This word has been stuck in my head lately. I finally looked it up. It has to do with the odd or faniciful, capricious and playful, having more to do with whim or caprice than with reason or judgement. Sometimes it seems that that simply defines life here on Baker’s Green Acres. The farm–animals and children together or apart–lends itself to lots of whimsical snapshots.
We finally got the garden planted last weekend. June 20 is a bit late, but it’s done. Due to my late realization that I needed pole bean seed, I got to plant a special variety called “Yard Long Giant.” (It was all the hardware store had.) We left the volunteer lettuce. When something works that hard to propigate itself, who am I to pull it up? So, I have two heads of nice lettuce from last year’s garden. Suppose I can plant all my greens in the fall like that? Hmmm….. The dill propigated itself too well, though. I had to limit some of those volunteers. Volunteers definitely qualify as whimsy. They come up in odd spots, and goodness only knows what variety of tomatoes or squash that little plant might be.
A little boy approaches me at my computer post, a chesire cat grin lighting his face. “Guess where I’ve been, Mom! Out back with Stephan and the horses.” Keith has learned a lot about draft horses and farming with them from the young neighbor who’s working the “back 40”. Stephan doesn’t seem to mind the steady stream of 5 year old boy questions and commentary, either.
“Rachel had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb, …everywhere that Rachel 
went the lamb was sure to go.” Watch the nappy wooled little bum lamb chase after the not-so-much taller blondie–whether she has his bottle or not.
Then, you have the chore guy who can’t help exaggerating what he does. Mark makes a delectable stew for the Mangalitsa pigs and they do get royal treatment!
And there’s a baby’s bright eyed grin;
a little girl who yells, thrilled, “pink and purpllllllle!” at the evening sun held in the clouds;
seeing a hay bale that looks like a porcupine walked by after two boys practice their Robin Hood skills;
standing alone in the shop processing chickens, wishing I was out in the sunshine, listening to a quail’s incessant crowing, mourning doves mourning, pigeons cooing, and various birds twittering–and then a little face presses against the glass entry door, “Mom, Jim’s crying!” is it’s message. Sun, here I come!