At long last, and just before the rain, the eighty foot tomato haus is complete. I am a pseudo-carpenter no more. This day could not come fast enough. I pushed through construction of the first one on adrenaline and this rather manic desire to start seeding, desperate to avoid falling behind, eager to prove that I could do it.

But the second one was different. It wasn’t problem solving, really, it was just execution. Hours at the table with a dull hand saw, hours kneeling in the dirt sinking screws with a dingy cordless drill I got off craiglist. It wasn’t exciting anymore, it was tedious.

It’s not going to win any beauty contests – the plastic is a little baggy in places, the framing is a little wonky. But if I were offered the chance to magically receive a perfect building in exchange for a day or two more work on it, I wouldn’t bite. It’s good enough and it’s over. I am so ready to move on.

I’m going to give the soil a week or so to warm up, and then will start planting tomatoes around the first of May. For the next month or so, the aisles will also serve as overflow space for the other greenhouse.

In closing, I present to you the salvaged back door. Which, in cutting it down to fit the frame, I made rather more suitable for hobbits than people.

I often get asked why I do not have chickens. It’s a good question. Chickens are great. But a fifty pound bag of grain ain’t cheap. Hay on the island is ten bucks a bale. As one farmer friend likes to say, be careful. The animals will suck you dry.

But I can’t do without Homer Palmer. Granted, he’s an even less justifiable expense. He offers no return on investment, or input of any kind really, except treating my like the most exciting human being alive when I walk in the greenhouse in the morning, bouncing around in his run until breakfast is served. He’s a little ridiculous. But a farm with no animals to speak of just isn’t quite the same.