Last grass

The sheep are on the last bit of pasture for the season. Or they were when I started writing this; before the farm became a winter wasteland covered in 3 inches of slush followed by 3 inches of snow a few days later. Entirely too early for early November - and - I cringe to write this, but giving a few too many folks up here a good old laugh over the zany science of climate change. God help us all. Last week on the first day it snowed Zoe and Jennell were singing along to Bing Crosby-type christmas carols, conjured from our last bytes of internet for the month. They sat crafting at the table drinking tea as I moved grinch-like on the periphery, cursing our poor country satellite internet connection while trying to watch videos on socialism upstairs in my princess tower, an area in the house which remains largely off limits - private - except for the calling of someone 'to my office upstairs' which I'll deploy intermittently as a power move (it doesn't work) or the occasional laundry delivery. When neat packages of my socks and underwear appear on my bed the immediate feeling of violation (who's been up here!) quickly fades to appreciation (I've always bemoaned laundry duty) and in light of all these nuanced complications of living with adults, I think well shit maybe after all we are starting a cult.