Milking Parlor Sans Everything Except the Stanchions
It falls to me, somewhat against my will, to preside over the ever so gradual but relentless composting of some of the outbuildings on this old farm that no longer serve their purpose. Somebody has to do it, and there is nobody else left. This can bring about an eerie sensation since it was on this place that I grew up. There are ghosts. I can say this for the job, however. It is a quiet one far from the clatter of mainstream culture–if I can be forgiven the use of that term–in the United States of America.