First off, the Urban Farmer isn’t really a farmer and she isn’t particularly urban.
She resides on the fringes of the Cinderblocks and another fictitious north of Seattle neighborhood, Pleasant Arms. Periodically, she comes in contact with some of those neighborhood’s denizens.
She calls herself a writer. That is suspect, too. Yesterday afternoon, for example, she spent washing windows. She could have been working out some of the puzzles in her work-in-progress novel, How to Save a Life. How can Jack be a State Trooper with one leg lopped off? How is it Hearndon is closing in on forty and has never left home? And what about their mom, Julie? What’s her reason for staying?
But no, the Urban Farmer, who is really only marginally urban and marginally a farmer, was climbing ladders, spraying windows with diluted ammonia, rubbing away window grime with yesterday’s Seattle Times, and ducking spider webs. She was peering into the house, seeing what the burglar sees, swallowing hard when she ascended to the ladder’s top-most step, thinking about what Paul Iverson’s wife’s thoughts were in the moments before she dove off the backyard apple tree in Carolyn Parkhurst’s novel Dogs of Babel.
The Cinderblocks is where the Urban Farmer houses her fictional forays.
Book Reviews is where she gives her take on books.
Favorite Words Buried in Books is where she unearths cool, seldom-seen words.
And the Urban Farmer section? This is where our U.F. talks about battling blackberry vines,
and harvesting bits of cloth into confections such as looney pants.