His grubby face

The real estate lady hired a crew to scrape off my thirty years' accumulation of food forest at the farm, leaving mostly the larger trees -- mature apples, pears, figs, cherries, plums, oak, ash, maple, and fir. Whatever is smaller, such as most of the quince trees, is apparently a weed in the eyes of potential buyers.

The soil and detritus thus exposed is extraordinarily dry and dusty. I had worked too hard for too long trying to manage an acre with a five-gallons-per-minute well, a losing proposition in any case but all the more so with everything exhaling moisture at an ever increasing rate. Some of the ash and fir trees, and the big spruce, had already died, a sign, perhaps, of things to come.

The crew left the table and chairs in the now wide-open space we called the Secret Garden, beneath the big Gravenstein. When I'm on site, picking up things to move to la Finca (the town place Daughter left us), I brew tea and go to sit, watching the jays frolic in the big oaks across the road, and the play of cloud shadows on Jasper Mountain. It's a lesson in letting go and letting be.

The new location has much to offer an elderly urban would-be permaculturist. 

The neighborhood has very high walkability, with parks, services, little free libraries and even an honor-system honey stand. Organic gardeners and permies abound, and the local hardware and variety stores cater to that trade with alacrity.

The one-fifth acre lot, interestingly sited in the middle of a heavily afforested block, lacks tree cover. I moved saplings of various kinds to the lot from the farm during the winter. They're a spindly and rather thirsty bunch, so I've offered them mulch and square white shade blocks for their sensitive root collars, and bring them rain water from barrels. I have lost several, but I just cut them off, leaving the roots in the ground, and plan to bring more. Ash comes up from seed everywhere, and I might be best off simply encouraging them.

The fruit trees I planted six years ago are, or ought to be, established, along with several raised beds.

However, I must share them -- for now. The neighborhood is heavily populated by raccoons, squirrels, crows, turkeys and deer, and in fact the deer seem to have historically regarded our back yard as a nursery. The current doe, who can't seem to get enough of our apple twigs, apples, tomato vines, fig twigs, ash twigs, and even potato vines, is one of twins born beneath our picnic table, I think, last year -- her brother harasses gardeners one street over.

We've made an effort to fence her out -- six feet is the maximum height allowed -- and fence the garden in, but she leaps the perimeter fence and paws vigorously at the chicken wire enclosure for entry to her entrée. I go out at dawn to chase her away with the hose, but she continues to include us in her rotation about once every three days. 

I knew how this was going to go when I noticed all the neighbors that have veggie gardens cage their crops -- with a wire roof as well as walls. My work is cut out for me here.

There's a spot, behind the hut (at right above), that I began clearing six years ago, but left off when the house was occupied by renters. It has grown up in blackberries. If I can grub those out and floor the space with some rubble I've reserved for the purpose, I can build a shadehouse there and grow most of the vegetables inside it. The available space is about twelve feet by twenty -- more if I go vertical. Much will depend on my personal vitality.

A few symbolic gestures have been made, which help ease the transition. Mr. Sun, who graced the north wall of the farmhouse for three decades:

 

 

... now faces the street on the wall of Beloved's office. Far beneath him grows the one grapevine I saved from the landscrapers. May it someday reach to touch his grubby face.

 

Yunyan was boiling some tea. Daowu asked who he was making it for. Yunyan answered, "nobody special."
-- Soto Zen Ancestors in China, Mitchell, 72.