16 Years of Practicing

After I wrote the annual letter and we declared it finished, I noticed that I did not mention life at Blueberry Hill. Usually I do, so this was interesting to me.  It's not that there is nothing to say, but maybe the ups and downs no longer seem newsworthy.  After 16 years of practice, we just take it in stride. We don't take it for granted -- people keep moving out and moving in, shaking us up -- but we have a steady hand on the tiller, more or less. We are building rituals and traditions and ongoing systems and that helps.

I don't think that most of the people who live here would put it this way, but I will:  we are practicing what it would take for the world to be a better place.  We are learning what it means to love your neighbor.  People who don't live in intentional communities, looking in from the outside, can't always understand what the experiment is about. It is about having faith in relationships, even if those relationships might not even be good. We practice caring about each other, creating memories together, paying attention. We practice patience. This is really hard.  We don't choose our neighbors -- there is no guarantee that would work any better, actually.  Our neighbors choose to move here. 

Ever since the beginning of this endeavor, I have known that it is not about loving each individual neighbor. It is about loving them for being in the neighborhood and for wanting to be part of this experiment. Not everyone comes for the same reasons, and that can cause some difficulties, but just about everyone gets something out of being here.  There is a couple who moved here knowing nothing about the concept, and they have been here for the whole time, and they are still mostly staying on the fringes. But they are an asset to the group through their willingness to share technical expertise, occasional cooking, and participation at meetings, help in emergencies and lots of friendly smiles.  Another couple has been here from the beginning, also came with no background, and has been deeply involved the whole time. They are also traumatized by the experience the most often, as they are so deeply well intentioned that they work very hard and they suffer disappointment when other people don't work as hard as they do.  There are single people who came here because they wanted the community and sometimes they are disappointed at the reality of living amongst a bunch of nuclear families.  There are elderly people who could use more attention than they get but who do get attention when it is really needed.  More than half of the neighbors have lived here for fewer than five years and this presents an ongoing challenge of redefining ourselves, teaching people what we know, letting them have a say in what comes next.

But I think this is such an important effort, this effort to work together even when it is hard. We get upset with each other, we cry, some people stomp out of meetings. And this fall, after a particularly unsuccessful meeting, the next evening we had a common meal, scheduled before the meeting had been planned.  Lots of people came, we ate together, we resumed life.  Even the person who stomped out of the meeting came to dinner.  She was brave and she knew it and she said it. And we welcomed her warmly.

My nephews are in a graduate program, studying peace and transformation.  Even though this is a wealthy, suburbanite-populated, small goal community (we want to be good neighbors), we are also studying peace and transformation here at Blueberry Hill.  We stumble along, doing our best to learn from our mistakes, but we never lose hope. We have had estranged neighbors, angry for months, come back into the fold and start cooking and eating with us again.  There are so many ways to eat these days, and we try to accommodate each other when we cook.  We have discovered, like all tribes before us, that cooking and eating together is the most reliable way to keep ourselves close. 

When we first moved in, many people who were watching expressed their doubts.  They knew that people don't want to behave for the good of the whole, they take care of themselves first. They knew that making decisions by consensus would never work.  Certainly they are not wrong, but they did not understand how affirming and inspiring it can be to create something with a group.  Many of us cannot imagine living in a normal neighborhood again, not after living in a place where people can ask for help and get it (rides to the airport, taking care of children, soup for the unwell, packing boxes...) and learn to cook for 30 and live through multiple snow events (so much shoveling, cheerfully done).  It would be so insular.

The other night we were having a family dinner here.  Before the family dinner, Jon and Rebecca and I had cooked and packed a meal for 25 at the Hypothermia Shelter.  Two of our neighbors came to our house and picked it up: they were the serving team.  Because one of them is Jewish and they had asked about this earlier, we invited them to come back and light Chanukah candles after they finished serving the meal.  While we were eating dinner, our next door neighbor came and dropped off a check for egg nog that I had ordered from the dairy for them. We waved, he left it on the counter. Eventually the other people came back from the shelter, bringing their 6 year old with them, and we all lit candles together. We told the story of Chanukah as best we could (shameful how we can't even remember all the details) and put it in context because that's who we are, and we spent some time together.  It was all so normal even though we don't socialize with them generally.  We are just happy to be neighbors.

Not everyone who lives here likes groups. Jon isn't particularly comfortable going to meetings or making decisions with a long process.  But he is an important member of this community -- he contributes his skills and work all the time. He is part of the program, he just doesn't love all the process.  We have all kinds of people here and we just figure it out.

Obviously I could go on forever.  There is so much to learn from living in community. We have been very lucky and we have also worked hard to keep it functioning.  The world would work so much better if everyone tried harder to be in relationship. 

On Marriage

I knew this sounded weird when I said it to my mother, and I didn't mean anything deep or serious, but I said recently that I believe now that I can see that Jon and I will make it through our whole lives staying in this one marriage.  There has never been a question.  But you just never really know.  When you start out and you decide to marry someone, you don't know all that much about who you will become or who they will be (I am practicing using that terrible new pronoun which has been accepted by the dictionary-powers-that-be and by Rebecca the grammarian). You don't know whether you will get to a place where you can't do it any more, like if a tragedy hits and the two of you find that you don't have the strength to stay together.  You can't know whether one of you will meet someone else by accident and gradually fall into an unexpected parallel relationship and then have to decide what to do.  There is no way to predict, when you are in your 20's, that you will still really like this person in 5 years, or 15, or 30.

When I watched all those Oberlin marriage dissolve or explode -- the ones in my parents' generation -- I began to devise a social theory that didn't really end up working because people have feelings. But I seriously considered the idea that marriages should be set for a certain time period, like 20 years, and then people could decide whether they wanted to re-up or not.  It would be a contract that would get you through the child raising part of life, but would not require you to commit to the next phase. And the couple could agree on how long the next phase would go -- 10 years, 20 years. Divorce would have a different meaning. It wouldn't be a failure, it would be one of the options. Some marriages would be one phase, some would be two phases, some would do all three phases. Some people would renew and some people would say no thanks.  Of course there is a fatal flaw here and that is that both people might not agree on the choice, and then feelings would be hurt and that sort of undermines the whole point.

In Cutting for Stone, there is a very sweet version of this (I think it is sweet, anyway) where the wife has the opportunity once a year to tell her husband whether she wants to be married to him for the next year. He had to convince her to marry him in the first place, so I suppose he is at a disadvantage from the start, but they do love each other as equals (marriage is not as important to her). He  works hard all year to earn the right to continue to be married. Of course the story tells it much better than this, but it is a superb illustration of how a relationship could go, for a lifetime.

Anyway, back to me and Jon. Ever since we decided to get married, I have enjoyed the secure feeling of knowing that I had met the right person and I would stick with it.  I have been lucky.  We have been lucky.  In so many ways, it is so much simpler to have just one marriage in your life.  You get to skip all the logistics of separating yourselves and your shared family and your stuff. You just have to do the work of staying together. Both paths are hard, but one is much less messy.

While I have nothing original to say about marriage, I have plenty of opinions about what matters when you are figuring out who to marry.  I have told my children and everyone else many times: the fundamental qualities you want in a partner are kindness and intelligence (the kind of intelligence that feels like a match for you, not the same kind that you have).  If you start with that, you have a hope of succeeding.  If they are missing one of those, no hope.  There are no guarantees of success because there are dozens of other character traits that could make for a mismatch eventually.

But why are those two qualities so important?  For one thing, this is the person who you will spend your life talking to. So it is really much better if they are kind and smart because who wants to spend a lifetime talking to someone who can't be relied upon to have a good heart or who you feel is not your equal?

In the last week or so, I have spent many hours meeting with people or visiting,  having lunch or sitting at the hospital -- lots of social time and business conversations and reconnecting.  These are conversations I don't get to have as much during the farm season, so I have a lot of catching up to do.  But then it takes hours of talking in the night, just telling Jon all the things I have learned or thought about, and answering his many questions.  I swear I have spoken more words in the last week than I say in a month in the summer. Not all marriages have so much conversation material, I am sure, but I bet the ones that last a lifetime (happily) do. 

I don't tend to think that marriages that don't last a lifetime are failures.  They are just shorter marriages.  People suffer a lot when their marriages are shorter, and that feels unnecessary to me (even though it appears there is no way around it).  I believe that relationships are never a waste of time, if they are established with the best hopes and intentions. If something causes them to fray or wear out or explode, that is more work for everyone, but it does not need to be labeled a failure.  But if love is what makes being human meaningful, then we have to keep being in relationships.  Sometimes they turn out long and sometimes they turn out shorter.  No matter what, being in conversation is better than thinking all by yourself forever.

And you should never think that you are better than someone else if you happen to have a long marriage. You are just lucky.

(I know that I have not even entertained the idea that people don't have to be married.  That is clear.  But for the purposes of this train-of-thought, I am using the word marriage to stand for any committed long term relationship.)

From Zero to Sixty

This summer, on a trip between Loudoun and home, Jon and I were alone with a load of vegetables.  So I thought it might be a good time to talk about a delicate topic -- his birthday.  It was many months away, so it didn't seem too dangerous and, somewhat to my surprise, Jon agreed to have a party.  He liked the idea of having it in Boston so his mother could come and so it would be quite limited in scope. We thought we would have it catered or maybe we could even go to a restaurant, but the most important thing was that we decided to let his family know that it was going to happen.

Months went by but there was no need to think or talk about it since we had a date and a time.  Gradually various decisions were made and little by little the plan emerged.  Sue offered to let us host at her house (which was the most perfect location ever) and Jon decided he wanted to cook all or most of the meal himself. Without asking his permission, I let a few close friends and relatives know about the event.  I had to be careful about it because each time he got more anxious and grumpy as he imagined a party that was far beyond its original scope -- and he worried that having people travel from far away would raise the bar beyond our capabilities.  I did not worry, of course.

He asked what we were going to DO at this party and I said that there would be no problem, we would have plenty to do.  Later I figured out that it should be a very low-key opportunity for people to perform or say things to Jon on his birthday.  The email invitation mentioned that people could write something if they wanted to, and I never sent a reminder (except to our children). 

On Tuesday Jon did all the shopping, on Wednesday he made the parts of the meal that would not be hurt by sitting in the refrigerator for a few days.  On Thursday we loaded our car to the ceiling with chafing dishes, coolers, food, supplies and drove to Lexington for a quiet dinner with Lilah and Dena.

We stayed with Sarah Newcomb and Jim.  They are in the midst of the move of a lifetime, going to an assisted living community that they hope will be a reasonable place.  It is a huge process, sifting and sorting and deciding.  Too painful to think too deeply about, this move, but they are wise and pragmatic and they are going.

On Friday afternoon we went to Alissa's apartment to use her kitchen for the next stage of food preparation.  A very nice kitchen, and we weren't in anyone's way.  Dena came and helped us chop vegetables.  

Friday night dinner was at Sarah and Jim's -- a transplanted Saturday night dinner from Virginia, with Alissa and Rebecca and Anna and Gordon.  Anna and I made dinner and we sat around the kitchen table by candlelight, for what was probably our last dinner in that house. We mostly ignored that and had a lovely time.

Late that night, after dropping Alissa and Rebecca back in Cambridge, Jon locked the keys in the car along with all the food.  Drat.  We went to bed and decided to think about it in the morning.  The next day he spent quite a while trying to break into our car without success and then Sarah called AAA and a nice man came and unlocked the car.  No worries.

I picked up Betsy and Kenyon at the airport in the afternoon, delivered them to Anna and Gordon, and Jon and I loaded up the car one more time, heading off to do the last party preparations.  This whole process was calm and drawn out, much more planned and strategic than usual.  All the mistakes and glitches didn't really matter because we were never behind schedule. Jon  had everything under control, and he even went and bought fresh cucumbers on Saturday morning because I disapproved of the condition of the cucumbers we had chopped on Friday afternoon.  I disapproved of the tomatoes too, but did the best I could with over ripe store bought tomatoes.  Jon and Dena did all the last cooking and we were ready on time.  It was quite a spread:  lots of delicious appetizers (roasted beet dip, hummus, tzatziki, eggplant dip, olives etc).  Main course was chicken kabobs and fancy meatball kabobs that are called kibbeh in some cultures. Salad was the best fattoush that Jon has ever made.

Sue's house was sparkling clean and the perfect space for a party.  The buffet fit perfectly on the counter, drinks fit on another counter and there were plenty of seats.  The house filled up with nice people and the party was underway.  We ate and we talked and we ate and talked some more.  Eventually I interrupted all the conversations and said it was time for the entertainment portion (probably not what I said, but whatever), and I introduced all the people to each other, explaining how they are connected to Jon.  This group was pretty special -- most of them have known Jon for most of their own lives, if not their whole lives. It was definitely a happy occasion.  Sarita came from San Francisco just for about 48 hours, Steve came from Albuquerque, Dena from Denver, the small contingent from Virginia, Rebecca and Alissa and her roommates, and local friends who have known Jon since their youth, plus Lilah from a half a mile away.

Sarah N. started us off with a medley written for Jon, and we all got to sing You Are My Sunshine for the last part.  People recited poems and limericks and said nice things about Jon, or about how they have known him and what that has meant to them.  Betsy and Kenyon sang an elaborate rewrite of an anthem from Jesus Christ Superstar that made us all laugh.  The last song was written by Benjamin and performed by Alissa and Rebecca, a rewrite of You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown.  They delivered it beautifully. Jon was able to enjoy and absorb all of it and he appreciated that we did not torment him with a round of Happy Birthday, nor were their candles on the three layer German Chocolate cake that Rebecca had baked (it weighed many pounds and fed everyone).  She also made a whole sheet pan full of raspberry cheesecake cupcakes -- we were too full to eat very much of that, but they were spectacular.

Since it was a party for a 60 year old, most of us were pretty old, and we were all ready to go home by about 9:30.  We cleaned up and said goodbye at 10:00.  

By all measures, it was a successful event.  And the birthday boy himself, the curmudgeon for all time, said that it was heartwarming. And he said we will never do that again.  Fortunately, he is not the boss of me.  

About Cows and Rats

Yesterday I was texting with Zach about a rat problem he is having at the pole barn in Loudoun.  At first he was going to move all his sweet potatoes out of there and retreat to safer, cleaner storage places away from the rats. But then he decided to stand his ground and wage war, rather than retreat.  I supported his decision, saying that I hate rats more than any other varmint.  The conversation rambled on into talking about other hateful varmints, but rats are at the top of both of our lists.

So then this morning I was in bed, thinking about things as I often do, I was thinking about why I hate rats so much, and my memories went back to high school time.

When I was 12, our parents decided to get a milk cow.  This had a huge impact on the next six years for everyone in our family.  Each of us had to participate regularly in the milking and maintenance of the cow.  Of course there were probably more positive moments than negative, but my main memories are of the disgusting things that happened.

While the cow was in milking mode (which is most of the year after she has a calf), she had to be milked twice a day, without exception.  We had a milking schedule: a rotation of the six of us.  For most of those years, two of us would work together but later on I think it went down to one person alone (by then I was away at college, having escaped the cow duties).

In brief:  we had to bring a clean bucket out to the cow shed, we had to get the sweet grain that would keep the cow occupied, get the cow out of the stall and put her in the stanchion.  If we were unlucky, she had spent the night or day lying down in her poop.  If we were lucky, she was relatively clean.  After we got her installed in the stanchion, we would pull up a stool or a cinderblock and use a warm bucket of soapy water to clean off her udder.  This could be a small job or a big, nasty job depending on how much wet or dry and crispy cow manure was on her udder.  This was often a direct result of how well someone had cleaned her stall, but not always.  The warm water encouraged her to let her milk down, so we had to massage her udder anyway.

Milking the cow meant putting your head right against her flank so you could lean in to get a strong hold on the teats.  We were warned about getting ringworm if we put our bare head against the cow, so we sometimes remembered to wear a hat, but certainly not always.  Other people who milked cows would laugh at our family because we did it with one of us on each side.  Most people milk a whole cow by themselves, but we split the job.  So we put our hands as high on the udder as we could and we milked her until she was dry.  

I am forgetting to talk about the gross parts, but they were a part of our daily experience:  sometimes the  cow was in a mood and she would smack us with her tail while we milked, and sometimes her tail was covered with wet manure, so we would duck our heads down as low as we could but on occasion our faces would be whipped with stripes of green-brown poop.  Sometimes she would  be ornery and she would purposely stamp her foot and put it into the milk bucket and we would have to throw out the milk.  And always there was the stall cleaning afterwards -- not necessarily gross, but a part of animal care that never goes away.  Cows can produce a voluminous amount of urine and manure, and the smells are forever imbedded in our memories.

When the cow had recently had a calf, she could produce two gallons of milk twice a day.  Later in the year, she might be down to just a couple of quarts. Either way it was a chore to deal with the milk.  We took it into the house and poured it through a fine cheesecloth, catching whatever yucky things might have fallen in.  We marked the jug with a piece of tape that said "15-1," for example -- the first number was the date and the second number told whether it was the first or second milking of the day.  Our refrigerator was always full of milk and we used it in order of age.  Sour milk went to the chickens.  All of us shook milk jugs vigorously, to mix in the cream, even years after when we did not have a cow anymore.

But what has this got to do with rats?  They are deeply associated with milking in my memories.  When we went out in the dark for the night milking, we turned the light on and just expected to experience the rustling and squeaking and movements in the sudden shadows. And once I remember a rat running directly over my foot.  I scream for mice and I definitely scream if a rat comes toward me. I hate rats more than any other varmint.

Retreating to Knit

(This is a guest post from my friend Nell.)

As you know, Hana (wisely or unwisely) often follows my example, and over the years has taken up challah making, singing in choir, hot yoga and knitting.  So when a spot opened up at a weekend knitting retreat sponsored annually by our local yarn shop, I asked her to join me, and she agreed.  It is worth noting that Hana had to leave the farm behind on a busy weekend of markets and CSA shares and picking veggies, and I am grateful to all those who stepped up to cover for her.

Hana and I have found that knitting delineates our personalities precisely.  I knit carefully, following directions, ripping out mistakes, counting and recounting, measuring, using little markers so I’ll know where I am.  Once, when a finished sweater was particularly unflattering (that’s the polite way to put it), I ripped the whole thing apart and proceeded to re-purpose the yarn by knitting a new and much better looking sweater.  (I am still knitting hats for charity out of the rest of that leftover yarn.)  Feel like you’re getting to know me?

Hana knits with abandon.  Measure before starting?  Hah, an educated guess will do.  Things not going according to plan?  Make up a way to correct it and keep going.  Find a hole (or two or three)?  It will be fine, keep going.  Lose your place in the pattern and not sure what you’re doing?  No problem, make your best guess and keep going.  On a trip and need a project, but missing a pattern?  Make one up!   And if the project doesn’t fit the intended wearer, think of someone else that it will fit instead and make a gift of it.  Someone will love it. Optimism and adaptation are Hana’s rules, in knitting and in life.  I’m still working on following her example, in life if not in knitting.

Our knitting retreat included about 50 ladies (and one young man, who worked at the shop), and most of us were of a certain age, except for a couple of daughters accompanying their mothers.  With two other friends, we drove less than an hour from home to a lovely rural conference facility, with stunning grounds covered in fall foliage.  Airlie House keeps its own garden, and they fed us sumptuously at every meal.  As Hana said, they know their stuff when they can serve so many delicious vegetables every time.  So we were spoiled, and we knitted our way from one meal to the next, from Friday afternoon until lunch on Sunday.

The shop owner had set up a mini-shop full of yummy yarns and delicious colors, with patterns to match.  The group had a quick show and tell, when everyone had a chance to say hello and share a completed project.  And we took in inspiration at every turn, as people wore their creations and shared tips and patterns.  Most of us took the opportunity to learn more about an online knitting resource, and we also took a walk to get some fresh air and enjoy the weather.

For me, the best part was the camaraderie.  We four friends shared a table with four other women, all of us attending the retreat for the first time.  Knitting was the conversation starter and the continuity, but we laughed uproariously and frequently as we talked and shared bits of our lives.  I helped a friend who is new to knitting, and Hana (now an experienced knitter) taught a new technique to another friend.  The woman next to me solved my issues with a new pattern, which had confounded me.  And we met more new people at every meal, and learned something every time.  Never in my lifetime will I get around to all the projects that called to me. 

Given the unhappy political events of last week, the timing was perfect.  I realized after we returned that I had taken a “news-cation,” not reading or hearing any news for almost 36 hours.  Knitting, laughing and learning with friends in a beautiful place was a wonderful antidote.  I’m hoping that we will repeat it.

Super Moon

I was driving back from the stand on my golf cart, with no headlights on -- the moon was bright enough to make shadows.  I was almost to the gate near Blueberry Hill when I sensed a dark something to my right. It moved.  I turned on my headlights and saw two deer moving quickly uphill, away from me.  By the time I got myself turned around, they were gone, but still inside the fence. I hate to allow deer to stay inside the fence.  Without much hope for finding them, I drove all the way back to the pig pen and started working my way along the inside edge of the deer fence.  I could tell they were in the underbrush next to Carrie's house but it was too dark for me to get them by myself.  Alas.  The irony is that Roger the deer hunter has been here for days, hunting further down in the woods, and he is sleeping in Darryl's room.  As I zoomed to the pig pen I saw the lights on there but I knew there was nothing to be done. Roger can't shoot deer with a bow in the dark.  I just wanted to harass those deer before going home.  Uncharacteristically, I gave up.  But I closed the gate so they would have a hard time leaving and I might be able to rustle them up when it gets light tomorrow.  I believe that you need to make them really uncomfortable when they come inside the fence.  They don't know the difference between inside and outside but they can learn there is a crazy person in that region and they should avoid her at all costs.

This postcard was written by a crazy person, no doubt.

I Do Love Little Pigs

For at least five years and probably more, we have invited some pigs to come stay at the farm each summer.  This is all my passion, but other people have come to love the pigs too.  I don't like indoor pets and we could only have a dog if we lived somewhere that it was safe for a dog to run around loose.  But pigs are just about perfect.  They eat everything, they are easily pleased, they are cute, and they have small needs. And they give us a reason to save all our leftovers -- they eat anything leafy, anything cooked, they love pumpkins.  They are always ready to eat, so it makes visiting them and feeding them deeply satisfying.

Nowadays we borrow the pigs from Bev (if you have ever read The Omnivore's Dilemma, Bev is described admiringly by Michael Pollan).  Bev owns Eco-Friendly Foods and he built a slaughterhouse (NO SMALL FEAT) that meets the national standards as well as the animal friendly standards. It is a slaughterhouse but the animals are treated with dignity.  Anyway, Bev connects up farmers with the market by being the middle man.  He works incredibly hard and is still trying to get out of debt.  Somehow he understands me and my need to have little pigs on the farm and he makes that happen.  Not necessarily in a timely manner, but when I ask him to bring me some pigs in the early summer, he rounds up three pigs that seem promising and delivers them.  

We all feed the pigs, talk to the pigs, and make them people friendly.  They usually arrive pretty skittish and shy. By the time they go home in November, they are pigs who like attention -- while they eat, I lean over the fence and scratch one on the back and she leans into me, pretending I am not there.  We only accept small pigs in case they get out and need to be rounded up.  All the boys know how to catch a pig and Peio arrived with pig skills. Generally speaking, we women are not inclined to throw ourselves on a squealing pig but we will round them up by leading them home with food (Carrie, while pregnant, got three little pigs to come home by luring them with a bunch of celery.).

Last week Bev texted me to say he was coming to pick up the pigs sometime around 1:30 in the afternoon.  Usually I am here when they go, but this time I couldn't be here. I told Carrie to watch for Bev and help him.  At 3:00 I get a call from my mother:  "Where are you?"  "On the way to Loudoun." "Are you on your way out or on your way home?"  "On the way out."  "Where is Jon?"  "Shopping.  What do you need?"  "The pigs are out."  "I thought Bev picked them up about an hour ago."  Silence.  We hang up.  I text Michael B and tell him to help Grandma catch the pigs.  I text Carrie and tell her the pigs are out.  I text Bev: "Now you are in trouble! My mother just called to tell me that the pigs are out and I told her you had already picked them up!"  After a pause, he writes back: "On our way back now. Door wasn't latched completely."  And Carrie texts me:  "Bev picked them up 30 minutes ago."

I am mystified by this information and I wait impatiently for more updates.

It turns out that Bev had arrived at about 2:45 and, with Carrie's help, it took them about two minutes to load three very cooperative pigs into the trailer.  Carrie closed the gate and Bev drove away. Carrie had to go pick up Zoey so she left immediately.  No one noticed that the gate opened up and the pigs walked back out of the trailer before Bev got more than a few feet from the pen, probably.  Apparently people were honking and waving at Bev as he drove up Route 7, trying to tell him about his open gate, but he didn't notice.  Apparently he didn't know that the pigs were not with him until I texted him.

Meanwhile, Michael found the pigs running back up the hill through the woods, returning from the Vegetable Field.  He followed them back to the pen where my mother and Michael L. were trying to understand why the fence was wide open.  Bev came back and they all put the pigs back in the trailer and he left again.  He told Carrie that it wasn't her fault -- he should have checked the gate before he left.

One more story: Last year Bev came after dark and the two of us rounded up some uncooperative pigs, using flashlights.  They wanted nothing to do with us.  Finally we had the big one boxed into a horse stall and we had a plan that I would move her toward Bev and he would catch her.  He caught her by a back leg but she squirmed away and ran toward me as I was trying to block an open doorway.  So I had to do what the boys do and I dropped to my knees and threw myself on the pig.  Pigs scream terribly when you catch them, and you have to hold on tight.  I was laughing so hard, holding on to one leg, waiting for Bev to rescue me, and he did.  He lifted that big squirming pig over his shoulders and put her into the trailer, which is much more than I could have done. The second pig he did all by himself, which was absolutely fine with me.

Rebecca says I like the pigs more than I like my own children.  That is a gross exaggeration, of course. But I do appreciate the pigs for all their fine qualities, and they are so much simpler than human children. And Bev tells us that he usually lets them grow up to be moms to see if they will be good moms. If they are people friendly they have a better chance or something.  

I call it the Peter Pan Pig Spa because they are always young, and they get completely coddled here.  Why not?  Every pig deserves to be coddled.  I don't really mind if they get eaten as long as they have had a fulfilling pig life.

An Extra Thick Slice of Life

In the last eight days we have had a chance to see just about everyone we know in this area.  And all the farm stuff has continued on each day.

Last Wednesday was Yom Kippur -- our temple leaders decided to move us all back to our own building for the holidays, for the first time in decades.  They figured out how to do it, and it worked beautifully. For our part, we closed the farm, moved the CSA to a different day for that week, and spent the day singing and listening and thinking and sitting shoulder to shoulder with our temple community.  Shoulder to shoulder because they had to rent tiny little uncomfortable folding chairs to fit more in the sanctuary. 

On Thursday Jon and I went to Ford's Theater and saw a musical about Gander, Newfoundland when the planes had to come down out of the air on September 11.  A tiny community of 7000 residents welcomed and hosted about 7000 random travelers who suddenly arrived and stayed for 5 days, bewildered but cared for.  The music was great and the production was lively and clever and memorable.

Saturday was Blueberry Hill Day, a day that we all set aside to play together, eat together, teach and learn, and lie on the grass talking.  It turned out to be a gorgeous day, clear blue sky, perfect temperature.  We started with a parade with decorated golf carts as floats, and musical instruments and crazy hats and much silliness.  Then a field day with games and activities that all the little kids and some of the more mobile adults played.  Then we just lounged around on the grass and talked until lunch was served. Jon had been volunteered (by you know who) to cook lunch for 60 and he did his signature job.   Alissa was here visiting that weekend so he had excellent help with the prep. In the afternoon there were a series of one hour classes -- learning to make pasta, making milk from nuts, making apple butter, writing, Tai Chi.  Then another 60 person meal but this time it was a giant potluck.  It was an excellent day.

On Sunday afternoon Jon and Alissa and I went to a big rally organized by Virginians Organized for Interfaith Community Engagement (VOICE).  Our congregation participates in this group, but not very avidly.  Only a couple of us remain consistently engaged but this time our rabbi wanted to bring a large group from our temple and we rounded up 69 people -- he had promised to bring 50, so that was good.  This event deserves a postcard of its own, but I can just say that it was the most effective, well run "action" of its type that I have been to in five years.  The high school auditorium was filled with people of all faiths.  At 4:00 there was a Call to Prayer by an imam, who translated all the words, and then about 150 Muslims quietly left to go and pray.  The speakers were mostly all clergy folks with a lot of energy, appopriately brief and punchy remarks, very much on point and full of passion. The point of the gathering of 1000 was to hear the commitments of local officials to work on issues that VOICE has identified as high priority -- public school funding, affordable housing, gun violence, immigration.  As is the VOICE way, they had individuals tell their stories (briefly and effectively) about how these issues have affected their lives.  This is the most potent piece of what VOICE does.  Gets people to tell stories to each other and gets people in power to listen. 

On Monday we had a day off from large community gatherings and we just did farm work.

Tuesday Jon and I went to Arena Stage and saw a Lillian Hellman classic, The Little Foxes.  It was full of characters that were understandable but amoral, and the women were struggling with their powerlessness (1900 in Alabama), and it felt quite timely with the current political spectacle that we are all enduring, as the topic was mostly about family inheritance and wealth and bad behavior.

Wednesday was a regular day ending with a common meal, just normal stuff with tours and hayrides and packing 150 CSA shares.  Oh, I went to a neighbor's house to watch the presidential debate with about 20 other neighbors, as is our custom.  Jon watches it at home, as is his custom.

And then last night we had our Venison and Vegetables dinner here in Loudoun.  This event was originated by our deer hunter friends many years ago, and we used to host it at our house, and then at the Vienna farm, and now we have moved it out to this big and beautiful venue.  It is a party that takes one hour of preparation and almost no one ever sends an RSVP to my single email.  We invite all the farmers who live on these original 400 acres in Wheatland, plus all the workers from our farm, plus anyone else who might enjoy a farm potluck on short notice.  Roger the deer hunter spent the afternoon watching over his grill, making sure the venison would be just perfect (it always is because he is a perfectionist), Jon and Michael strung up some lights from the Christmas tree lot over the parking area in front of the Green Barn, pulled some tables out of a market truck, and created an outdoor party. We had done this once before last year so we knew what it should look like.  And then people arrived with salads and desserts and drinks and we sat outside on the most beautiful summer-like evening at the end of another warm spell.  Coincidentally, a beloved worker from the 1970s was coming for a visit, driving down from Ithaca NY, and he and his wife arrived with the rest of the crowd, and they knew many of us because many of us have been here for 40-some years. It would have been hard to arrange a more appropriate event for them.  

Not every week is like this.  This one was extra chunky.

This is us having our weekly Farm Yoga class outside because it was such a gorgeous day on Thursday. The grass felt much better on our knees than the concrete floor of the Green Barn.

The morning after the Venison party. 

40th Reunion

When Jon came back from a weekend reunion last year with some of his college friends, he said he couldn't get the voice patterns of his friend Al out of his head. They had driven down to North Carolina together -- an eight hour drive -- and back again, so he got a full dose.  He had stories to tell about the guys who he knew well about 40 years ago and those conversations stuck with him for days.

I didn't have to travel so far, but I just went to my 40th high school reunion this weekend and I feel like the same thing happened to me.  All these people who I haven't seen since I was a teenager -- some of them were barely recognizable and some looked so much the same -- are now stuck in my head.  I was not expecting to have a very good time at this event but I went because the organizer is so earnest and dogged and hard-working: it seemed ungrateful to ignore his email and Facebook pleas when I only had to drive 12 minutes to get to the American Legion Hall in Vienna.

Others went on the tour of our recently renovated high school building and to the football game and bowling and to a pub, but I skipped all that.  I just went to the night time gathering on Saturday and I did not even think to invite Jon to come with me.  That seemed totally unnecessary. 

We were all surprised to be old enough to be at a 40th reunion.  And yet, it was somehow the right amount of time for us to have forgotten what it was really like to be in high school so we could basically ignore whatever our old patterns were. The shy people weren't shy anymore and the cool people weren't cool.  We were just a bunch of old people brought together by a shared history.  It was plenty interesting hearing the life stories and staring at all that time had done to the bodies of those formerly youthful people. A bald head really changes the look of a high school boy.  And some of the women had changed their hair color completely, which was confusing.

The main organizer, Kevin, had decided that we didn't need anything fancy and he didn't need a big budget.  We were in a modest but satisfactory space, we had unremarkable but edible food, there was a cash bar, and we sat on folding chairs around round tables. There weren't enough chairs or tables so the groups kept shifting and re-forming as people got up and stole chairs, making everything much less static than if we had been in a hotel ball room with enough seats for all.  Our graduating class had about 530 of us, and Kevin had rounded up 70 for this evening, in addition to some who went to those gatherings I skipped.

Most of my closest friends were not there.  That is usually the case at reunions.  But that means that I end up talking to people that I did not know as well, and I often find that I like people that I would never have thought I would like.  That's what happens when the cool people aren't cool anymore. We start over. I spent a lot of time with a lady who moved out of the suburbs to live on Furnace Mountain on 30 acres in a modular house and who is now an environmental educator of some kind. I would never have predicted that future for her.  I listened to the crazy dreams and ambitions of a truly irrepressible (not sure that is the word I want) entrepreneur who has run for public nine times and never won.  He always has another idea for making it big and he is lucky that he inherited a propane business from his father so he can finance some of those ideas.

A friend from yearbook and most of my interesting classes had offered to host a brunch on Sunday, with an open invitation to anyone from those groups.  It seemed likely there would only be three of us (who did know and like each other well 40 years ago) but we ended up with 8 semi-connected but nice people at her dining room table the next day.  We stayed for three hours, talking about the present and not so much about the past. I was kind of interested that we didn't really talk about our children, who are mostly grown and gone, except as examples of something in today's society.  I used to be quite shy but I seem to be over that and the conversation was lively -- most of us have jobs that interest us and we all have opinions on everything. I don't think there were any Trump supporters in the room (phew) but there was one devoted Gary Johnson fan who had traveled back to Virginia from Arizona for this reunion.

When I went to the 30th reunion, I told myself I wasn't going to any more of those because it was boring and weird. But this time maybe we had all finally outgrown our high school selves and maybe the people who came didn't have anything to prove, they were just curious.  It was a lot more fun and interesting than I feared and I will try to round up some more people next time.  

Choreography of a Farm Day

Yesterday was supposed to be a Mellow Monday.  Carrie had a doctor's appointment for Zoey's one year check-up, I had a date with Laura Cooper at the Leesburg Diner for breakfast.  Mondays are worker-free on the Vienna farm so that we can make choices about what we do and we are not responsible for anyone but ourselves.  In truth, this summer has not had many authentic Mellow Mondays, but there have been a few.

There were a couple of farm things we wanted to get done because rain was in the forecast for Monday night and the whole week was predicted to be unsettled and possibly wet. So Carrie and I planned to spend a couple of hours in Loudoun in the most gorgeous bean patch ever (they are often stunning at this time of year, and this one is exceptional), picking beans for the CSA this week.

The tiny Monday crew in Loudoun was going to use the mechanical digger to get the sweet potatoes up to the surface so they could be retrieved when we had a bigger crew on Tuesday.  That is a three person job, with one on the tractor and two following behind on their knees, pulling the vines and potatoes off the digger so everything doesn't get tangled up. There were four beds left, 200 feet long, out of the original 12 beds.  It was not a small job for three people, getting those potatoes to the top.

Plans change all the time, and we have to be ready for a new plan at any moment. We did have a lovely breakfast in Leesburg (Laura was en route to Nova Scotia by car, and we were just meeting at a mutually convenient place), exactly one hour long because the parking meter patrols are super vigilant and I only had $1.50 in change -- and I needed to get to the beans.  By the time I got to Loudoun, Ellen had decided that we should actually pick up all the sweet potatoes and get them out of the field, not just dig them and leave them for Tuesday. She was on her knees with the crew picking up potatoes, when she had lots of other things to do.

But I really didn't want to dig sweet potatoes, I wanted to pick beans as this was my only chance until Thursday.  So I resolutely went past the three people who were working so hard at a job that was bigger than the three of them, and I settled into the beans.  I could help with the sweet potato project in other ways -- I started to make phone calls, even though it was slowing down my bean hands.  It isn't really that easy to round up workers with no notice at all, on a Monday, but I found a supplemental group of four more people:  Susan Planck and a neighbor friend plus a worker that we share with a farm next door plus a Lovettsville mom who works at the stand on the weekends.  So then there were seven people on their knees picking up potatoes and I could pick beans with no guilt.  Carrie joined me after dropping Zoey off at day care (not so happy because of all the shots she got at her check-up) and picking up some chicken feed on the way.  We picked 21 ponies of beans, without even noticing. Instead of the usual 20-30 minutes per basket, these beans were coming in at 10 minutes a basket. That's how gorgeous this field is. Incredible.

Meanwhile, in the field next to us, the crew finished getting the last potatoes out and loaded up 132 ponies onto trucks and wagon.

Then Carrie had to go get Zoey, so she went home and Ecole and I loaded up the truck with the day's haul.  We have become quite adept at filling a vehicle from floor to ceiling, layering and stacking.  Every load is a masterpiece which most people would not really appreciate. I have to drive like an old lady until I get off the farm, so the crates of beets won't fall on the flowers that are tucked in by the back door.

When I got back to Vienna, my customary welcoming committee (Carrie and Zoey) were not there because sometimes our phones just don't cooperate with each other. Carrie says her phone was on Anti-Hana mode and my text came in 90 minutes later.  So I unloaded by myself and headed up to the next project. It was 6 PM and I had almost an hour and a half before it got too dark to continue.

Here's the choreography that was planned, mostly.  Jon had hooked up tractors for me, in anticipation of a small time window at the end of the day.  He is my pit crew -- he makes it possible for me to work on two farms on the same day.  He was at a Nationals game with a neighbor when I got home, but he had left everything in order.  I dumped 400 pounds of fertilizer into the spreader (one 50 pound bag at a time), and went off to spread.  Then I got on the next tractor and disked that all in.  By now it was getting dark. I texted Carrie, and got through this time, asking if she would walk the seed in for me while I held Zoey.  So she found the seeder that was hidden in the refrigerator for some reason and she got the 50 bag of clover seed and we met up.   Zoey and I drove her on the golf cart from patch to patch as night fell, and she walked back and forth, cranking the handle, sprinkling the seeds that we could not see but we could hear.

It was an excellent day.

50 Shabbat Dinners

I am a member of the Social Action Committee at the temple, and about a year ago we were tasked, like all the committees, with coming up with some way to celebrate/mark the 50 year anniversary of NVHC.  The idea of having 50 Shabbat dinners appealed to me, and I said we should do it.  I even said I would help to chair the project.  Luckily, even though I said that, no one really believed me.  There are two other women on the committee who are natural do-ers, and they did all the work. I have been relegated to the role of generating ideas and opinions (not hard for me), so they keep me in the loop and I go to the meetings, but they let me just be a full time farmer while they made it happen.

Last night there were 50 simultaneous Shabbat dinners  hosted around the NVHC world, kicking off the Jubilee year.  Everyone I know from temple was either a guest or a host and, by all reports, it was a major success.  The idea was that people would host a table full of people they did not know. It could be a potluck or they could cook the whole meal, whatever they wanted.  There were no services on Friday night.  Over 500 people sat down together, meeting each other for the first time, often.

Jon and I volunteered to host, of course, and we used the Common House.  In the end, we were paired with some more hosts (not enough guests for all the hosts who volunteered) -- the President and his wife, one of the do-ers who made it all come true.  She made the melt-in-your-mouth brisket and baked the challah and Jon cooked all the side dishes. 

Since it was Friday, of course, I left the house at 6:15 in the dark and never came back until it was time to take a shower for dinner.  Zoomed up the hill at 5:30 and arrived at the Common House at 5:45.  Unfortunately I didn't even think to bring flowers for the table, even though I had been bunching flowers just minutes before.  We hadn't done any thinking about decorating -- there was just a big empty table (or six tables pushed together, really) leftover from a recent Blueberry Hill meeting.

Our group was four families with toddlers, essentially.  None of them knew each other, not one.  They gathered at the tot lot and played for a while, waiting for people to arrive.  Jon was bustling around the kitchen, Julie and I worked on setting the table (if it had been at her house, the table would have been set in the morning, with matching dishes).  I was pondering what a lot of work it would be to walk all the way to the farm with those little kids (to see the chickens, etc.) and it suddenly occurred to me that we should have a quick hayride while Jon finished making dinner.

So Jon went to the farm and got the tractor and wagon and we had a hayride.  First stop was the stand so we could gather up some gourds and pumpkins for the table. Then to the pigs and chickens, then back for dinner.  It was definitely a hit.

As it happened, all the mothers were Jewish and none of the dads were.  One of the fathers had never been to a Shabbat dinner before.  Goodness.  We sang the blessings and we had dinner.  People just talked and talked. I had assumed it would end early with all these little kids, but no one seemed to be in a hurry to go home.  It was all very comfortable and good, and the kids ended the evening by jumping on the couch, and using the pillows as a road across the floor. I sent everyone home with gourds and pumpkins (partly so I wouldn't have to take them all back down to the stand, partly because it is fun to have a present).

We definitely feel lucky to have the Common House -- it allows us to host an event with almost no forethought other than cooking.  Clean up is straightforward afterwards. We don't have to fight our way through our own clutter.

We didn't have any of the conversations that the Social Action Committee contemplated, but this particular group wasn't really suited for that.  Besides, there were no long, awkward silences to fill.  And now the Social Action Committee can sit back and enjoy the rest of the Jubilee events, whatever they may be.

Riled Up

This story doesn't have an end yet, so this is just the introduction.  But I am riled up enough that I have to write it all down before we even get to the punch line, whatever it may be.

Today while we were in the middle of an unusually chaotic CSA morning -- Stephen and Cory were building the next air conditioned room, which is right where we usually fill CSA bags, so we were all discombobulated and working on top of each other with the loud sounds of power tools drowning out our usual mundane vegetable conversation -- when I got a phone call from a number I didn't recognize.  It was the guy who is overseeing the development of Maymont.  He and I have worked together on various issues for about ten years but we haven't had much contact lately. He was calling to let me know that some of our neighbors are complaining about a shed that is unattractive and possibly a hazard.  I told him this was a slippery slope: if our neighbors are asking us to take down a shed now, what will be next?  It was not one of our best conversations (I said we didn't ask the neighbor to take down his house because it is ugly) but I told him to have the homeowner contact me directly.

Then I wrote a follow-up email to him, much more even-handed and moderate in tone, repeating that I would like to talk to the homeowner whose children are apparently endangering themselves by going into this dilapidated structure.

That afternoon I got a brief message from Ashley, the "Assistant Community Manager" writing from her office in Gaithersburg, asking me if we were going to take the shed down, as there had been complaints and it was a safety issue.

Now I was riled up, and I couldn't even take a nap on the couch.  I wrote her back, asking why it was a safety issue.  Was it because people were going into the shed?  On our property?  Again I asked her to tell the homeowner to contact me directly.  I should have asked her what shed she was talking about, and to describe it please, and to tell me where it is. She has no idea. She is some unfortunate person with the job of sending me a message that is coming from a homeowner who doesn't like what he sees when he looks off his deck into our woods.

So then at the common meal tonight I still wanted to talk about this.  Stephen is worried about how brash I am sounding, and how combative.  But I have to get it out of my system. He worries that people with resources who are disgruntled have power and they could make our lives a misery.  I can be quite charming if I need to be, and I am not going to be mean to this person who is uncomfortable with his view of our woods.  But I can also be like Trump (this alarms Stephen) and I am happy to tell the homeowner that he should build a wall between our property and his, at his expense of course.  Stephen points out that we get away with a lot of non-Fairfax County-ish activities on this farm and we don't want to jeopardize our happy existence.  I am surprised at how skittish he is.

Stephen's friend Cory, who is the voice of reason in every possible way, does not see that this is such a big issue.  The shed needs to come down, it isn't doing anyone any good.  I agree with that, but I don't want to do it on someone else's schedule but on our dime.  I would be happy to accept someone else's schedule if he is offering to pay for the deconstruction -- and to have it done in such a way that we can salvage the materials that we want.

So we will wait to see if anyone gets in touch.  All of my worst tendencies are coming out -- the kids cringe when I get like this -- but we made it through the construction of Blueberry Hill and the subsequent construction of the mansions next door and everyone stayed on good terms even though I had to rant in private, often, before behaving appropriately in public.

There are several issues that are bothering me:
1. You don't own your view. You own your property.  If you want someone to make your view better, you have to ask, and you have to offer something in return.
2. The homeowner has not come forward on his own.  He has asked others to deliver his message.
3. That building has been there for 50 years and it was certainly there when the guy bought his house.  Did he assume it would go away?
4. What about the issue of trespassing?  There are prominent No Trespassing signs on that building, posted after a small gang of boys were prowling around our property on multiple occasions.
5. This is an issue that could potentially cause this farm to lose its viability in this location. If neighbors decide they don't like what they see, they can focus their energies on getting us to go.  And this will bring out the fight in me. Nothing good can come of that.

Farmers and Ship Captains: Do It Yourself

About six weeks ago we were at a common meal and one of my neighbors who I don't know very well came up to me and asked me if I would officiate at her wedding.  I was taken aback, since she isn't in the usual category of people who ask me this question.  Maybe 15 years ago one of our old workers asked me to be the master of ceremonies at her wedding (the couple had already been married by a justice of the peace, so this was less stressful than it might have been).  Then my lifelong friend Laura Cooper called me about three weeks before her wedding and asked me to step in, as her first choice had fallen through.  This was a real one and I had to work hard on the plane ride to Seattle to write my part.  And then almost two years ago my sister Anna asked me to officiate, another real one, and that one was super easy.  There is nothing easier than writing a marriage homily for someone you know and love.  My first three experiences as the officiant all went very well because of my relationship to the wedding couples.

I wasn't at all sure why my neighbor was asking me, and I said so.  She had asked our neighbor Kenyon, who does seem perfect as an officiant in every possible way, and he had pointed her to me.  I didn't know what to say, except that we would need to get to know each other a little better if I was really going to do this.  So we met twice, making appointments for Saturday afternoons (I was late both times, forgetting once and getting distracted by the arrival of pigs the second time), and I asked the couple to tell me their story.  They have a 9 month old baby who was born with lots of health complications (resolving well) and they have been through a lot together already, even though they have known each other for less than two years. 

This couple was married in a courthouse a year ago, so the pressure was not so terrible -- we wouldn't really be able to mess it up.  The extended families of the new parents were completely involved in the planning and execution of the event.  The bride's family is French, cooks delicious and amazing French food, and the groom's family has many talents as well.  I was not involved at all in the planning or preparation for this party. I just had to be ready at 3:00 on Sunday with my part written.  Actually, I had to be ready for the rehearsal at 5:00 the day before.  There were lots and lots of people with opinions, and I got to overrule everyone and make one major change in the plans -- and they listened to me because I was the officiant.  Their plan was to have everyone sitting at tables that were already set, and have the wedding happening in the middle of the tent on the dance floor.  I nixed that. I said all the people had to be close around us in chairs and the people could move their own chairs back to the tables afterwards. This was not a cabaret, this was a wedding.  I was, of course, right.

I had learned from Laura's husband Stuart, the ship's pilot, that a wedding should be rehearsed until the blocking is completely memorized. We should not rely on our brains on the wedding day.  Before Laura's wedding, at Stuart's insistence, we did five run-throughs of the ceremony (without speaking any of the words). This paid off because we had to move the event indoors at the last minute, cramming ourselves into a space that was meant for the reception, not the ceremony, and since we were all so rehearsed, it went perfectly.  So, we rehearsed the sequence on Saturday evening until everyone could do it without vocal instructions.

On Sunday morning I had to sort tomatoes for the Takoma Park load, help them load up, pick flowers for the wedding, set up the CSA for the 130 customers who would be very confused if the room was not as they expect it to be every Sunday and then I had to figure out what I wanted to wear in the middle of an August afternoon for an outdoor wedding. 

I don't know if this is the family culture or what, but there was no wedding party in evidence at 3 PM.  People were arriving slowly, and gravitating toward the Common House with the air conditioning and the food.  I sat in the tent and waited for something to happen.  Sophie's uncle was setting up the sound system so we practiced with the microphones. We waited.  After about half an hour I started to wonder what was going on.  By 3:45 we were ready to roll.

Everything went beautifully.  It was a real wedding.  I was not nervous at all (how times have changed) and I felt like we were all doing something meaningful and homemade and serious.  The bride was beautiful.  The flowers were lovely. My words were right.  Despite my repeated requests for a copy of their vows, they had never produced them for me, so right in the middle of the ceremony, after the I Do part, I asked them if they had anything they wanted to say.  Chris did a nice job of speaking from the heart, and Sophie pulled a crumpled piece of paper from somewhere in her dress.  It was perfect.

At the end of the day, after a choir rehearsal that I could barely stay awake for, I was completely wilted.  I was so glad I was not part of the crew that had to clean up after the wedding.  I have been there on multiple occasions, and I know now to appreciate the times when that is not my job.

The title of this post refers to the role of farmers and ship captains as people who marry and bury people.  We do it all.

Dew

I imagine that there are lots of people who never know if there is dew on the grass in the morning.  Sometimes there is and sometimes there isn't, and it makes a big difference in my work experience in the earliest moments of the day.

Way back in the olden days when we used to pick corn every morning -- just after dawn -- we generally expected a heavy dew.  This was before the invention of all those waterproof fabrics, and we probably would not have had them anyway.  Heck, most of us don't wear waterproof clothing even now.  It's too expensive and too hot.  Anyway, we wore long sleeved turtlenecks and blue jeans, and sometimes we even wrapped our faces in a bandana.  Without dew, that was a lot of clothing.  But we were plunging into a field of corn, usually taller than we were, and every leaf was coated with water.  We were soaked from head to toe within a few minutes.  It kept us cool after the day began to warm up, and corn picking only took a few hours at the most.  By the time we were finished, the leaves were dry and could slice the skin on our cheeks and necks if we didn't keep our heads down and protect our faces by carrying the basket of corn out on our shoulders.

So on the rare day when the temperature did not drop enough in the night to get to the dew point, we would arrive in the field to find a scratchy, unpleasant task ahead of us.  We hated those days.  Then we had to grit our teeth (holding our bandana in our teeth so it would stay up) and sweat.

Nowadays, there are no full body experiences like that at dawn. I pick flowers once a week just as the colors emerge and it reminds me of those early morning corn picks.  The zinnias are as tall as I am, and the dew soaks into my clothes.  I used to calculate how much money the flowers were worth per hour, and I think it was competitive with sweet corn.  Not as athletic, certainly, and much more solitary, but the tendrils of fog just above the ground and the dripping leaves and the sun just coming over the trees bring back those soggy first moments, decades ago.

And I still feel cheated when it is dry at 6 AM.  Cheated and hot. This morning was one of those dewless dawns when you have about 12 minutes before you start to sweat.  I do wonder how many people even know about the range of moisture that is possible in those first minutes.  I am guessing the native Americans had about 25 words to describe the various levels of dew.  I could certainly use more.  Late August and into September -- that's when there is the most dew. 

We are into real dew season now.  It is thick with memories and associations -- my father when he was alive and strong, my mother when she had a long black braid and she wore white dress shirts to pick corn, my sisters and brother when they were part of the daily work, the crew in 1980, Jon when he first arrived, and so many mornings in the 1990s when I went alone to Loudoun to pick, when I was the only cornpicker left.

TV In the Living Room

Every four years, Jon gets to bring the TV downstairs to the living room so he can watch the Olympics.  He loves the Olympics.  So our house is a destination for TV watchers for two weeks.

The scene at this moment:  a crowd is waiting to watch Michael Phelps swim his last race.  On one couch is Peio (from Spain), Julia (from Berlin and Lexington), Stephen (from Virginia).  Next to them is Benjamin's good friend Mike from Boston.  Alissa and David (from Australia) share a chair.  Benjamin and Yael (from Israel) share a spot on the other couch, with Anna and Rebecca rounding out the front row.  Jon and I are in the back row.  Rebecca is doing all the google research, every time there is a question, and she fills in lots of other back story in between. There is lots of commentary and conjecture and joking, but everyone is focused on the events.

Outside there is swampy, heavy heat -- if you go outside, it feels like you are walking into a hot, wet pillow.  Thank goodness for air conditioning.  We are oblivious tonight, talking about Simone Biles and Michael Phelps and Katy Ledecky. We are enjoying our role as comfortable, scarcely educated armchair commentators.

Both the U.S. men and the women just won their relays.  We take satisfaction in being part of the American cheering squad.

Tomorrow about half of this crowd will be loading up for market and some of them will be doing school work.  And I will be outside for most of the day, as wet as the swimmers, but without the benefit of all that athleticism.

Mellow Monday

Last Monday I realized I didn't have to work all day -- things were under control and I could consider taking a day off.  When we were envisioning the season, months ago, Carrie and I said we were going to take real days off. I would take Mondays and she would take Thursdays. My Mondays would be non-farm days with all kinds of choices. Her Thursdays would be devoted to Zoey, her baby.  It has not happened that way for either of us. Part of the reason is that because she has a baby, sometimes this means that one of us needs to be available to cover for the other so one of us can get something done.  Not all day, but at odd times when the babysitter is gone for the day. Sometimes we just need to keep farming, one way or another. I am technically not the babysitter in any way, but if I really want Carrie to get out there and plant beets before the rain, and it is 5 PM, then the simplest thing is for me to take Zoey and let Carrie work.  This is not a burden for me, as Zoey is a pleasure and I like having a baby to play with.

But back to Monday.  It was the only day that I might be able to spend some time with Benjamin. He has been visiting for a while, but I don't see him much since he is working on projects or hanging out with a friend who was here for a week, and he hasn't been in the fields. We are not a family that intentionally spends time together except at dinnertime.  We seem to assume we will see each other enough just by being in the same house.

So, I came in from morning meeting, where I had said I didn't want any jobs for myself, and I announced to Benjamin that we could do something, go somewhere, if we wanted, and so could Jon.  After a moment of surprise, Benjamin got on the computer and looked around for activities that would match our needs.  He decided we should go to the Library of Congress.

Of course we layered some errands onto the trip, so there were several stops to make before we got into DC.  Benjamin was jammed into the tiny back seat of the truck because the air conditioner doesn't work in our car -- so he was grousing about the temperature (too cold) and the lack of space (justified).

The Library of Congress is historically interesting, the building is recently renovated, with paintings and sculptures and literary quotations all around the walls and ceiling. It was built in the late 1800s.  There were some exhibits to wander through. We looked at some maps, learned about a journalist/activist Jacob Riis and his mission to show everyone how the other half lives (in tenements) in the late nineteenth century.  The three of us have some practice at going through historical museums together.  This one was pretty lightweight.  We saw the Gutenberg Bible but it didn't come with a lot of background information.
Anyway, after not very long we were finished with being amongst a bunch of tourists.  Benjamin wanted to get into the Reading Room so he could touch some  books.

We crossed the street and he and Jon went into the Madison Building to get the proper documentation to be allowed into the Reading Room.  I sat outside with Benjamin's camera which uses real film -- he didn't want to send it through another X-ray machine.  They got their identity cards, but by then we had lost momentum and we were hot and ready for lunch.

There is a restaurant that has been on Jon's list for a while, a fast casual place created and owned by Jose Andres.  We didn't know much about it, but it's called Beefsteak and it is a vegetarian restaurant.  So we drove to Tenleytown and got lunch.  You choose from a big variety of pre-chopped vegetables, they steam them, you choose a sauce and a grain.  After we had eaten most of our bowl of healthy vegetables, we began the critique.  Benjamin didn't like the lack of a flavor theme. They give no direction about how to make something coherent.  You get to make all the choices and they don't necessarily go together.  We like sauces and flavors and this place was missing a flavor path.  So it was not a success. Also, to my picky taste in vegetables, these were nothing special.  I feel like they were sort of supermarket quality vegetables.  Whatever.

Our last errand was picking up seven bags of chicken feed from Nick Maravell in Potomac.  He grows certified organic grain and is also the father of Benjamin's past girlfriend (who is lovely and we all still love her), so when we just dropped by unannounced, Nick's wife whose-name-I-cannot-remember was gracious and gave us a tour of her brand new art studio.  That may have been the highlight of the day.  She has a spacious, beautiful building where she can paint and store all her materials and keep her paintings in a safe environment.  New buildings fascinate all of us, so we took a long look at all the choices she made. Lots of big windows and light colored wood and a big deck and so much storage space.

At the end of the day, Benjamin's assessment was that we had not learned anything.  Well, he learned how to get a card so he can go into the Library of Congress Reading Room anytime in the next two years.  He learned not to go to Beefsteak again.  But it wasn't like one of the days we spent in Spain, that's for sure. It did feel familiar and nice to be wandering around together but we are spoiled by our international venues. The next time we have a day to spend with just the three of us, we will probably be in a foreign country, and the food will be better.