Tag: farming

The Elusive Poetry of a Misty English Evening

The sky is white-grey in a way I’ve never seen before, except in movies.  It mingles with the silence of this farm in a blanket that feels warm, embracing, romantic, especially as the birds are not yet asleep; and their high-pitched calls to each other embellish this scene like golden-threaded embroidery.

I’m in England again.

I could sit and stare for hours at this line of trees along the path to the road, especially in this light:  They and the birds and the tiny black bugs stand out in fragile, muted silhouette against the empty canvas of the sky; a living tableaux, displayed perfectly by the thick, black window frames.

I step back for a moment, in my mind, and realize that the architect must have planned this out, must have known these vast days and nights would be made more picturesque by four panes framed like this.  He must be humble, to create such a thing that lends one not to appreciate the window, but the beauty beyond….

And my eye is drawn back to the white sky outside and that line of trees that barely move in this quiet spring rain.

I am a fool to think that anyone else can live like this; and I have been told often enough by friends, lovers, enemies that I am different, that I see and live the world differently; and I always protest.  But the reality comes now, as I sit inside a tiny renovated barn at a table that is not mine and behold a scene that could only belong to me in happenstance, an accidental gift from a man who profoundly cares for me – and whom I can barely even consider in this moment because of the profound feeling of wonder I have for nothing more than those unmoving, dark, spindly lines on that infinite grey-white backdrop inside obsidian frames…!

I could suggest that others come to England and behold the beauty of the rolling hills from which, in mornings, mists arise and hover with sweet-scented grace beyond the city of London – mists and hills and scents that inspired poets and authors and painters to create what sedentary city-people the world over can only faintly imagine.  Those things, only hours beyond London’s borders, are accessible to all, if one leaves the city early enough and drives down the well-kept expressways or through tight country lanes that curve in their own ambling ways through multitudinous old villages – where “old” does not even begin to connote what we Americans understand of the word; where thatched roofs atop buildings of centuries-old-brick are yet commonplace antiquities to residents and wondrous novelties to those youthful, pridefully-modern eyes that come, and look, and see.

I could beg of travelers to make friends of locals, as I have and do, and spend time in out-of-the-way towns and villages and shires that hold nothing apparent, which even the English beyond this area ridicule, that I visit for the sake of love and friendship and a quiet kind of adventure that I love dearly.  I fancy that I forage for adventure here – even though I see it all around me in the lingering sunrises and sunsets that last for hours, in the rich, upturned soil beyond the nearby fence, in the stream beyond this barn and the horses and their riders meandering by; in the owner of this farm whose friendship I’ve already earned with nothing more than my honest openness, quick smile, and a genuine interest in his work, his land, his barn.

I could suggest that friends and loved-ones let their hearts take them where they may – even walking barefoot into stinging nettles on chilly days and through soothing, soft, black clods of not-quite-mud; along horse-trod paths where long, silken grasses grow just beyond the reach of nearby thoroughbreds that one mustn’t touch.  I could suggest that those who read this befriend and ingratiate themselves to someone with whom they mysteriously connect, and offer everything beautiful they have to give, that they may find what their heart yearns for….

Except that I’m told, over-and-over, that I am different; that no one does this.

And, I guess, it’s true.

Because:  who will make themselves so vulnerable, so exposed, so fragile as to not know what will happen from day to day?  Who will let themselves live in a moment so completely that every moment before and after threatens to crush one’s mind with power and complexity and fullness that comes in nearly-certain waves of uncertainty?

I know very few.

So:  I can write and tell of these beauties I see.  I can tell true tales of love, of a white sky opening, finally, with the faintest hint of blue to let the clouds beyond display themselves for a moment before fading altogether, this evening, into a single sheet of translucent grey-blue.

But I cannot suggest that anyone attempt to live or duplicate this life… for it is, and it remains, uniquely mine.

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