It happens that Saturday afternoon, Shabbat, is one of the only possible times of quiet during the week. Sometimes there are beans to pick or unfinished tasks, but today I find myself with a few uncharted hours, and I am so out of practice that I am squandering my time. I did just wake myself up with my own snoring, in the hammock.
People have been asking two questions, repeatedly. Did Carrie have her baby yet? Not yet. She is a week past her due date and tired of the question. Tomorrow they will induce her, which is too bad, but it will move things to the next chapter for sure. I am so grateful that I never had to face that possibility. Due dates can be a form of tyranny. And so much close watching, by sonogram and other techno-means, is another form of tyranny. You can't just be pregnant and have a baby when it comes. The medical world has spoken. Carrie will become a patient tomorrow evening, if she doesn't go into labor by herself before that. She has been working, feeling good and strong, taking breaks whenever she wants, and appears to be super healthy. Just a few days ago she picked 23 ponies of Italian tomatoes because they were there and she could not resist them. She has devised all sorts of ways to lift and carry things without straining her muscles. But she is 35 years old, and that makes her a mature mom, and that makes the doctors worry about possible bad outcomes if she waits too long.
The other question: how has the season been? A reasonable question, and hard to answer from the middle of the vortex. But I am getting ready to start reflecting on it, now that the tomatoes are done. (We know they are done because the vines are empty and the most recently picked fruit does not taste good enough to wish for more.)
There have been more failures than I am used to, but in a macro sense, it has been a good season. We have kept up all the usual routines -- not missing a beat with the CSA, going to seven markets a week, keeping the stands open and looking good -- and that is all excellent. I am proud of us for that.
The disappointments have been about comparing this year to last year, as farmers who grow things. We would get a spotty report card in Loudoun. In Vienna, things went well except for onions and cilantro. We know how to grow things here, in general. We have internalized the calendar, we know when it is time to take action, and the soil is forgiving. In Loudoun there were so many crops that declined to germinate, repeatedly. But we had some very nice tomatoes, our sweet potatoes are awesome, the kale is looking beautiful, the winter squash had healthy, vigorous plants and the eggplant is a triumph. Every single crop from that farm is a battle, and I am not used to that. I am entirely spoiled by the farm that is home: soil that holds moisture and nutrients, weeds that are managed by simple technology, tractors that make it possible to change crops one bed at a time, fields and gardens that can be maintained by just a few people. That big farm is weedy and wild and full of bugs that want to eat everything that you just planted. There are far-flung little patches of order sprinkled around -- I feel like we are picking beets out in the open prairie. I have learned to feel more at home there, and some of it I love, but it is just too unwieldy and I am not in control enough to love it with all my heart.
The biggest challenge of all, and it will eventually fade away, has been the consistent comparison between the culture of this year and the culture of last year; this comparison is only made by the few who worked here before. Meaning, the culture of Stacey and Casey compared to the culture of Hana and Ellen. Mostly people are very happy with the changes that make our lives better (I am consciously trying to leave time for other activities at the end of the day, and giving people two days off a week, and encouraging people to make choices about their own work) but they are deeply disturbed by the resulting smaller market loads. It torments them to disappoint some customers with a smaller display. While we all enjoy the benefits of working less, the resulting lack of diversity at the markets makes them growl and fret. And this is the one thing that torments me. I understand that we made choices and they have consequences, and I don't feel so bad about the size of our loads. But I do feel bad about about having unhappy workers because I think that is my primary job: keeper of morale.
Katherine says that, like everyone, I dwell on the negative feedback and I need to remember the good stuff. I am accustomed to having a pretty stellar report card, so I clearly am uncomfortable with grades that need improvement. Anyone would tell me that this is all part of learning new things. I get it, of course. And when we started this year, I was truly afraid that we might not actually be able to grow anything in Loudoun because I had never been responsible for much besides picking. When we picked the first beet, I felt so victorious, and I am not kidding.
Speaking for just myself, I have had a chance to learn so much that it has been an amazing year. It was too much work, with not enough space for anything else (ironic, since I have been dedicated to making sure that the rest of the team had time to go to swimming lessons, visit with people, take trips) and I don't want to have this year again. But I had a chance to experiment with ideas that have not been tried and I got to build a new team from scratch and I learned how to use equipment that I have never used and I have enjoyed almost all of it. I am tired. But the good news is, we are done with the hardest part and the workers are all able to manage themselves without me for full days at a time (I think this is a huge triumph) and I slip back and forth between the two farms and it seems completely normal.
There are so many longstanding relationships that made it possible to survive this season. My mother and Michael have been solidly supportive, doing everything that is needed. Jon is still fixing things, enabling everyone to keep working, and thinking ahead to what else needs to happen. Carrie and Becky have both been absolute rocks, every step of the way. Ellen has done everything she can to prepare ground, be ready for the next plants, keep things watered, and keep track of her part of the system. And now Benjamin and Stephen are here, in their mildly complicated way (as adult children who have projects and priorities of their own), and it is very nice to have people who can do just about anything.
There, I have reflected. This is more for me than anyone else, I guess, and once again I am sorry for all the non-farmers who have slogged through this.
On an entirely different note: this is the anniversary of Hilary Planck's death. She lived here on the farm with her family, Chip and Susan and Charles and Nina Planck, and she was coming home from ballet class when she was hit by a car. This has been a defining event for many of us (especially Anna), and we have all learned so much from that loss. One thing you learn, over a long time, is that you can adjust to loss. Once you get past the grief, you can live very well with loss, and you never forget the person who inhabited your world. And that is an important lesson, that you don't forget. It is scary to think about losing people, and part of the fear is that you will lose them, but you never do lose them because they are a part of you forever. Hilary was Anna's best friend, they were 14 years old, and Anna's professional life has grown out of losing Hilary in that traumatic way.
I have to go help close the stand. See what happens when I have uncharted hours? So many words, waiting to get out.
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