Pics of the high tunnel

Nicu called me this morning, from Romania. We talked about the weather, and he told me about what he's been planting, his early potatoes, and peas, and how he cleaned up the grape vine at his neighbor's house. He told me about the latest drink he fermented and how well it came out, and how he can't wait to go forage for berries in the forest again and make more of it. I love listening to him. He's like a voice from another time. When he talks to me, the stories he tells, I feel his love and closeness to the land. His conversations always bring something up in me, a sort of wistfulness mixed with hope for good, simple things. It's not necessarily the words he says, but how he says them. I always tell myself that when he goes, the world will lose an invaluable resource. He has so many skills that we no longer have, and that you can't really learn anywhere. Skills from a lifetime spent close to the land and the forest.

I also shared a bit about what I've been planting, my greens, and peas and carrots and radishes. I always feel like such an amateur compared to him. But he never talks down to me.

Peace