Today in a rare fit of responsible reading I picked up a copy of the Wall Street Journal.  There, in the inner section that addresses something livelier than bond trading, was the lead article that proclaimed the summer of 2009 to officially be the most boring summer  --and therefore by their calculus the worst summer-- in modern memory.  The article bemoaned the heavy rainfall, the lack of good news stories, and the dearth of summer blockbuster movies.

So, although reluctant to question the financial wizards of Wall Street (or their chroniclers), I reflected upon the summer that is rapidly drawing to a close on our farm.  Several litters of pigs, all healthy --check.  Productive and happy chickens producing hundreds of eggs, some never before seen in America --check.  Pasture that never quit growing and vegetables that never needed watering all because of that reviled rain --check.  It was, in short, the best summer of my life, and it required little more than sowing a few seeds and letting animals do what animals naturally do.

So, to conclusively rebut the dismal appraisal of the Wall Street Journal, I grabbed my camera today and spent just a few minutes snapping pictures around the farm where, at least for the abundant life in the antic throes of celebration, every day is Woodstock, and every summer is the Summer of Love.