Allemande left to the next row. Repeat 1,000 times. I've danced with the dibble in all kinds of weather, from frosty blasts in early January to muggy days in March. I reckon I've seen a few thousand baby trees get their first taste of wild mother earth's universal juke-joint this way. Some will call me a hypocrite for speaking so glowingly of the dibble dance and at the same time taking part in the Yuletide arboreal slaughter or profiting from the making of paper.
Some folks raise chickens.
And as land-use it sure beats pavement. You know your arms will look like Popeye's tomorrow, and that you'll never get all the red clay out of your socks. The smell of wet roots lingers in your nostrils like a vichyssoise. In your dreams the tree-god slips into the house and leans over your bed, uttering a soft leafy chuckle. In the morning you'll count redbug bites in the bathroom mirror while out in the fields the needles of a thousand new pine trees glitter like green wire in the rays of the late-winter sun.