The Good Fortune Harvest
Several weeks have passed and my soil has been turned and turned until the texture resembles the fine black dirt sold in bags as potting soil. I have never seen anything look so black and rich and fertile. And other than two little incidents, I have been coasting along in a state of euphoria lately.
The first incident involved the field. My mother would not let me buy it from her outright, but told me it was mine to use. I felt uneasy with this decision, but didn’t want to strong arm her into selling it to me either. I found out later that Frank felt threatened in some way, as if his inheritance might be sacrificed by my being able to declare squatter’s rights. This was all very uncomfortable, but not unforeseeable. The day after I had several dump trucks of manure brought in, Frank towed the tiller over and took the first couple of passes since the ground was inexperienced and hardpacked from the sun. He dragged the rows and helped plant the seedlings alongside me.
When the anniversary of my Father’s death rolled around, everyone in my family planned a pilgrimage to visit his grave. I didn’t want to go, of course, which provoked Andy and Laura to lean on me using my mother’s feelings as leverage. When I wouldn’t take the bait, they began questioning my motives for starting a produce farm.
“That California stuff doesn’t float here,” Andy had said in earnest. “People here have been doing it their own way and have been very successful at farming for a long time.”
I explained to him the fallacy in that statement. Only in the past sixty years have chemicals replaced good old fashion know-how in farm management. Behemoth produce and tasteless tomatoes are a recent phenomenon. There was a time when the individuality of your farm’s soil would flavor the taste of its produce. Not anymore, zucchini all taste the same, corn and peppers and beans all taste the same – flat, dull, metallic.
“They tried an all natural store in town once, and it failed,” my sister said and shrugged. “Lack of enthusiasm from the natives, I guess. Constance, you’re going to have a hard time convincing people to buy your produce just because you don’t use chemicals.”
“I don’t intend to convince anyone of anything,” I let her know.
“Then why are you going through with this crazy notion, Constance?” she asked.
How am I supposed to answer her question? I have no expectations that the people of this town will suddenly forfeit the grocery store’s beautiful and enlarged produce in order to eat healthier and smarter. Much less do I believe I will succeed in making them understand the larger repercussions of buying organic – that each farmer who treats her land good treats the land around her good and so on and so on.
Still and all, as I watched the workmen hang my sign on the entrance I erected, it gave me pause. The Good Fortune Harvest is an ambitious name for this modest operation. But the sign went up effortlessly and a winter’s crop had already been blueprinted and planted, and sometimes just setting a plan in motion removes the doubt that accompanies it. Fake it, till you make it.
The days turn into weeks, but not without changes and surprises. The plants begin to spread over the rows and the field is transformed into a farm with only a whisper of encouragement. Each day my responsibilities increase along with the new growth. There is always something new to pinch back, to help crawl, or to make adjust to a pattern.
I eventually have to enlist my mother’s help after I realize this is bigger than me. In the mornings, we enter the garden together, armed with nothing more than gardening gloves and two pairs of ready eyes. My mother pulls weeds from between plantings, she is diligent in her work, and I follow right behind her with newspaper and straw, building up our wall of defense against the undesirables that spring up when we are not around.
I use my Father’s tools to build trellises for the bean vines to climb and to make cages which will hold the tomato plants up as they grow thicker. My Father’s tools, his money, his land, are all yielding to my dream. I don’t say to myself, if only he was alive to see this, because he wouldn’t have seen it even right under his very nose.
My mother is overjoyed by the farm. There is something in her that comes alive when she works with the soil. She told me that farming is helping her with her hospice work, says it has given her a greater understanding of how cyclical all of life is. Her realization that she came from this earth and will one day return has made her an eager student of the organic method. She has even taught me a thing or two that she’s read.
Laura stops in to take a peek occasionally, but she doesn’t stay long. She never has liked to get a speck of dirt on her. Andy is the same way. My mother and I watch them as they walk between the rows, nodding their head as we tell them what they are looking at; we smile when they shake a little clod of dirt off a shoe or pull a clinging plant from their pant leg in disgust.
Frank has become our strong arm. And David too. They lend the muscle when we need it. David dug the holes for the fence posts and helped me cement them in place. All of this has happened so quickly, I have not yet had time to take it in, but I can tell you it is surpassing even my expectations.