Spring and summer passed quickly with outdoor activities, leaving little time for sitting around watching movies or battling the snail’s pace Innersnet service. This was a working farm, and there were calves to be born, wood to be chopped, and weeds to be pulled. The place ran on a fifty-year master plan with projects scheduled decades ahead of time. Someday they might even get done, but probably not.
“You know what I really like about the Farm?” Eva informed George at breakfast one day. “No TV! I can’t stand people who sit around staring at the TV for hours on end. I never watch it unless I’m bedridden. Layyy-zee!” she sang out with a holier-than-thou tone.
“Welp, my folks would be just tickled to hear you say that,” George said with a grin. “We never did watch much TV, mostly on account of money being so tight that we could only afford to run one light bulb in the house after dark, but also because we were always busy doing things outside.”
A few days later, George welcomed his newest tenant. Geoffrey was a retired civil engineer in his late 50s from Las Vegas who just needed a place to stay for a while. While there were no actual bedrooms available to rent at the time, George had been so impressed with the man’s blustering tales of hardships and successes that he offered to let him move into the tiny sunroom that Wendy had forcibly taken over as her personal art studio.
The room was far too small and far too public to be a bedroom for a grown man. Three of its walls consisted of uncovered edge-to-edge windows, and the fourth wall was a sliding glass door leading to the community dining area. It could have been a nice little reading room or, more ideal for a working farm, an indoor greenhouse perfect for growing garden plants. As was the way of the Farm, neither of these practical ideals came to be.
Copyright © 2019 J.J. West. Fiddlesticks! Tales From A Country Ghetto.
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