I write this post as my neighbor’s gasoline-run push-mower-with-the-squeaky-wheel permeates the soundscape. Notice he is not driving a tractor in this story, even though I’m about to tell you about my farm. And now I already feel like a liar, so I have some explaining to do.
Every garden blogger who is Someone has a name for their property. I cringe calling the piece of Earth we live upon “property,” and I do want to be a gardening Someone, so a moniker for this place where I grow things is necessary. Tradition would say the name should honor the history of the land or what grows here.
Hard Clay Trapezoid has no ring to it. Creeping Charlie Corners? Accurate, but might not evoke a lovely image. Backyard Farm is already taken, and there is that issue of semantics I will be getting to below.
An Eastern Cottontail or two or five are most always nibbling around the yard. To know me is to know I: 1) love rabbits and 2) have lots of silly labels to refer to them, like “the fuzzybuns.” That’s fun to say. It calls to mind a cute image. There’s a diaper company that spells it differently, and no garden blogger has made claim to it, as I can tell. For sure, Fuzzybuns is a keeper. Now, what to add to it. The contours here give me no poetic inspiration. We’re not on a hill, vista, or even a modest ridge.
What I do here is grow stuff on a small, small scale for our own consumption. “Micro-farm” could work. It fits the concept of producing food in a residential area, paints a scene of neighbors with push-mowers and not manure spreaders. Fuzzybuns’ Micro-Farm. FMF.
Looks too much like something a teenager would type as a text message, plus it kind of sounds like a fart when voiced as a word. Fuh-mmm-ph! (excuse me)
Here’s something better. Have you ever heard a rabbit sneeze? It sounds like, Ffffuuuf! and you know what? That’s adorable. So I hope we can agree to some wiggle room of operational definitions. Allow me to replace that M with a U. Because then I can say…
Greetings from Fuzzybuns’ Urban Farm!