Two Thousand Seventeen

Winter at the Farm

The sun sets low between the knobs this time of year. From the back deck I can mark the progress of the seasons as Old Sol marches southward from his summer resting place. At the peak of August, he lingers long behind the hill to the northwest, lively and showy with color, reluctant to allow Evening her turn. But by January, Sol seems weary and retires with a thin and hurried sunset far to the southwest, as if the effort is all too much.

We rang in the New Year with a house party at the farm. Tim served up a series of absinthe drinks, specially imported from Europe. A bar tending ritual must be observed if you want to serve absinthe properly, involving a slotted silver spoon, a sugar cube, and flame. If it sounds like a drug trip, you’re not far off. Absinthe was the hallucinogenic of choice in the 1890’s. Of course you’d have to drink a gallon of it to really get high, so Tim judiciously served the drinks in tiny snifters. Just a wee buzz. 

We had half a dozen out-of-towners sleep over New Year’s Eve, and once again put the RV to good use as a guest suite. Plugged in and furnace running, it was a comfy overnight room to outboard a few of our friends. 

The next day, after rounds of bacon and eggs were plated, Brad brought out his flying drone for a demonstration. It’s a super fancy model, equipped with a high resolution camera and extended fly-time batteries. It was the first time I had seen one of these new drones in action, and we all marveled at its capabilities and Brad’s expert piloting.

Here’s Brad’s swell video of the farm, as seen from a hawk’s perspective, several hundred feet in the air.

We will stay in place this month, passing the winter snug at home while we wait for Old Sol to crank up his own fly time.