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So EARTH befriended a man named Jimmy in Bellingham who owned a vintage clothing store. Jimmy would visit the Farm and bring boxes of old clothes with him to refill the coat closet in our living room. Any Family member who needed something could take it. Whenever the Family needed something, EARTH always seemed to meet a person who would fill the need for us. EARTH called it Divine Receiving. Jimmy stopped coming around after EARTH left, and the closet had slowly emptied.
    â€œI wonder if they wear uniforms at the restaurant in Seattle,” said Ursa.
    â€œEnough restaurant talk.” I splashed water into a laying box, and resisted the urge to splash Ursa. “Go ask Caelum for soybeans so we can make the feed tomorrow. The recipe is three to one, corn to soybeans. We’ll know more after we shell the corn, but I’m guessing he gave me ten pounds. So go ask him for the right amount of soybeans.”
    â€œSay it again, slower.” Ursa opened our bag of diatomaceous earth and prepared to add it to the layer of pine shavings on the floor of the coop.
    â€œThree parts corn to one part soybeans. We have ten pounds of corn,” I repeated.
    â€œI need . . . three and a third pounds of soybeans?”
    â€œGood. I already put in our seed order with Adam for the co-op. We should be ready to mix by tomorrow afternoon.” I had been working with Ursa on her math, since I had a knack for it. When Iron and I were expanding the coop, we spent long hours calculating the square footage needed for each hen, indoors and out, the number of laying boxes and watering containers. Not to mention the amount of lumber and building details for the construction. We spent as much time with pencil and paper as we did with hammers and saws. Fern Moon said I was as good with numbers as Douglas Fir. I think that was the reason EARTH made Doug his apprentice. EARTH was always working in numbers.
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    Ursa and I stayed in the coop until the dinner bell rang and then ate with the Family in the long room. Indus sat near Caelum and Iron at the end of the table, and I sat with Ursa and Fern near the middle. I caught him glancing at me a few times, but I tried to act like I hadn’t noticed.
    It was Wednesday and time for Story Night, so after cleaning up, we all gathered in the living room to share songs, poems, and memories. The living room was large enough for thirty people if folks sat on the floor as well as on the sofas and chairs. The fir floors were covered with a red rug, and there was a coffee table made from a tree slab in the center of the room. Our farm dog, Steven, a twelve-year-old yellow Lab, curled up on his bed in the corner near the fireplace.
    Adam usually led the Story Night music on guitar, with Caelum playing the banjo and Bithiah on our un-tuned piano. Children on the Farm were encouraged to switch around on instruments until something resonated to their touch. Mine was a wood flute that made a lonely, mournful sound when played on the hill by the apple orchard, but managed to sound happy around the fire in the family room. Indus played an emotionally raw harmonica, his rough farmer’s hands holding it like a tiny bird. Lately, Lyra had lately been smashing about with a tambourine, drowning out all the subtlety of the music with her clanging.
    I sat on the worn velveteen couch, my feet tucked under me to make a ball. With fourteen people in the room, I saw no one but Indus. He sat on the floor with his back to the bay windows, his long legs stretching to the middle of the room, where his socked feet were crossed. If I reached out my foot, I could have touched his. I didn’t know a foot could long to touch another foot.
Will he walk me home again? Will he kiss me against the spruce tree? Will he even look at me?
    â€œThank you for coming together tonight, Family.” Adam gave our traditional opening words and then strummed his guitar as other members joined in on a formless