I likely have the most beautiful tomato plants in the world. I say this not because I am a self-absorbed blatherskite, rather because Farmer Brown has declared, not once, but twice, that my tomatoes are coming in quite nicely. "Nice and green, Ben." I can tell that he's not one to engage in idle endearments. When he pays me a compliment, I simply say, "Thanks," and when I get back to the field, I take note of what it is I've accomplished that has led him to praise.
Why, even on a cloudy, colorless twelfth of June, the tomatoes appear in bloom. A thousand yellow blinking buds shimmering in the gloom. The plants are climbing their stakes, and I see a long day ahead, very soon, tethering each vine with white cotton twine.
I've almost finished weeding and mulching the bush beans. As I finish each row, I step back and admire my work. It reminds me of a house renovation project, how appalling a torn up floor looks, and how the replacement brings an entire room back together. This is how it is with hay. The plants are a nice contrast with the tan carpet spread about them. The dirt and weeds are now gone, and the result is a professional row.
Of course, I didn't do it quite right. Yesterday, while visiting Old Maids Farm in South Glastonbury, I told George, the owner, that I'm not using any pesticides, and for weed control, I'm placing hay.
"More weeds!" he exclaims.
"Huh?"
"Hay is compacted weeds. Many seeds."
"Hmmm." I'm feeling like an idiot in front of this multi-generational farmer. This tall, be-denimed dude with short, thinning grey hair wields a red air hose to dust one of his bright-blue tractors.
"Should use straw. No seeds." He smiles, encourages me to consider an organic approach in my farming. I'm thinking about the hay, and am convinced that the hay will work fine for my purposes. It will block light, will prevent, or at least control weeds, and will likely hold moisture in the ground. Besides, I like the way it looks. Time will tell.
It's funny. When Deb and I arrive back at Wychwood, and when we walk into our 1/2 acre garden, I start to think about how difficult a task I have ahead of me. I need to:
- Care for, and eventually harvest, all I've planted;
- Line up suppliers for the farm stand... As this is being written, I learn that I just got a local cherry supplier!!!
- Organize the stand, including figuring out an attractive layout and signage;
- I need to make contact with a food scientist;
- Must develop a logo and packaging...
- etc., etc., etc!
Ann, Farmer Brown's wife, stops by and introduces us to her gardening buddy. We tell them about our field trip, about the impeccable farms, the newly-grafted apple trees, and the acres of bird netting protecting the precious cherries and blueberries. I think, at one point of vulnerability, I even comment on how small and insignificant I feel when I consider those big guys along the Connecticut River.
"How many generations have they been going?" Ann asks, rhetorically.
"Lyman's been at it since 1741..."
Ann smiles, as if to say, "See, you have plenty of time!" Then she laughs and declares, 'I don't know about you, but I cannot wait to eat fresh vegetables!"
Debbie has to leave early. I decide to tackle the bush beans. I also pick and poke at the corn and pumpkin areas, knowing clearly that they do not require much weeding.
In the silence of my garden, a chilly breeze takes control. Small droplets hit my straw hat as I hoe the ground before the first row of pumpkins. Holding the hoe steady, like a lacrosse stick, whacking the soil, scraping stones, and pulling back, back, back. Finding larger stones, I tip each on the hoe edge, flinging them towards one of so many rock piles.
I can feel my broad-brimmed lifeguard hat holding firmly to my head as it absorbs the rain now falling with greater urgency. Charlie Brown on the pitcher's mound in a downpour. That's what I feel like today. Everyone has gone home. I don't have the sense to come in from the rain, and even without Snoopy backstroking past the mound in the storm, all I can think is, "Good Grief!"
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