Making do on the farm.

Huz figured something out, he hooked up an old Apple laptop in place of my now, presumed defunct computer. I took a few pictures as the sun came up this morning. There is no wind! It is 8 degrees, and the sun makes everything look like it's iced with pink sugar. Winter mornings like this are a treasure. I can't wait to go back out when my fingers warm again. I can't seem to operate a camera wearing gloves.  I would love to share a few of the pictures, but have no clue where to start on getting them from my camera on to this blog via an Apple. Perhaps I can get a tutorial from Huz at some point. I can tell you that of the things I do know about Apple computers, I like the sound the keyboard makes better than my Dell's or Gateways. Maybe that is why they are used in the movies and television more often. They sound nice.
Now, as a tribute to the intrepid optimist I spotted yesterday in my wanderings. You, sir, deserve a Hymn. 

Hymn to the Comb-Over

by Wesley McNair

How the thickest of them erupt just   

above the ear, cresting in waves so stiff   

no wind can move them.   Let us praise them   

in all of their varieties, some skinny   

as the bands of headphones, some rising   

from a part that extends halfway around   

the head, others four or five strings   

stretched so taut the scalp resembles   

a musical instrument.   Let us praise the sprays   

that hold them, and the combs that coax   

such abundance to the front of the head   

in the mirror, the combers entirely forget   

the back.   And let us celebrate the combers,   

who address the old sorrow of time’s passing   

day after day, bringing out of the barrenness   

of mid-life this ridiculous and wonderful   

harvest, no wishful flag of hope, but, thick,   

or thin, the flag itself, unfurled for us all   

in subways, offices, and malls across America.