Free Republic of Dirt by Susan Juby Page B

green—and four kinds of kale. We had cabbages, and three raised beds devoted to various squashes and gourds, one for pumpkins and another for butternut squashes and a third mostly for decorative gourds. We wouldn’t be able to compete with the farms with huge you-pick pumpkin patches, but we were growing some fine sugar pumpkins, which aren’t easy to find.
    I walked the pea-graveled walkways between the raised beds, feeling like I was wading knee-deep through sludge. Still, my spirits were buoyed by the neat rows of wooden boxes holding in all that rich soil, and my soul was soothed by the orderly arrangements of trellises and the efficient network of larger hoses that makes up our automatic drip watering system. My spirit soared even further at the sight of the six deep beds at the end of our enclosure. They’re tall enough that Earl doesn’t have to crouch over to tend them and they contain layers of newspaper and straw and sticks and regular soil and rich compost. Next spring, we’ll use them for potatoes and other crops that like to send their roots deep. I think the future of Woefield may be deep raised beds. Earl is a fan because he hates to bend, physically or mentally, now that I think of it.
    After the barn is up, which I hope will be soon—I can’t quite remember when Stephan said he would start—the next major project will be a large greenhouse. In the meantime, we are putting frames over top of some of the beds to protect cold-weather crops. The other beds will be left to rest until spring. Rest! Isn’t that a lovely way todescribe what gardeners and farmers do for their land? It sounded so wise and soothing and made me wish I was resting.
    As I made my way through the rows of raised beds, I was hazily pleased to see that all was in order. The soil was moist and any weeds that had come from bird droppings had been pulled before they had a chance to take hold. The weed barriers we’d laid down beneath each bed to prevent invasive plants from poking up were working.
    Even those who had scoffed at the idea that anything would ever grow on Woefield Farm were silenced when they saw our raised beds. I spent an enjoyable moment imagining the following spring and the other vendors’ faces when they saw our folding table groaning under the weight of our produce. No one would remember the little hot sauce problem or any of our other troubles.
    Having thoroughly surveyed the beds, I looked toward the field and saw Sara trying to catch Lucky. She walked after him, holding a halter, and he was making a game of staying just out of reach.
    Earl was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Seth, but that wasn’t unusual. Earl never went far and if there was work to be done, Seth was often hard to find.
    I left the raised bed area, which was protected from deer and birds by a six-and-a-half-foot fence topped with driftwood and a canopy of bird netting, walked past the mobile chicken coop, which we move every day so the birds get fresh grass and fertilize our thin layer of soil, and stood watching Sara play catch the mule.
    When Sara quickened her steps, Lucky broke into a lazy trot. At first, I worried that he’d kick out at her, but he didn’t. He just kept his rear end between her and his head.
    I know there’s no room on a functional farm for a mule that cannot be caught, much less worked. If we couldn’t do anything withLucky, Eustace was probably right. We’d have to send the mule back. But not just yet. Everyone deserves chances, including Lucky.
    I’ve done enough reading to know that mules are highly intelligent and respond well to fairness, consistency, clear boundaries and firmness. Experts agree that in a contest of wills, it’s best not to let the mule win if you can help it. Well, I was out of bed and I could help it!
    “Sara!” I called, and waved her over.
    She walked over to meet me, looking slightly wild-eyed.
    “You’re not supposed to be up,” she said. “Eustace said you should be