Old McDonald

Back when I was just a young scientist, I took a sabbatical out in rural northern Ireland. I wanted to get out of the city, learn the ways of the land, and get my hands dirty.

I stayed on a farm owned by an eccentric old man—for a dose of poetic license, let’s call him Old McDonald.

Although I’d envisioned farm life as constant stargazing at a clear night sky, I learned the most from the pigs.

Old McDonald was obsessed. He spent more time by the pig pen than anywhere else. And what an artful pig pen it was: At first, I didn’t understand why he would make pens that were missing certain walls or had round troughs in the middle, but when I stumbled upon his cryptic blueprints, I finally got the joke.

This is today,
M