"Next year the cows cannot have chairs."

Peter, the swiss born farmer I am working with, said to me yesterday, "next year the cows cannot have chairs." I believe he meant chains, but all I could imagine were giant poopy cows sitting on the ground watching tv or something.

By the way, I never realized how much cows shit. It's crazy. It makes me not want to eat them as much, I think because I realize I do not want to take care of them! (In my head I hear my mom's voice saying- 'just wait til you have a baby! that's a lot of shit!) P.S. Mom, something about traveling to the homeland and finding an absence of tangible roots makes me want to procreate.  Feel free to start making a baby sweater, preferably one with a very complicated pattern that will take a few more years to complete.

ANYWAYS, the last thing I have to say about shitting is this. The other night I helped Peter to clean out his old cow stable, which will be converted into a cheese shop (to make, not sell) in the next few months.  It was pretty intense. It stank to high heaven, and I was for real shoveling manure and cow excrement for a couple hours. As I was doing it I had what I found to be a hysterical thought, which was if given the choice of cleaning out a cow stable once a month or going to an all school faculty meeting, I think I'd opt for cow shit.  I don't mean any disrespect by that, I'm just sayin.

Besides making mental notes of the funny things Peter says, my days have been very full, but with time for an afternoon nap, which I love. My initial fervor has been tempered by the realization that the farm is under a bit of stress as it could use a few more hands on a daily basis, and the strain shows in places. Still, I am glad to be of use.

Eva, who is married to Peter, is running for Mayor! She would preside over 5,000 people living in the villages in this area if she wins in November.  She is clearly a force in this community already, one who leads with a firm, compassionate, guiding hand. With this in mind, put it in your head that the current mayor asked her to come in for a meeting, and then basically threatened to blackmail her and fire a local teacher who supports her if she does not back down! Whoa- mafia village tactics! She continues to run.

My daily partner in crime here is Derick, the farm manager, tall and lanky and recently returned to Poland, after squatting/living in Holland for the past ten years. He smokes a lot of cigarettes and is a archetypal jack of all trades.  I see in him some alternate universe version of Townes Van Zandt in his later years, minus the guitar but with the same penchant for drinking. It's a little heartbreaking.

This evening I watched Polish television and played some guitar, and had a snack of bread and cheese. I have decided that I might make a decent farmer, but would prefer to grow beets and cabbage and cucumbers and just pickle things in my backyard.  And maybe have a few goats. I will be here for at least another week or so, and will continue to brave the coming winter and try to fit in a bike ride.

The Polish is coming along slowly, and every day a few more words wiggle their way into my brain. Today I started missing Sushi, and listening to music at the kitchen table with a full french press and a few roomates lounging around. If someone could airmail me a bloody mary from King's this sunday, I would be much obliged. xo, Lindsey