Posted by Sheila Connolly (the one with the brown thumb) and Sarah Atwell
So here we are in the midst of the lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer, right? Oh, that's right–this is Massachusetts, and we've had, like, four days that feel like summer since the year began. But we Yankees are hardy folk, and we soldier on.
As I have said before, this is the year I decided to plant a garden. I admit my choices for a site were limited and perhaps not ideal, but I used the only part of the yard that got a few hours of steady sun (when there is sun), during the middle hours of the day. Results? I can report that the weeds are thriving. The things I want to grow, not so much. The biggest problem is that it's been so damp that most of the plants are having trouble setting fruit. I get flowers, at least on the zucchini and the tomatoes, but then the poor things shrivel and die without moving on to the next step. And here I thought zucchini was foolproof! Ha! I blame the weather.
Or maybe the Irish potato blight, which has made an appearance this year in Massachusetts, thanks to the indiscriminate sale of infected plants by some of the big box stores. I of course was careful to purchase only heirloom varieties from small local vendors, but this fungus is airborne, so I'm probably doomed anyway. Wouldn't it be ironic if my poor little garden was wiped out by the potato blight that wreaked such havoc in Ireland in the 1850s? Although my Irish ancestors there apparently weathered it well. It seems as though we've had perfect Irish weather this year (cold and damp), although my Irish friends tell me that it's been gorgeous and sunny in Ireland. I ask you, is that fair?
However, so far my potatoes are thriving, or at least the parts aboveground that I can see. I have no idea what's going on under the ground, and it seems wrong to dig up a plant just to see what's happening there. So I have to have faith, right? Which applies to a whole lot of gardening, because there's a lot we can't control.
Growing anything seems like a miracle. We accept it as ordinary, but think about it: you take this little speck of a thing, stick it in some dirt, add water and sun, and presto, you get a very much bigger thing, one that you can eat, or even use to build a house. Isn't that amazing? And it happens around us every day.
In my Orchard Mystery series, I write about a woman who owns an orchard, which means she's a farmer. I never thought I would writing about farming. Both my grandfathers farmed–the Irish one because that's what the family did, although he had a profession as harness maker; my American one because I think he had some misguided ideal that didn't serve him well (he died at 44–a failed dairy farmer whose arteries were clogged with fat). I never knew either of them, so they didn't pass along any nostalgic baggage. My mother, who had worked in high school on her father's farm (growing green beans for the U.S. Army during WWII) hated anything to do with farming, and refused to admire rolling fields of planted anything.
Farming is hard, dirty, uncertain work. One badly-timed storm can wipe out a year's worth of effort. There's no relief–cows need to be milked every day, and don't understand the concept of vacation. In the next Orchard Series book, my heroine is wrestling with her first apple harvest, working alongside the hired pickers, so she's going to know exactly how demanding it is–and she's going to have to think about her commitment to farming. Why is she doing it? She has a business degree and a brain–why should she get her hands dirty? And unlike some people, she has options: she can sell the place and walk away, find a job somewhere else, where she can sit at a clean desk and use her mind rather than her muscles.
So why should she stay on in struggling rural Granford, where most farmers hold day jobs to cover the bills? Is she misguided, seduced by the great American nostalgia machine into believing that farming is a noble calling? At least it's a practical one: she produces food, and everybody needs food. But there are so many other political and social issues attached to small farms these days. Is there still a place for the small farmer in this country, or is that a profession that will vanish from our lives and eventually our memories?
Should Meg continue to fight for her orchard, and try to make it work for her? Or is she fighting a losing battle? I'd love to know what you think.
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