The Good Fortune Harvest
The weeks turn into months, and one morning I find myself alone in the garden. The tomato cages needed to be put in and secured. My mother would usually be here to help me, but she has gone to sit with someone who is very close to death. Stomach cancer again. Once the cages are in place, I go check on the broccoli patch. Already the plants are bushy and the tops are beginning to flower bright green. I snap off a tender top and pop it in my mouth. The sweetness of a vegetable can only be tasted right after it’s picked; once it travels, the unique taste fades.
Most people around here are a little amazed at how natural and resourceful a farmer I have become in so short a time. An intuitive knowledge has come out of nowhere it seems to me. My mother contends this has been my hidden talent all along. If only your Father could see you, she says to me innocently one afternoon as I am digging a hole for a marjoram plant. She doesn’t realize the weight of her statement. My Father was fond of saying I was a no-talent. He said it in a half-joking manner, but still I believed him.
Whether he can see or not, his presence is here with me on the farm – I believe this soil is part of the same soil that cradles him in his grave, the same soil that covers the owl’s grave, and holds the bones of Lou and Omar, and the baby chicks, and that all of this soil is what connects us to everything on this planet.
Each morning, when I first walk out to the field, I take the time to look down the perfectly straight rows that stretch out on either side and see harmony. A plant, some mulch, another plant, some more mulch. Spaces in between skip from green to green. I think to myself that farming is order. All is so wonderfully symmetrical. So precise in its layout. Yet, there is mystery too. Each planted seed has many vying factors which influence it; I alone never take full credit. The Tibetan name for Mother Earth is Khon-Ma, which means luck.