Motherland

Eric poured himself another glass of wine, leaned forward in his chair, and fixed Flora with a loopy, cock-eyed gaze.

“Well?” he asked.

“Motherland.”

“That’s awful.”

“Why?”

“Too Nazi.”

“You’re thinking of Fatherland.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” He poured her some wine, too.

Eric didn’t think the farm needed a name, even though all the neighboring farms had one. Flora’s favorite was Singing Jay. Another was Shaded Hills, though that sounded more like a subdivision. When customers at the farmers’ market asked Eric what theirs was called, he said Eric & Flora. She hadn’t agreed to that, and told him so again, as she brought her glass to her lips.

He said they’d talk about it later. He gave her a good look and said she should wear her hair down more often. It was thick and wavy and normally pinned to the back of her head. Now, wearing another embroidered blouse, she looked like a real earth mother, he said.

She was approaching forty and liked to think of herself as timeless. Eric was ten years younger and thought of himself as cutting edge because he’d thrown himself into the land with passion and zeal. He’d majored in botany and taught himself what books never could. His lettuce and tomatoes were prized…