The Lenz family never stays in one mode of action long enough to be stuffed into any kind of box of modern identification. Just when you have us comfortably settled into the musical family mold, we pop out with a day of chicken processing on the front drive. As soon as you are sure we can’t be anything but farmers, the tendency to dress up and play at history pokes suspiciously through a cranny. It happens accidentally on purpose. We can’t be satisfied with the hum-drum of a singular occupation when our sheer numbers alone, not to mention the varied gifts and united purpose of the household, enable the most lively kind of economical enterprise and social development. The danger is not doing too little, but trying to do too much.
Just as we transition a hundred times a week into entirely different kinds of work, our house morphs nearly as often into drastically varied forms of function. Today it is a bakery, root-cellar, and sorting/packaging facility. Tomorrow it will be a rehearsing venue for the Lenz quartet. Sunday it may throw wide its doors for hospitality and Monday it will turn into a canning facility.
True to custom, the last of the tomatoes are gathered into the house in miscellaneous mounds. From the first vine-ripened fruit to the last half-green straggler time leaps in a few short weeks. The transient type of glory stored up in the brilliance of the dazzling red tomato is akin to its season. Just as the abundant snow of winter melts away as if it had never been, so the fruit of the vine grows, ripens and vanishes again. Seasons are like that. They are enduring only because they are always sure to come back, for as long as they are ordained to, with a kind of persistence that savors of the changelessness of their Designer. Since there are no officially designated tomato storage and sorting rooms in evidence on the farm, we establish the cheeky invaders on the floors of our basement and entry-way, honoring the future situation of a guest’s chair with the present habitation of a profuse harvest. 
I can admit freely that picking your way from the front door to the stairs over boxes and buckets of tomatoes in various stages of ripening and decay is less than convenient. And to be quite frank, stumbling blindly over them in the dark of night on the way to the kitchen for a drink is positively dangerous, especially to the toes. In consequence, Ben, with substantial assistance from his brothers, is digging a 10x12 root cellar into one of our hillsides. It is our sincere desire to avoid stubbed toes and mad rushes to clear the mountains of produce for visitors in future. How successful the attempt will be remains to be seen. We tend to be creatures of habit and, regrettably, often fly in the face of expedience with the traditional modus operandi when it comes to gardening.
The chill air is laden with one of my favorite scents today: fresh-cut hay. Some neighboring farmer, compliant with ageless necessity, cut off his rich emerald crop and laid it in windrows on the shorn earth for the sun to turn to gold. Wherever I am when I taste that ripe sweetness of mown alfalfa in the wind, I come home in my heart. Here to the daily sameness and constant change, the relentless energy, the lasting rest, the old familiar and new every sunrise little taste of heaven.
