That's a lot of visits. Most of the time I spent with you was at Concord Ave, although there were occasions when the whole family was together for celebrations and reunions outside of the house, and sometimes you two came to the farm. When I think of you and Leon, though, it is in the kitchen and the playroom and the dining room. You had a later schedule than Leon (and I) so you and Jon would stay up into the night because you were both night owls. You would putter around the kitchen, washing dishes, tidying up. It was family law that the rest of us did not wash dishes. There was a longstanding matriarchal lock on dishwashing standards. Jon told me to just stay out of it, so I did for all those years.
In the mornings, Leon was always up first. He made coffee, and he even made orange juice from oranges with his mechanical squeezer. Breakfast was always cold cereal. He would take out about eight boxes of different kinds of cold cereal (all terribly healthy) and we would mix them in our bowls. You made an elaborate mix of chopped nuts and dried fruit to put on top of the cereal. Leon took the first shift at the narrow orange table, hunched over his bowl of cereal with his glasses on top of his head, reading the Globe (this is just how Jon eats breakfast today). You would wander in about an hour later, in your robe, and he would present you with your cup of coffee. He called you Schmoo. You always called him Leon, sometimes with an exasperated tone.
Our kids took all of these routines for granted, even though they were entirely different from our home routines. They didn't feel like they had to perform, or behave in any particular way. They were comfortable and talkative and easy with the two of you. They were allowed to read at the table since everyone else was reading anyway.
We never spent the whole day at your house. After a day of visiting other people in Boston, we would come home for dinner, if that was the plan. You were the chief cook. We didn't try to cook in your kitchen. After he retired, Leon became the salad chef. You always served the meal at the right temperature, and you might even use the warming trays on the sideboard to keep it all hot. Dinner was simple, with fish or meat and vegetables. Salad was served last. Dessert was usually ice cream and dark chocolate. I don't recall that you ever baked, but I can't swear to that. Sue was the one who brought rich chocolate cake from her kitchen. After we finished dessert, you would bring out the teapot and we would sit for longer while the kids went into the playroom.
It's so funny, how I always thought of you and Leon as being elderly. You were younger than I ever realized. Toward the end, you were actually elderly. But not for most of the years before that.
I told Jon recently that I remember how touched you and Leon were when your daughter-in-law and your grandchildren officially became Jewish. I feel like that was a real turning point in our relationship, even though you were completely welcoming in every possible way before my conversion. I was so surprised when you two announced that you were coming to the service. My own family has no such sense of duty -- I never expected my parents to come to anything (because they generally didn't). But the two of you drove down to Virginia and sat in the congregation and watched me get welcomed as a Jew. It showed me that this was more important than I had understood. And I think it made me an even more committed Jew, knowing that it meant something to you.
The last time I got to talk to you by myself, a few days before you died, I had a rare opportunity to tell you what you meant to me and what a perfect mother-in-law you had been for me, for 32 years. We sat in your dark bedroom, you in your pajamas (since you were no longer getting dressed, what was the point) on your bed, me on the other bed. I told you that you had done everything just right for me. You said, "I was always hands-off" and you shrugged in your Lilah way. I repeated, that was perfect. I think it might have been a little embarrassing for you to be told so baldly how I felt about our relationship. But there was nothing to lose and I wanted you to know. We had never been close or talked about feelings much, so this was my one chance. You accepted my appreciation gracefully.
I realized many years ago that you were much stronger than we realized. You seemed delicate, and as if you didn't have too much to say about most things. I know that in other company you probably had much more to say. But around your family, all very fast talkers, you didn't try to compete or even keep up. You had questions, brief comments, but while other people spoke in paragraphs, you did a lot of smiling and listening. But it became clear that you had patience and strength that was always in there, and when Leon began to decline, your powers became evident. I admired that.
You were so much smarter than you ever let on. I don't even know what I mean by that, but you were a match for Leon, the mother of four super intellectual children, and the grandmother of another six very sharp kids. Those of us who showed up late in your life didn't get to see all that had come before us. But I know that you were extremely intelligent. Just kind of bottled up and not very showy.
I am sure you are wondering how much longer I will go on. I have only just gotten started, but I don't need to say every little thing right now. We have missed you, I think of you much more often than I ever expected, and I remember you perfectly. I remember you with much fondness and huge gratitude. And not only because you produced Jon. Because you loved me so much, and that meant a great deal to me.
Your memory will always be a blessing.
Hana
Wednesday, December 5, 2018
Four Seasons Means You Can't Get Off The Train
Last night at the end of a long workday, Ciara said they were feeling kind of raggedy -- the crew had worked seven days straight. That's not normal at all for the workers. They usually get to take at least one day off and usually more than that, but we have been pushing so hard to work ahead of the weather as we get ready for the next season.
We don't start early anymore because everything is often frozen. We can't work late because the sun goes down by 5:00. So this means we are cramming everything into the warmest part of the day. For Carrie and me last week, it meant that we picked and washed vegetables for six hours straight, no stopping, for two days in a row. In the summer we can easily work a ten hour day but there are breaks, there is lunch, there are other tasks to divert us. This is head-down, keep moving, fill those crates kind of work.
There aren't as many goals in the winter as there are in the summer. We are only planting and weeding inside the high tunnels, and there is no tractor work. The goals are to get the roots out of the ground before they freeze too much, to pick leafy stuff for the two markets and the die-hard Winter CSA folks, and to finish building the structures we need to get through the next season. The crew is small and experienced and motivated.
For months we have been waiting for an order of greenhouse plastic to arrive so we could put the second layer of plastic on all the tunnels before winter. Apparently our tunnels are not a normal size and also there has been a high demand for greenhouse plastic because we all had major hail storms during the summer and there was a run on plastic. The order finally came in a few days ago to our suppliers in Lancaster PA. On Monday Jon and I drove back from Boston and made it to Nolts Greenhouse Supply at exactly 5 PM, closing time. We jammed two very heavy eight foot long boxes into the mini van (which already had an awkwardly large box in it from Lilah's inventory) and now we could hope to get that project finished. We had shortened our Boston trip by one day when we looked at the weather forecast and realized that time was short.
Yesterday morning there were wind gusts up to 20 mph in Loudoun. The usual wisdom is that you put plastic on during dead calm days. The forecast said that the winds would diminish to 11 mph by early afternoon and continue to die down as the day wore on. The advice from our next door farmer neighbor was to wait until today when winds would be non-existent, but it might be snowing. Naturally, I decided to forge ahead and get it done, if possible, yesterday afternoon.
In the morning, the hard core Loudoun team spent several hours finishing pulling all the carrots. They were triumphant at lunchtime (not realizing how long the day would go). That was a huge accomplishment and the carrots are such an unexpected success since we tried so many times to get them to grow, and finally at the very last effort, they did. And they are amazingly delicious, so it all feels wonderful. The voles didn't even get to them much.
Jon and I rolled in just as the carrot harvesters were wrapping up their morning. Stephen was looking pretty triumphant himself, having worked until 11 PM the night before, with lights, to finish installing the fans at the end of the fancy new greenhouse. He was particularly pleased with one of his endwalls, which is a lyrical piece of art -- could be a sun or maybe a spider web. He is trying desperately to finish that structure before heading off to Hawaii in a day or so with his whole extended family. Motivation is strong.
As can happen when you have plastic buildings, one of our three lower tech tunnels had ripped and blown apart the night before so that was one more task to add to our ambitious list. While others went to a well-deserved lunch, Stephen and I started to deconstruct the broken caterpillar tunnel and uncover the ginger tunnel. By the time they all came back, we had prepared the damaged tunnel for a new cover. We all dragged the 150 foot long piece of plastic from the ginger tunnel and pulled it over the top of the bare ribs of the cat tunnel. Tada, almost all better. Just needed some ropes to be good as new. We set that aside for later.
The wind was not too bad. Seven of us got to work. In about five hours, we got three gigantic pieces of plastic pulled over the tops of three really tall tunnels (about 12 feet tall and 20 feet wide and about 150 feet long). Each roll of plastic weighs maybe 150 pounds, who can tell, it's really heavy when you try to move the box. We started with the hardest tunnel, not knowing whether we would be able to get everything done in one day. The technology for tacking all that plastic down is brilliant, but it uses up all your finger muscles. You have to jam this wiggle wire into a horizontal channel, securing the plastic tightly to the structure. Sometimes those channels can be well over your head, and so you are struggling to do work with your arms stretched as far up as you can. Who needs the gym.
In the middle of the afternoon, Michael arrived (generously, as he is not doing farm work now, while he works night and day to finish building his yurt) and he and Stephen put the ropes back on the cat tunnel. That one will last all winter, no question. The other one broke for reasons that we can understand and will not repeat.
As we were nearing the end, I started to complain about starvation. I asked Stephen what people do when they want to order food to be delivered. None of us had any idea, but he called Julia and Julia figured out how to order take-out Thai food. While we finished up the last edges (Samuel high on a ladder pushing the wiggle wire into channels on the top of the end ribs 12 feet up as the sun went down), Jon went to get our dinner.
I never allow conversations that devolve into comparisons of how hard each of us is working. That is not productive. But these people have been working really, really hard in the last week and more, and yesterday was a crescendo of work. I showed them on my phone a picture of the crew on December 4, 2017 after we had finished putting plastic on one of the tunnels. It is important to keep perspective. We have been here before, we will be here again.
We all went into the heated office and had a delicious dinner together. Then everyone but Stephen and Jon went home to get into their pajamas. While I watched Shaia for another few hours because Julia was at a meeting, Stephen and Jon continued to work on the tunnels, with lights. As I say, motivation is strong. We are pushing hard toward January when we will all be off duty for a whole month.
It is incredibly satisfying to succeed when you set ambitious, possibly crazy goals. Usually we cover one greenhouse in one day. This was pretty amazing. Everyone but Stephen is taking today off. And Samuel might help him for a few hours because construction is different from vegetables.
We don't start early anymore because everything is often frozen. We can't work late because the sun goes down by 5:00. So this means we are cramming everything into the warmest part of the day. For Carrie and me last week, it meant that we picked and washed vegetables for six hours straight, no stopping, for two days in a row. In the summer we can easily work a ten hour day but there are breaks, there is lunch, there are other tasks to divert us. This is head-down, keep moving, fill those crates kind of work.
There aren't as many goals in the winter as there are in the summer. We are only planting and weeding inside the high tunnels, and there is no tractor work. The goals are to get the roots out of the ground before they freeze too much, to pick leafy stuff for the two markets and the die-hard Winter CSA folks, and to finish building the structures we need to get through the next season. The crew is small and experienced and motivated.
For months we have been waiting for an order of greenhouse plastic to arrive so we could put the second layer of plastic on all the tunnels before winter. Apparently our tunnels are not a normal size and also there has been a high demand for greenhouse plastic because we all had major hail storms during the summer and there was a run on plastic. The order finally came in a few days ago to our suppliers in Lancaster PA. On Monday Jon and I drove back from Boston and made it to Nolts Greenhouse Supply at exactly 5 PM, closing time. We jammed two very heavy eight foot long boxes into the mini van (which already had an awkwardly large box in it from Lilah's inventory) and now we could hope to get that project finished. We had shortened our Boston trip by one day when we looked at the weather forecast and realized that time was short.
Yesterday morning there were wind gusts up to 20 mph in Loudoun. The usual wisdom is that you put plastic on during dead calm days. The forecast said that the winds would diminish to 11 mph by early afternoon and continue to die down as the day wore on. The advice from our next door farmer neighbor was to wait until today when winds would be non-existent, but it might be snowing. Naturally, I decided to forge ahead and get it done, if possible, yesterday afternoon.
In the morning, the hard core Loudoun team spent several hours finishing pulling all the carrots. They were triumphant at lunchtime (not realizing how long the day would go). That was a huge accomplishment and the carrots are such an unexpected success since we tried so many times to get them to grow, and finally at the very last effort, they did. And they are amazingly delicious, so it all feels wonderful. The voles didn't even get to them much.
Jon and I rolled in just as the carrot harvesters were wrapping up their morning. Stephen was looking pretty triumphant himself, having worked until 11 PM the night before, with lights, to finish installing the fans at the end of the fancy new greenhouse. He was particularly pleased with one of his endwalls, which is a lyrical piece of art -- could be a sun or maybe a spider web. He is trying desperately to finish that structure before heading off to Hawaii in a day or so with his whole extended family. Motivation is strong.
As can happen when you have plastic buildings, one of our three lower tech tunnels had ripped and blown apart the night before so that was one more task to add to our ambitious list. While others went to a well-deserved lunch, Stephen and I started to deconstruct the broken caterpillar tunnel and uncover the ginger tunnel. By the time they all came back, we had prepared the damaged tunnel for a new cover. We all dragged the 150 foot long piece of plastic from the ginger tunnel and pulled it over the top of the bare ribs of the cat tunnel. Tada, almost all better. Just needed some ropes to be good as new. We set that aside for later.
The wind was not too bad. Seven of us got to work. In about five hours, we got three gigantic pieces of plastic pulled over the tops of three really tall tunnels (about 12 feet tall and 20 feet wide and about 150 feet long). Each roll of plastic weighs maybe 150 pounds, who can tell, it's really heavy when you try to move the box. We started with the hardest tunnel, not knowing whether we would be able to get everything done in one day. The technology for tacking all that plastic down is brilliant, but it uses up all your finger muscles. You have to jam this wiggle wire into a horizontal channel, securing the plastic tightly to the structure. Sometimes those channels can be well over your head, and so you are struggling to do work with your arms stretched as far up as you can. Who needs the gym.
In the middle of the afternoon, Michael arrived (generously, as he is not doing farm work now, while he works night and day to finish building his yurt) and he and Stephen put the ropes back on the cat tunnel. That one will last all winter, no question. The other one broke for reasons that we can understand and will not repeat.
As we were nearing the end, I started to complain about starvation. I asked Stephen what people do when they want to order food to be delivered. None of us had any idea, but he called Julia and Julia figured out how to order take-out Thai food. While we finished up the last edges (Samuel high on a ladder pushing the wiggle wire into channels on the top of the end ribs 12 feet up as the sun went down), Jon went to get our dinner.
I never allow conversations that devolve into comparisons of how hard each of us is working. That is not productive. But these people have been working really, really hard in the last week and more, and yesterday was a crescendo of work. I showed them on my phone a picture of the crew on December 4, 2017 after we had finished putting plastic on one of the tunnels. It is important to keep perspective. We have been here before, we will be here again.
We all went into the heated office and had a delicious dinner together. Then everyone but Stephen and Jon went home to get into their pajamas. While I watched Shaia for another few hours because Julia was at a meeting, Stephen and Jon continued to work on the tunnels, with lights. As I say, motivation is strong. We are pushing hard toward January when we will all be off duty for a whole month.
It is incredibly satisfying to succeed when you set ambitious, possibly crazy goals. Usually we cover one greenhouse in one day. This was pretty amazing. Everyone but Stephen is taking today off. And Samuel might help him for a few hours because construction is different from vegetables.
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