Measuring Time

The seedlings push up through the loose soil, a little more today than yesterday. Now. This is not a guess. It is a known FACT. And how is this, you might ask. Well. That’s simple. They are measured, that’s how.

Oh. Just in time. There’s the Farmer’s Wife now, doing her measurements (Just as she does every day at this time, and also at nine and at three).

Well, look at that bean–isn’t he just being re-dic-ulous? Yes, I should say he is. Puffing himself out like that–like the Farmer’s Wife won’t notice those types of shenanigans! And those tomatoes–do you see them–bending and swaying with the slightest breeze. Why, this won’t do-at-all. We need strong, sturdy tomatoes here on the Farm. We will either have that or none at all.

“Good Morning Tessa!” the Farmer’s Wife calls (That’s the name she’s given the tomatoes).

They nod in her direction. She pauses. She frowns.

And lickety-split and just-like-that she’s got the situation under control. Warm, moist dirt is scooped up and packed around the base of each Tessa, right up to it’s first set of leaves. “There you are,” says she. “That should hold you.”

And now, her eyes go to those beans (Just as I knew they would).

“And you!” she exclaims, making her way over to them. “Look at you, all puffed up to high Heaven!”

They let out their breathes, coming back down to Earth. The measuring tape is applied. The Farmer’s Wife’s eyes narrow.

Just a quarter of an inch. Now for a carrot or a corn, that would be acceptable, but for a bean–and in May? Why. It just won’t do.

No wonder they were puffing up so high. They knew what they were all about.

“Time to take your medicine,” the Farmer’s Wife proclaims and the beans shrink back further.

The Farmer’s Wife goes to the house and returns back forty-seven seconds later with a bottle filled to the brim with yesterday’s milk. She carefully pours it around the base of each bean plant–sixty-eight in all.

They sigh contentedly. Next time they’re measured they’ll be sure to make the grade–they just know it.

“Now. What about you?” the Farmer’s Wife asks, turning quickly toward the onions, who jerk back into place. Onions simply hate being the object of attention. Simply hate it.

Not like Carrie, the cucumber. She loves it. But, despite all her stretching and moaning, the Farmer’s Wife refuses to look her way. It’s almost like it’s intentional.

“Umhum,” Carrie coughs, as each onion is measured, it’s markings recorded in the Farmer’s Wife’s ledger.

The lettuces are inspected next.

“UMHUM,” the cough comes again, louder now.

The Farmer’s Wife smiles to herself and moves on to the spinach who have been patiently waiting for their turn.