When I was a child there were mornings I would wake convinced that the day was full of magic. Typically it was a warm, drizzly sort of spring morning, and I had a feeling that SOMETHING might just happen today.

“She picked up the snake like it was a toy, she charmed the snake but not the boy…”

This used to be a snake farm - no joke. Sure, Great Grandpa Lem grew winter wheat, just like all the neighbors,

The sharp paring knife slices the apple into four quarters, then gently cuts a small crescent where the seeds lay embedded in the center of the apple. I pry them loose before breaking the apple into even smaller slices. I lay the apples on a plate beside a small glass bowl of amber honey, and set the plate down by a freshly lit candle - almost midnight.

When we crash landed at the family farm, I came with pots of yarrow up-rooted from our previous existence.

This morning while out checking the garden I could see tiny green leaves peeking out of the brown leaf mulch. As I pulled the mulch back I gently brushed one of the tiny green leaves and the air was instantly filled with the smell of lemon.

Roasted Spring Vegetable Panzanella

This week my email has been bombarded with messages somewhat like this:

“We cannot make topsoil, and we cannot make any substitute for it; we cannot do what it does.”

In the vicious chill of a Southern Kansas Winter the feeling came over me, insistent and emphatic:

I live in one of those so-called dying rural communities…

There are three ways to get to the place we call Cottonwood Falls…