Tag: farmers

Romanced by the Motherland

It’s not supposed to be this sunny in England, this often.  Even today, the weather report on my phone promises mostly clouds and a 50% chance of rain in six minutes… and, while I see the clouds steadily marching in, the sun persists.

It’s not warm, by any stretch of the imagination. The wind blows in strong, cool gusts that tease the fronds of grass along the fence-line in the exact way I tease my love’s hair, brushing it again-and-again the wrong way, just to watch it fall back into place.

And the rain finally comes, half-an-hour late, streaming in insistent beats from a now-grey-white sky, as if to tell me it will do as it wants and the sun may not have my full attention; as if to tell me that even the sky happily indulges my Englishman’s and my playful tales of his power to bring the elusive, illustrious rains for my pleasure; of my power to bring the sun to this usually-cloudy land after captivating Helios’ affections while in Greece until a week ago.

It rains in sideways-streams as my darling drives down the long, gravel path from the road, past the horses and the dark, upturned soil just beyond the beautiful barn reno that he — that we live in.

It’s somewhat stunning to realize that I’m living here as much as he, and sometimes living here more, since he drives off to work in the mornings and home in the evenings, while I actually live here all day when he’s gone.

I wandered away from the house for the first time since I arrived at this lovely country home a couple hours north of London and incidentally met the landlord as I walked along the horse-path next to a pretty little stream bordering the property.  The silver-haired man drove up in his red car with three dogs inside, stopped beside me and stepped out of the wrong side of the car to gently-but-firmly ask who I was.  I smiled, as I always do, and explained that I’m staying at the loft with his tenant; I saw his clear and lively blue eyes shine back at me as his own smile broke across a beautiful, weathered face.

We got on immediately. He teased me in a way that I believed was earnest (for a moment) about my “awful color” – the bronzed skin that I brought back from Greece that contrasts starkly with that of this Englishman, whose pale skin betrays the normally-cloudy-and-cool conditions that keep most residents well-covered.  While in London a month ago, I stood out because of my wild, merry eyes and quick smile; I now stand out even more starkly with the mark of the sun god on my skin and gold-streaked hair.

We chatted for a while as his daughter’s black-and-white springer spaniel ran to the chase the ducks and fowl near the stream, impressing me with a confident, gently-firm manner he must have learned over many years and with many animals.  Every moment I spent with this farmer made me like him more.  My mind delighted in his wit and charm as we chatted; and he explained to me that the people in his village would be more likely to converse with me than those folks I might meet in London.

I’ve since been queried harshly by other Englanders on social media as to why I would spend time in Bedfordshire – which seems a silly question to me, as here is where my heart finds itself well-cared-for and extremely happy and restful on this quiet farm with a man I fell in love with years ago.  Adventure is dictated by one’s nature, I think; and I had plenty of adventures in Greece that would fit many people’s definition of the word; while here, on an out-of-the-way horse farm within walking distance of a small village, I find the kind I most enjoy: Discovering myself, taking long walks and making strong connections with random strangers, and falling in love.

I haven’t yet found that the citizens of Clifton are very chatty; but I’ve only walked around the town twice and only once spoke to locals at the butcher’s while picking up a bit of fresh produce.  While it is obvious that my American accent is quite a novelty here, I do best when I’m with my Englishman:  People catch some part of our lighthearted banter and, seeing a curious look in their eyes, I include him or her in our conversation.  Perhaps if I was to take some time in a pub….

Whatever the case, I was tickled by the landlord, that gentleman-farmer who stood before me in red coveralls, obviously as charmed by my wildly-American, childish openness as I was charmed by his display of English breeding that flirts ever-so-gently with impropriety without ever crossing the line.

And I am charmed by this land, by the gorgeous cobalt clouds laden now with rain, highlighted by the hidden sun.  I love this quiet life where, once-upon-a-time, artists like Jane Austin and Vincent Van Gogh were inspired to create their individual masterpieces of love; where the active mind can rest and find itself joyful in the tiniest of things: In flickering blades of grass and gentle horses and proud-but-nervous pheasants.

And, though I love the city of London, I would rather inspire Americans to come to the countryside, where our childishness is cherished, where our naivety finds a welcome home – if we are open and honest; where our busy and hard-working souls can find respite in the arms of our motherland — one that knows us, in paradoxical truth, better and as distantly as any mother may.

The Plant Whisperers

Maybe it’s because I am one generation from farmers, on one side, and two, on the other.

Maybe it’s that I was raised traveling north to my grandparents’ and great-grandmother’s farms in rural Indiana, going south to my great-grandfather’s and great-aunts’ farms in south Georgia.Indiana Sunset

Maybe it was the mystique of soft whispers from the soybean and corn fields, of the giant pecan trees that dropped delicious gifts for us to gather, of ever-ripening pear trees, of the grapefruit and lime trees in the back yard of my grandparents’ Florida home, of miles of sweet-scented orange groves in the sandy plains surrounding.

Maybe it was the grove-side stands that sold the sweetest orange juice I’d ever tasted, the road-side shacks with delicious, hot boiled peanuts, fruit, corn, honey – even a few miles from our Georgia home.

Or maybe it’s the simple honesty of farmers I encountered that instilled in me an eternal love, respect and gratitude for those who till their acres, plant and tend their crops, offer food for sale in humble ways, gift them to neighbors and friends.

In Ontario, years later, I had the opportunity to work at a few farmers markets, selling freshly-baked artisan breads, pies and muffins for the restaurant where I worked.  I didn’t make much money doing it; I could have easily earned thrice what I earned while setting up and standing for hours on a large patch of grass or in a gravel driveway, repeating, tick-tick-tick, the seven or eight varieties of breads and pies to inquiring passers-by.  But it was beautiful; I loved every minute.

I’d sell out regularly, our bread was that good.  When I’d sold out, or nearly so, I’d walk the patch and visit the other sellers:  farmers with tables laden with fruits and vegetables familiar and not-well-known.  I was a child, standing at their tables, as childish as the small ones who’d come to my table, eyes wide and excited at our fruit pies and apple-cider muffins, at our bountiful breads.  For me, it was the colors, the piles of leaves and rolling mounds of fruits, tomatoes, tomatillos, corn, squash, varietals of mushrooms – all things I could put together, cooked or raw, and create something to make my imagination and my palate explode with something new, delicious.

I was as shy as any other customer, perhaps more so, since I was a neighbor and understood the value of their precious time, when I knew I’d pay less because I was a neighboring vendor in this community, and that is what is done.  But I wanted nothing more than to stand, as any regular customer, admiring their bounties, loving them for the time they’d spent caring for these plants, for nurturing their soil despite the difficulties, despite the minimal pay.

I wanted to buy everything they had and knew I had neither funds to do so nor mouths enough to feed.  So my mind would race as I stood spellbound, letting others pass before me as I let my palate choose for me, salivating over the ground cherries this week, the tomatillos and onions and garlic in a dream of fresh green salsa the next.

Only a few truly understood my great love and respect, I think:  the apple farmer who always looked a touch grumpy, who sold his apples for $5 a pint and always had so many left, whose fresh, thick apple cider he sold for $6 a gallon and was the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted – all the sweet, honeyed goodness of a freshly-picked apple pouring endlessly into my mouth, with none of the time lost on chewing.  I bought apples and cider from him every week; I’d look him in the eyes and tell him “Thank you” and he’d look on to me curiously from beneath his disappointed shroud and thank me back.

And Russ, Mr. Happy-Farmer himself, founder and owner of Hamilton’s Backyard Harvest, who befriended me on one slow afternoon filled with the vigorous-but-friendly banter of my libertarian views while I challenged the German cheesemonger’s more liberal ones;  Russ of the always-naturally-grown vegetables, of squash and melons and tomatoes you’d never before seen that tasted as good as the prices you’d pay – which were not too much, but were never “cheap.”  I always felt I was getting a steal, walking home in the early Thursday evenings, laden with $50-worth of vegetables and fruits in re-usable bags from Russ and the other two or three farmers, most of which was organic.

Russ would teach me about growing while he could, between pleased customers whose names he always knew, whose hugs he’d always earned.  Russ is an entrepreneur and a musician, complex and freshly antique in his reserved openness, in his beatnick-hippie ways and bright, observant eyes – as complex as the flavors of some of the fruits and vegetables he grows in the city’s neighborhood backyards, working the soil for people who want vegetable gardens and have no time to tend them, earning his keep from the harvest he sells as his only payment for tending them.  Novel, beautiful, I thought.

There is a stillness in the minds of farmers, a grasp of things that no one seems to see.  These are the plant whisperers, who urge a seed to grow, to take itself upon green wings and fly into the sky though rooted to the ground, to bloom in fragrant flowers and carry heavy loads of plump fruit upon thin stalks and vines.  These are the ones who know the sun and the wind, the clouds and the rain; who know the many bugs in the ground and the animals around; who feed all of humanity with more than sustenance.  These are the friends of chefs, of cooks, of mothers and children; these are the founders of society and beginning of art and beauty.  These are the original creators – these farmers who take neither too much nor too little upon themselves to deliver up to us their bounties, but work from dusk til dawn, from the beginnings of civilization through to today.

It is no wonder they worship, so many of them; that they give thanks to whatever spirit blesses their fields, for their gratitude and humble care is translated in every stalk of heirloom wheat, in every fat and multicolored tomato that tastes as good by itself as the most exquisite dish, is evinced in the makings of masterpieces.

They worship the sun and the rain, the soil and the seed; are grateful to spirit and land.

And I feel the same, once removed:  my gratitude, my heart is with them.

Backyard Harvest - Locke Street Farmers Market 2011
Backyard Harvest – Locke Street Farmers Market 2011