Free Twelve by Twelve by Micahel Powers

Scout uniform and threw additional cups of feed into the animal swarm. Along with Pete, three of the Thompson kids formed a chorus line and danced for the animals. Michele momentarily disappeared into the house, then came waltzing back down with her infant, one of the cutest little Buddhas I’ve seen. I took her in my arms, and she smiled up at me with her big eyes, fat lips, and tiny teeth, squirming in all her uncoordinated perfection. Gwen peppered Michele with questions about bantams and Muscovys, while kids ran around with handfuls of eggs, baby chicks, and feed. A swirl of fowl, mammals, and humans in a buzzing state of joyful chaos.
    As we walked back around the pond toward Jackie’s, the amazed Gwen said, “It’s like Bolivia.”
    “Like Africa,” said Dan.
    “It even smells like Bolivia — or Africa — chicken shit, and the stale water in those rusty wheelbarrows.” They had had little idea that this sort of life was being lived less than twenty miles from their own house.
    They’d brought the most exquisite chocolate truffles, which looked vaguely aristocratic and especially lovely displayed in the 12 × 12. The truffles proved scrumptious, as did the pesto pasta, saladfresh from Jackie’s garden, and caper bread with local cheeses. As we munched away on the porch, Gwen said, “It tastes so much better outside, like when you’re camping.”
    “We are camping,” Dan said.
    We drank ginger tea and savored Equal Exchange dark chocolate and some of the truffles. “The rest better go into the refrigerator,” Gwen said.
    “What’s a refrigerator?” I replied.
    “Yeah,” Gwen said, laughing, “what the hell is a refrigerator?”
    The whole evening buzzed and popped with a sort of relaxed electricity, partly because of the absence of electricity. I found that to be the same with all 12 × 12 visitors — a kind of wonder and good feeling animated their visits. Riddles and puzzles abounded in a tiny house secretly hiding in the middle of an empire. Instead of acting out the expected roles of thirty-somethings at a polite dinner party, we turned into little kids exploring each object, each being, each moment.
    Dan loved the bees and the asparagus (“so that’s how it grows”), and Pete discovered Jackie’s metal lizard sculptures hiding behind the shiitakes. As we picked tea leaves, I explained that they were heirloom teas that Jackie was bringing back to life, Southern substitutes used during the Northern trade blockade during the Civil War. Gwen picked mint, collecting it in a small bundle using a blade of a grass to tie it together. Dan yanked up green onions for their own kitchen. While I was chopping the tomatoes, I asked them to go outside and cut some lettuce; they did and washed it in cool rainwater, which they hand-pumped into the kitchen sink from the plastic tank outside. It gushed onto the greens and splashed onto Gwen’s shirt.
    They asked me how I was doing. I told them I was surprised how normal it felt. My bathroom showers were easily replaced by outdoor solar showers; I’d automatically fill the five-gallon diaphragm with water at night, and it would warm up in the sun all day.Instead of a flush toilet, a composting toilet. Instead of a refrigerator for veggies, Jackie’s garden. Most luxurious of all, each night was blessed not only with moon and starlight but with the warm, inspiring glow of candles. The stars and candlelight gave the place a meditative feel that evening. Pete fell asleep in a bundle on the floor. Dan explored Jackie’s aphorisms, taped above the table and on the ladder, and read aloud: “The difference between actually very serious and actually very funny is actually very thin.”
    He laughed and his eyes jumped to a group photo. “Which one is Jackie?” he asked. Gwen and Dan both stared for a long time at her, that aquiline nose, those blue eyes, and the long, pepper gray hair. They continually asked questions about Jackie, her background, the Thompsons,