Ten Percent on a Good Day

[Two weeks after moving to the Farm, I received a green wristband signifying my place at the bottom of the Zendik pyramid; I got bopped from above a week later.]

Though Sundays weren’t sabbaths at the Farm, they did start off more slowly than other days. The goat milkers trudged up the hill an hour later, the cooks served brunch instead of breakfast, the bunks in the barn loft stayed full of slumbering bundles an hour longer. On this particular Sunday, in mid-November, the Farm groaned into motion even more slowly than usual. I used the temporal windfall to lie in my bunk and write in my journal, then wander down to the Farmhouse to snag a few of the wild persimmons about to drop in lush vermilion goo-splats onto the driveway. I savored the unaccustomed hours to myself, even as I wondered at the preternatural quite. Was I the only one on the Farm not groggy with a hangover? Continue reading