Veg Box Life is...
The Good Life!

Have you been out in your backyard over the weekend? Have you wandered through your own little veggie patch? If you have, you may have noticed the same thing I did this week—fresh shoots signaling spring’s arrival. The buzz and hum of insects is already beginning to build. You can feel it in the air, that subtle change. Yes, spring is letting us know she is near. The sunshine that soaked our farm these past few days lifted our spirits. It was badly needed after what has been one of the wettest autumns and winters on record. They say we could be in for a wet spring as well, so we’ll make sure to let the sun’s rays soak through to our bones and our spirit—and enjoy it while we can. In other news, we had a wonderful weekend with family. So the phone was put down and my writing stopped, so I could enjoy and cherish those memorable moments with the people I love most. It’s now Tuesday morning and I’m sitting on the deck with a cup of coffee as the stars fade from the sky and the sun begins to illuminate the eastern horizon with vivid hues of saffron and crimson. The birds all around me are singing—perhaps to wake their neighbors, or maybe just rejoicing in the fact that we have another sunny day ahead. The bush turkeys have formed a congo line as they leave the safety of the thick forest and begin their morning ritual (I counted 23 this morning).

What sort of life would it be without hopes and dreams? Can we survive without them? And where do they come from? I decided to take a walk through a part of the farm I seldom visit—a bamboo forest so dense towards the center it becomes dark and magical. The towering green columns lace together, forming a cathedral-like ceiling. They bend towards each other from parallel rows, making the shape of a grand archway. I can only imagine what it would feel like to be a small child wandering through this forest. As I approach its deepest regions, I see a pile of logs, cut bamboo poles, sheets of corrugated iron, piles of rocks from the nearby stream, and shallow trenches filled with leaf litter that seem to mark out some sort of floor plan. It looks like an abandoned shelter from some wandering homeless person. A couple of years ago, I remember hearing the faint sounds of a child shouting as I slowly passed along the edge of this bamboo maze. I reached for the handbrake, raised my hand to block the sun from my eyes, and focused my gaze to try and make out the small figures deep in this forest’s center. It was more the sounds than the sights that gave clues to who and what it was that caught my attention. I turned the tractor around and motored up between the two rows of bamboo that led me to this rabble.

My eldest daughter is crying her eyes out. She sat in front of the fireplace, quietly rubbing the tears from her cheeks, and sobbed, “Why do I have to be like this? I hate being like this.” I didn’t know what to say. So I wrapped my arms around her, held her tight, and told her how deeply I loved her. As I squeezed her tight, I searched my imagination: I wanted her to understand how special she was. “The ink pad, Ava—get me the ink pad and a piece of paper,” I said. She looked at me with a puzzled frown and asked why. “Just go to the office and bring back the ink pad and a sheet of paper, and you will see,” I said with excitement. When she returned and sat back down, her sisters were already circling, drawn in by Dad’s weird request. They gathered close, suspicious and curious, as if some magic trick was about to be performed.