no minors


Once a week we gather on the porch for an hour before lunch to have a community check in and what we affectionately refer to as “commie clean-up”. Chores are doled out, we divide and conquer; cleaning the bathhouse, outhouses, weeding the garden, cleaning out the shop and rehearsal hall, the cookshack and mudroom.

Yesterday the Goat Palace was culled and organized to bring it back as a habitable space. Deemed a quiet zone. There are a lot of lovely children on the farm this summer, in the 2-5 age range. Beautiful, bright precocious city kids, running, playing, water pistols, screaming, fighting, crying. For those of us whose nerves are already frazzled, the Goat Palace is our safe space.


The drawbridge from the Hell Mouth wagon. I don’t know why it was built so heavy. It took five of us to move it. Then again if it didn’t weigh a few hundred pounds, it wouldn’t have -unintentionally- acted so well as a Percheron anchor when the winch cut my leg open.



Our outlaw patron saint: Bill Miner the “Gentleman Bandit”. This is his 1906 mug shot when he was arrested an hour and a half north west of here. He was sentenced to life but a year later, tunneled his way out of the penitentiary and slipped back into the States. The canvas began to peel and decay. Last summer Marshall painted a new portrait for the front facade of the cook shack.


The squirrel is pissssssed with this development to his claim. He’s been aggressively chittering and hurling pine cones at the tin roof all morning.


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