At the dachona

So... dachona.  That is the Russian word "dacha," made large by the Spanish suffix "ona."  What would that be?  Ruslish?  Spanski?  Whatever it is, we love it!

Rob and I had quite the workout, chopping holes into the hard-as-rock clay.  Shoo!  I think that if I hill up the three long rows of potatoes properly, with composted cow manure and straw from random piles that are scattered about the farm, we might get a crop.  We also planted several squash, much to Ty's chagrin (I have a dream of filling up the new, roomy pantry with them, to use every Friday night!), and a couple of rows of Jessie's once-homeless tomatoes.  Anything we harvest this year from the dachona will be a bonus. 

While Rob and I were sweating and giving our broken ol' bodies a challenge, the children were throwing rocks at tree stumps, rolling old tires down the barn hill and climbing on ladders to who-knows-where.  It was joy!  Joy!  Thank you, God.