nearly a year has passed, and in it all that has happened is the story of this little farm, growing and growing despite all the odds. so many iterations have passed that to tell the story would feel like years. but alas – no time has been made to tell the tales, and so here we are, experience and trials under my belt and what to show and where to go? well it feels like a hundred years since the last fennel bulbs, since the last moldy, two-pound tomatoes were composted and beans have been dried and eaten. summer squash grown so large they turn into gourds, and flowers sold to countless brides, on the table of dozens of farmer’s markets stands. salad mix grew so steadily and so succulent, it was on every menu item for nearly a year at the downtown haunt, traded for paychecks and pastries. arugula was on fire and fava beans and rye were ever steady, an every afternoon golden hour harvest date for me myself and I every day, and it was so very romantic, that yellow glow and the scythe. the beer-igation, the music that has played from my pocket hour after hour after hour, screaming it’s love, torment, and delight at every ounce of grain, grass, veg, bulb collected. there were parties in the tall grasses and cocktails in the barn morning noon and night. tears, gossip, and cappuccinos aplenty. hoeing and weeding like it was my job. waving pellet guns over gopher holes and discovering camaraderie in all kinds of unexpected and delightful ways.
it’s still a mystery and a struggle to know what may come of this experiment, to feel clear and serious in the endeavor at hand – but the vision that has been so stubbornly persistent remains and taunts, won’t let me go and won’t let me let it down – and so onward we go. the csa grows and grows while the field sits completely submerged, soggy, frost bitten night after night, but clovers and vetch and favas grow, and a plan formulates over and over again through these long nights and restless mornings, days where the nights won’t come soon enough but morning leads me again to the row edges, pulling grass and thinning beets, cleaning and organizing the barn, accounting, dreaming, scheming, agonizing.
this is real speak but it goes much deeper than this. the realest may be that when the crimson clover blooms all is right in the world, and that tiny heads of lettuce never fail to delight. every delivery i make on the weekly route is a revelation and the sales made to strangers at the market continually awe. i may feel like nothing is right, like i am letting myself down, but there are ways every day that prove me otherwise if i stop and look.
here’s to a new year, to farm 2.0, and to embracing and reveling in what i have in front of me, and what is yet to come.