Baby Hazel, feeding me.

“I’m hungry for people,” Felix said when I asked what he wanted for lunch.

He’s home with pinkeye, his Achilles’ heel.  He gets pinkeye instead of a cold sometimes.  The worst part about being sick to him is that he gets hungry for people, and can’t be with them.

His comment made me think more about a conversation Jim and I were having.  I sent him a weird story – I write lots of odd little short stories – and he was asking where such a thing might live in the world.  Who knows?  I’m not very educated about where to get my stuff to readers.

Then we started talking about getting creative work in the world in general, and connecting with audience.  The best time I’ve had as a writer is hearing what people think of my work.  I write because I like to write, but I can’t understand what I’m doing if that stuff sits on my computer, in a vacuum.

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote in the window at Market Block Books and it was really great.  People came in requesting poems and letters.  Some gave me topics, some gave me whole lines that I could use or dissect.

When a woman who asked for a love poem read it, she put her hand up to her mouth.  That gesture sticks with me.  She felt something.  Her awe fed me.

And that’s what I think we’re doing all over the place: feeding each other.  We have to feed each other, or else there’s little job satisfaction.  I think this is why so much work is so unpleasant – there’s little evidence of how it feeds anyone else.

Literally feeding people is not always rewarding, though.  How many meals have any reverence for the cook, or anyone involved in producing the food?  But if you bring it all down to a very basic level, I think what we do needs to feed each other – emotionally, physically, or intellectually.

When I fed that woman and her fiancé a poem, I fed myself.  When Felix is hungry for people, he is eager to be fed by their company, and to feed them his.

And how this all relates to dinner?  Last night Jack worked late.  I wanted us to have dinner together because Francis is going to Puerto Rico tomorrow morning on his class trip.  I made some hamburgers, and a salad, and brought them where he was working.  We sat on the grass, and spooned my ketchup and some mustard on the buns.

Everybody was happy for the picnic, happier, it seemed, than they are to eat at our table.  Novelty is a great seasoning.  I met a necessity with a twist, and got us all together.  That fed me, being with them.  And the hamburger filled me right up, too.

I’m in charge of the garden this year, as Jack is going to revise the yard.  We are on a big slope, and he’s begun pulling chunks of retaining wall and old foundation from the ground like dinosaur teeth.  There are plans for a greenhouse, and the falling-down staircase on the back porch has to be removed and replaced.  To keep the temptation of gardening from distracting him, I am planting.

Already he’s evened out the sidewalk and replaced some stones, and put a fence around the new lots in the back.  The idea is to keep him focused on earthworks.  I’m pretty random in my attentions to the garden, but since the mission of this year is to shape the landscape, well, random attentions are fine.

I was feeling bummed about the beets and carrots because it looked like just a few beets came up.  But yesterday, I saw carrot hairs!  A whole row of them.  Last year we had such trouble germinating them, and this year they are already an inch tall.  Phew!  Seeing them made me plant some more, on the north side of the house, in the very sandy soil.

I transplanted some kale, too, a full tray from Kian.  And moved around a few baby Bok Choy volunteers that sprouted from last year’s mayhem.  Mayhem in this instance meaning my unwillingness to harvest things when they are ready, and poof, they go to seed.  Those plants bolted like they wanted to wave flags.

Felix works his wheat.

Felix put in some kohlrabi, and Francis put in the peas.  Lettuces and celeries are what I should do next, but the should might slip away because I have a trayful of ridiculously leggy cabbage sprouts to transplant.  Leeks and eggplant are ready to go in the ground, too.

And I saw the year’s first woodchuck sniffing the air!