From what Facebook friends (and even the doctors) tell me, my cataract surgery was a bit more complicated than most.

While my sight is gradually returning, the first few days were difficult because, even though legally blind, I didn’t give up my computer. Never click at random on the internet when you cannot see.


For many years, Marsha and I visited ruins. Pompeii. The Limes Germanicus. Once great. Now ruins. My retired neighbor tells me that he and his bride have planned a trip to Egypt and then Petra.

For many of us, the high point of any trip abroad is a visit to well-publicized ruins. You can then casually slip into any conversation that, yes, you’ve been there.

Since turning 86, I’ve wondered if that could be the only reason longtime radio friends drop in on me.



Because I no longer keep cow friends, in late spring my neighbor, Farmer Polky, brings up a dozen beautiful Herefords where they luxuriate until late July on my 15-plus acres of verdant pasture clover.

But we need rain. The pasture is nothing now but hard, dry bare ground, and the cow friends recently made a bid for freedom.

They have hay and water, but that won’t command their attention when there are lush, leafy bushes just the other side of the south fence. They are simply reacting to the constraints of their environment and are not to blame.

Half a dozen young people, who have never been seen before and will never be seen again, materialized from passing cars to aid with the roundup.

However, once again incarcerated and safely restrained within their assigned area, the cows made a second bid for freedom and were on the lawn of the abandoned house next door. Farmer Polky took advantage of their position and, with a bucket of grain, led them 300 feet further into their own homey pasture at the Polky farm.


We will miss seeing the promised newborn calves gamboling here in our backyard over the next three weeks, but disappointment can be a major part of existence. I’m disappointed, therefore I am.

I don’t know how people can live in New York City or Portland where there is absolutely nothing to do.

A Maine farm continually seethes and roils with adventure.


When my wife, Marsha, was working on the island, she’d come home from work at 4:30 p.m. or 5 p.m., take out the push mower and mow the entire lawn for three hours before coming in the house for supper.

Marsha’s daughter, the teacher, is here to help us for a couple of days.


When Marsha and I got up at 6, the kid was already out running 5 miles.

It is necessary for her to burn off as much of her excess energy as possible before working in the home. It could be hard on the equipment if she were to unleash her power with a vacuum cleaner in her strong and sinewy hands.

As Marsha’s very laidback father would often say when he’d look up and see Marsha’s mother ripping and tearing: “It’s in the genes.”


You can often keep a child busy if you give him a sandbox and a shovel.

You can keep an old man busy if you give him a scrub brush and tell him to scrub the little black vitreous floaters off the bathroom sink.



A friend now drives me to appointments, and although you can’t pay a friend for their help, you can contribute a little bit toward gas.

Today I told Marsha I was out of change and asked if she had any small change so I could chip in and help with gas.

She knew I was talking about tens or twenties.

We live in a brave new world.

The humble Farmer can be heard Friday nights at 7 on WHPW (97.3 FM) and visited at:

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