October

Finally! That most holy of all months has arrived. Autumn is born and re-born again! Many days having passed since that Sabbath day, the twenty first day of September. The day of the Equinox that, once lapsed, will ensure the sweetest of all seasons. The harvest will grace us all in the Northeast with its overwhelming Light, color, and beauty. Somewhere, in the annals of literature, the historian or the Transcendentalist scribe has written of the season that is now upon us as simply, "the most human of all seasons, in which the air is most clear, and clarity of thought, too, can flourish."

How and why else could a Quaker, a Roman Catholic (however lapsed he be), and a Seventh Day Adventist come to be gathered around southeastern Pennsylvania soil? How could they know that on this very day they'd be leaning in to harvest the golden and red bumpy-skinned, spaceship-shaped, Caribbean pepper pods? The seed of which had traveled thousands of miles from islands soaked with heavy, humid, sun-drenched air. Passed on from the hand of one West Indian woman to the farmer from the Keystone State at his stand in New York City. Women like Lydia who laughed again and again at my quips about her seasoned chicken's ability to give me good luck. Assuming she ever brought some of it for me to sample. "Da greeeeeeeeeeeen ones," she demanded in her north Trinidadian accent. "Bring me some of da green ones fah next Whidnesdaaaaay!," she repeated as I gawked at her gigantic turquoise-colored hoop earrings. Only half hearing her request. Big plastic accents to her strong chocolate colored face. She had me mesmerized as she walked away with her index finger pointing and shaking at me. That was the quality of the peppers. Magic. Even when grown far away from their place of origin.

Three interns, apprentices, workers, idealists yearning for that old Jeffersonian sense of the real and true that had been lost at the dawn of the virtual age. To capture again some old with the new. To find down in the soil and then up through fields and sky some sense of the magical quality in the real. Not somewhere else. Here. Now. Momentous and daily. Material culture was on the wane, was it not? Information abounded, did it not? We picked and picked. I could hear the whisper of centuries past yeoman plots riding by me on the fall breeze, the sun lighting all experience.

The bright green foliage of the pimientos shook and danced and prayed in waves. Their fruit softly knocking at each other like brushes on a snare head from a 60s ska tune as our hands delved in and around each plant to find and pluck their fruit. "Shh shh shh, clickle clickle, shuffle, shhh shhh." Ancestors of Lydia who may have passed awfully through Monticello while Thomas saved his precious vegetable seeds could now laugh with her while they sensed through time's eternal energy that "flave-ahhh," that "seeeasonin'" she'd mix into every dish she made.

Late Blight: Spray 'em or Bust!

It wasn't the first time it happened. Truth be told, it was a fairly common yearly occurrence except that it had come two months early this year. It wasn't referred to as late blight for nothing. This particular fungus, that could ravage an entire field of tomatoes, potatoes, or whatever other solanaceous crop it fell onto, was supposed to rear its ugly head right about the end of an average tomato season. The last time I saw it was in the third week of September, 2006. Within two weeks it had claimed the last 5,000 (yeah that's right--5,000) tomato plants. Untold profits sifting into the wet, gray sky like fireflies rising suddenly, in a gentle swarm, from their low hiding spaces in an empty field. Invisible spores with the strength of a Grecian regiment. No evil intent, mind you. But just as ferocious all the same. That year we cut our losses and let it do its thing. The bulk of the tomato crop had been harvested and the crop had been cashed.

"We're just trying to get a handle on how some of the farmers here at the Greenmarket are being affected by the blight," said the Time magazine journalist inquisitively. "How have you dealt with the problem and what has the effect been on your business?," she asked me. Wow, I thought. Late blight has caught the attention of a national publication. Was it the fact that there was such a rise in the number of certified organic farmers in the past few years? Certainly this had to be a big part of their interest. The farm I co-managed had never even applied for certification. For too many reasons to mention, it just didn't make sense. While this year we had grown all of our spring and summer crops in the organic/natural manner we always had, we were forced to spray fungicide on our tomatoes. People often talk about sustainable agriculture. It's ironic, though, that when the word sustainable is mentioned, it rarely refers to being financially sustainable. I guess viable would be a better word in this context. Still, it seems to be a little known fact outside the world of "sustainable agriculture" speak that most organic farmers, certified or not, are lucky if they break even financially each year, much less make a profit. Why does this tie into discussions of locally grown, organically grown, certified organic, naturally grown, etc.? Because while it may not be the first issue or notion that comes to mind when the topic arises, it may be the biggest elephant in the room.

"We aren't certified organic. We never have been and our farm has been able to exist almost solely on the sale of tomatoes. There wasn't any way that we could survive this year without the use of some kind of conventional (read: chemical) spray being used on some of our tomatoes," I replied to the journalist. A viable business is not without some bottom line somewhere. "If I couldn't spray my plants I'd be out of business," the owner of our farm said to the latest wondering chef. The conversation naturally put the farmer somewhat on the defensive as he anxiously explained how an entire 15 year savings had been put on the line to purchase a farm last fall. It had become time to stop renting and letting the cash crop be obliterated so soon afterward was not an option. Buying the farm was also none too soon. To date, we haven't seen any disease on the new field's somewhat virginal soil which may simply be a result of not having been planted with tomatoes for decades, if ever. Tomatoes almost always thrive in new soil because all the many diseases that affect them are not yet established in the soil. Assuming the soil is favorable otherwise, that is.

"Do you have anything smaller?" asked Nelson, a recent NYU grad who was interested in farming and who had been working at our market stand now for about a month. This after he had just asked me for twenties to make change for Uma Thurman who was standing in front of him. I had stepped over to Tim to get the twenty dollar bills I was short on so early in the morning. We were both looking at each other knowingly, but all I could think was that the glasses she had on were not that flattering. It turned out that neither Nelson or Tim had known who she was, even though Tim had sort of whispered to me, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, "Who, who is that? Is she famous?" It wasn't like it was the first time she had bought our tomatoes. Lucky for us she didn't ask the dreaded, "Are they organic, are they sprayed?"

But what of the hundreds of farmers all through the mid-atlantic and northeast region of the country who are putting high hopes into selling the most popular of all August's acidic fruits? The farmers that truck into New York's Greenmarket from "upstate," as is the label for all farms north of and including the Catskills and beyond. The summer that gave rain and then more rain and then just kept on raining, week to week, month to month. The summer in which July was on schedule to be the second coolest on record for New York City. Sure they could sell their zucchini, eggplant, peppers, and corn but what had weight like a tomato? What could draw a price to match Whole Foods' $5.95/lb. for the next six to eight weeks? When we put a 1lb. Radiator Charlie's Mortgage Lifter heirloom tomato on the scale at our stand and the price reads $5.50 or a rare $6.00 for one tomato it's something to behold. As John McPhee might say, that's a fruit that, even if only for a very short season, "gives good weight."

Leaving Winter

I tried to leave Winter on the morning of March 13. Friday the 13th to be exact. I drove the 13 miles to the new farm's location anticipating my first ride on the Case tractor since 2007. It was a fun tractor to drive. It was over 40 years old and somewhat unpredictable, kind of like the boss. But it was such a pleasing machine to look at and hear and operate. Jen had said when I took her for a short ride on it that it was so "nice."
Walking up to where Tim was already working I glanced over the 57 acres and marveled again at the sheer size of it all. It was like a bowl. Three grand hillsides enclosing you. Each hill with its own tree line softly closing in the entire property. Off to the right and down the truck path stood the giant Ash tree. It was the cornerstone of the property. It stood there looking worn and old but sturdy, being the diameter of several persons.

I got onto the tractor and headed out with the first load of composted mushroom soil. This was after having the New Idea spreader loaded by Tim who was seated in the New Holland trake-dah (read: Pennsylvania Dutch tractor). The controls slowly came back to me. Raising and lowering the bucket, the PTO, the brakes that didn't really work, the start position on the stick shift. Winter laid her grips right into my face with a brisk steady breeze. Being less than 30 degrees outside, the thought of Spring wasn't a thought at all. Thankfully the sun was starting to break through the haze of thick gray clouds and I knew it would be a warm day in about an hour. Well, almost warm.


We rode and rode and rode all day. The sod never got soft as we thought it surely would by noon or one o' clock. One quick stop for Bob's roast beef sandwiches at around 2 was the only break we took. There's a kind of fire in the belly that stirs in these first weeks of March. A frantic, spastic, deep energy that cries, "Let me out!" The ground began to look covered after about 6 hours of steady blanketing. First in long passes down the field, then crossing over these in an attempt to fill in the gaps. Ron showed up at about 10am, his son following with another spreader filled with cow manure. During a pause in the action Tim filled both spreaders and Ron, the dairy farmer and neighbor of the new farm said to me, "Tim worries a lot it seems. I don't think we'll remind him it's Friday the 13th." "No," I said, "And I don't think we should talk about the full moon last night either!" Was it full last night? I remembered it looking pretty near as I stared at it just before going inside the Fire Company.

*****

Lilly had kept sheep, goats, and a caramel colored ram that could have been mistaken for a lion for about three years now. She has fifteen that shuffle around together on the 12 acre hillside piece of land. They have names like Cinder and Hershey and Mr. Fox and a perfectly round shaped, salt and pepper wool covered girl called Minikin who has onyx colored, smooth, ancient looking curved horns. The Shepherdess took such pride in getting them all together and explaining to those of us with no knowledge of these animals all their distinct habits and needs. Today they would get vaccinated and have their hooves trimmed and cleaned. "There is so much on the to-do list but these two things are in the A category and must get done today," Lilly said.

The sheep as a group are quite attentive, it turns out. However, one by one they are all uniquely skittish and are likely to scatter at the slightest movement by a human. Like any animals, they come running at the sight or smell or sound of food! Yet they know immediately when they are trying to be coerced into a group movement. The goat of the herd is brave and high spirited as he comes up to you and licks your hand, wondering if the treats will soon return. He is dressed in a highly prized cashmere wool coat that is grey, white, black, brown, and all shades in between and loves to be brushed. He looks calmly at one human face after another as if to say, "Yes, thank you all so much for coming. I am the famed Caaaaaaashmere goat. You will no doubt notice my beauty and stature. Eh hem. . . .let me see if you still have pretzels in that pocket and if I might just taste but one more."



Ruth was inside the barn bay all by herself as I worked the door with Tom. Lilly waited by the small entrance coaching Ruth on to how to ease one more of the sheep to her strong hands. From there it was onto the platform to receive the season's vaccines and tlc. Five sheep rounding the small bay inside, the Cashmere goat shoving one of the sheep with his horns, the distraction of the tasty hay bale and the Shepherdess calling from the entrance made for a swirling, door banging circus. Without fail each animal eventually came running out into Lilly's hands horns first or flailing vertically in Ruth's hands. "Shut the door!" one of the women would say as Tom and I would scramble to shut the heavy barn door without squishing one of the other sheep that was, at the same time, breaking fast for freedom.

We took a break and had a taste of Ian's homemade sour red wine. I thought of how much Lilly would have to do in the next month with it now being birthing season. How could she possibly have done any of this alone? She had. She complained that it was always a struggle for her lower back at those times. Wrestling with 15 animals that weighed around 200 pounds each was definitely a bear of a way to start Spring but also so worth it, it seemed. Every one of the sheep having its own personality behind those strange, staring, mythical, stoic eyes. All the colors mixing together and waddling around you and pushing at each other and baaaaing the deepest guttural whines. Theirs were the hooves of Iceland. Of old times. Of the Winter that strove to to have its full term.


Photo of sheep by Lelayna Klein, proprietor of Lillian's farm in Kempton,Pa.