compost

The day would have been entirely care-free had it not been for the sobering fact that there were quite a few deaths. The sun was shining high and bright and lunchtime was brimming with visitors to the farm. But while they were all ogling at the cute baby animals, Antonio and I were busy digging graves (which are, by the way, a lot harder to dig than it would seem).

With quite a few lamb deaths under my belt I have to admit I have become more desensitized to the idea of death. And along the way, I've become all too well acquainted with the compost pile: I now know the softest places to dig, the smelliest places to avoid, the easiest side to climb. But even with this knowledge, I still haven't gotten good at remembering the previous graves. This unfortunate amnesic habit turns grave-digging into a morbid version of the Milton Bradley Co game Battleship. You just have to take a lucky guess and hope your shovel wont run into anyone that's already down there.

In the end, however, despite the loss of a baby goat and a ewe, everyone's sun-induced happiness was too contagious to ignore. By the end of the day we were all smiles again and Greg and I chuckled as we watched Antonio leave work, skipping and singing down the driveway.