I am convinced, after a short week, that the best definition for the word, "farmer," is one who has an unconditional love and respect for all life. I see a farm as life unplugged. Life unvarnished. Whether it be a baby being born in a farm house, or animals having animals in a paddock or stall. Of course, there is the simple, yet incredibly complex, rooting of plants to the earth.
After two days of hay bailer problems, Farmer Brown tells me he's coasting. We meet mid-morning when he catches me inspecting my tomato and pepper plants. Most of them look pretty good, thanks to last night's bottled spring water bath.
"Hi, Ben!"
"Hi." I say little because I'm still afraid he's going to tell me about "second thoughts." That it's not working. Of course, there's no rational reason to fear this scenario. I just think that the past few years of dealing with iffy business situations has shaken my faith. I've become used to expecting bad, hoping for good.
"I think your plants are going to need a watering."
"I did last night... bought about forty gallons of spring water at Stop & Shop."
"Why would you do that?"
"They were drooping... had to do something. Desperate."
"We're having record heat today. I think they need watering. They're too small to survive this heat. Roots aren't strong enough to branch out and pull moisture in."
"Hmmm..."
He motions to the lower level of the old dairy barn that runs the length of my field. They now use it for the slaughter, storage and sale of their seasonal turkey crop. Of course, I'm thinking about deer ticks and nettles as we march through waist-high brush to get to the basement.
"I think we can hook up a hose here," he tells me, as he makes a mental list of bushings and valves as I try to adjust my eyes to the near-darkness.
When I return to the farm, three hours later, with bushings, hoses, and bulk plant food, I find a hose already connected. I realize that Farmer Brown is as concerned about my plants as I am. I realize that my fears are unfounded. I feel welcome.
Once the hoses are hooked up, I start to water the plants, just as Farmer Brown motors down the path in his utility cart.
"You just about done?"
I look at him deer-in-headlights-like. "Just starting."
"My wife says there's no water pressure in the house." The well and pump at their house, it appears, feeds the barn, as well. He drives off to check the barn, and while he's away, the pressure on the hose increases a hundred-fold. "Every faucet in the barn was open from when we drained everything last fall.... should be good now."
"It's great," I tell him and thank him several times.
"Good luck," he calls as he drives off.
It takes about an hour to thoroughly water all of the plants, and about ten minutes to shut off the water, clean up and store stuff. My glasses are dusty, a little smudged... but I can see what looks like water droplets falling silently in front of me. I walk up to the big barn and when I get inside, I hear a snapping noise on the roof. It intensifies, and I turn around and there is hail falling all around outside. It pings on the sixty-foot blue metal silo, and it bounces off my car as the clouds decide to break open in a downpour.
Still glad to have a plan "B," as are my plants.
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