The girls are doing jumping jacks. Haze burns away as parents and their kids settle in for a lacrosse tournament. Elizabeth, my daughter, is in the tournament, so I won't see the farm until after three-o-clock.
I'm still not sure exactly what the field dimensions are, or whether I'll need an electric fence to keep rabbits and deer away. Farmer Brown tried teaching me, the other day, what his father had taught him to say.
"When we plant corn, we always plan on unexpected guests. We put seven seeds in a hill to get one plant." Then he recites a rhyme he learned years ago:
"One for the blackbird;
Two for the crow;
Three for the cutworm;
One to grow."
But right now, I have this horrendous to-do list harrowing through my brain. I'm wondering about where I can find a rototiller, whether to ignore my host-farmer's anecdotal advice, and just buy an electric fence. How much would it cost? Expenditures especially concern me since I took an involuntary vow of poverty at the outset of this incarnation. And then, if I buy an electric fence, will it keep rabbits out? Should I recruit barn cats to act as bunny bouncers? Buy a shotgun? Sit on the low roof of the milking stall, and send my message out to the animal kingdom with buck shot?
As the girls warm up for their three games, I realize that, as I observe their game preparation, I am also an observer of my actions, an unprepared voyeur who needs to till soil before he can become an inchoate farmer. In fact, before I can even plant a crop, I need to know what I want to plant. And before I can plant, there is a harvest waiting in the field. Farmer Brown calls them "Stonington Potatoes." Big round rocks, mostly the size of two palms.
After the tournament, I rent a gigantic red Troy Bilt "Horse." Debbie joins me, and together we head up to the farm. We unload the rototiller, with Jim's help. I cannot wait to start tilling the field, but after watching me from the side lines, farmer Brown waits for me to stall out, and calls , "Hey, I think that thing has two speeds. Why don't you try it a little slower, let the tillers work the soil a little more." He looks over at Debbie, in flimsy L.L. Bean flip-flops, picking Stonington Potatoes from the field, and says, "She's a good worker."
"We need a Belgian horse out here," she laughs. "With a wooden cart for all these rocks."
"In fact, Farmer Brown urges, " You might want to run the shorter side... prepare a little area, plant, and move on."
"I like that idea," I answer, wiping my filthy canvas gloves on my brow. Inside, though, I'm thinking, "Two day rental. $140.00. I decide to follow Farmer Brown's advice, but also to finish the field within the rental budget.
Debbie finds about a dozen mummified turkey feet in the field and asks me if we should start selling Mojo Voodo souvenirs.
"Debbie, yuck... get those out of here." Then I laugh and tell her she can keep them if she really wants them. She tosses them, except for one that she leaves for me.
By seven-o-clock we've tilled 60% of the field. I did something I had never done before in my life, and I think I did it pretty well.
Note to self: Buy Work Boots.
Copyright 2010, Ben Greenfield, All Rights Reserved
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