Northbound, farm bound and Phase II

My Phase I Wwoofing experience was drawing to a close. Moore Farms was my last farm before I started the long haul to Maryland for what I'm now calling, Phase II. Family matters have unexpectedly come up and I feel the need to be near loved ones.

Over the past 3 months, I've learned a lot about chickens and their eggs, ducks, pigs, quail, and goats, including how to milk one. I've learned to make cheese, yogurt, and bread, drive golf carts, ATVs, a tractor and a roto tiller. I've planted and or harvested herbs, lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, flowers, carrots, and potatoes. I've met strangers that became friends, I've struggled with 12 hour work days, the cold, and very occasional loneliness. My diet has changed dramatically, from one heavy in fatty foods and meat to one lower on the food chain and many fewer lattes and alcoholic beverages. I have never felt more adamant about where my food comes from.

I've learned that I need to live near a town with amenities, that I'm not ready to give up lattes or the Internet, that I can now awaken and get dressed in 50 degree weather, that I want to have a little local honey in my tea every morning, and there is nothing more delicious than well made granola. I've learned that I want to spend more time going to see and hear live music, particularly bluegrass, swim in fresh water, hike, write, and be outside (don't we all??!!). I've learned that simpler is better, but hard to achieve.

And while it is too early to draw conclusions, there are standout observations that suggest a direction for me. At every farm, I lived in community, sharing meals and work, and I found it to be lifting, not difficult, never unpleasant. Communal living doesn't have to mean "commune", connoting as Floyd said, "I do all the work and you take all the money". So, I expect to explore this lifestyle a lot more. As for farming, I've learned that it is really, really hard. Really hard! People have always said that, but it is. And it is fulfilling. At least farming the way farming was done on Wwoofing farms, not factory farming (as brutally described in Michael Pollan's brilliant "Omnivore's Dilemma"). Physically, I wonder if I'm up to farming. I reinjured my arm pretty dramatically and my body seriously aches. The sun bleaches my hair and is making new wrinkles! I have lines around my eyes that I did not before-- even though I wear sunglasses constantly.

To get home, I planned a long trip that entailed a visit to Panama City Beach, Knotty Pine Farm, Asheville, Blacksburg, and West Virginia. Along the way, I paid Homage to FDR's Little White House.

Driving lends itself for reflection time (and listening to crazy talk shows that leave me beyond astonished at what is said on them) and I found myself reflecting on the state of the union, so to speak. Truthfully, I was surprised I did not hear any talk of revolution or political dissent as I traveled. There was an underlying theme that underpinned many of my interactions and that theme was the need for people to be in control of their destiny. There seemed to be general consensus that our food sources are insecure, we cannot escape chemicals, and water supplies will be a huge issue in the not too distant future. Energy and how it is produced was another major concern as was the changing weather patterns. I did not hear people talk about Syria, scandals, terrorism, or Hollywood.

The people I met, like myself, were drawn to farming at least in part, because none of us trust the government (which is "us" Lani always pointed out) to get it right. Rachel Carson wrote "Silent Spring" in 1962! We know that we are poisoning ourselves. We see the evidence in our loved ones in the forms of cancer, depression, neurological disorders, asthma, and suicide.

The short-term decision was clear: keep farming.

So, I pointed my car North so that Phase II of my journey can begin: One farm, all summer on Maryland's eastern shore.

Back roads, getting real, and ladybugs

Even in two weeks, it is possible to form a strong attachment to the projects I have worked on at a farm and the dream of the owners.

I arrived at Moore Farms on a beautiful, warm sunny day. For the first time this trip, I drove with the top down on my convertible, feeling as if I had robbed a bank and gotten away with it. I had just left Knotty Pine Farm and was charged up from great conversations, friends, and dreaming.

This is not to say that I wasn't a bit nervous about a) going to a new farm; and b) going to a new farm as the sole Wwoofer in the back hills of Alabama. Back hills means back roads, and once I was clear of Atlanta, I was traveling on windy two lane highways. As the incidence of trailers and road kill increased, so did my anxiety. I was used to back hills because I spent most of my childhood weekends in West Virginia at my family's farm, but this was Alabama, the South, and I was alone. Plus, there was that confederate flag hanging across a porch of a house along the way. This was new territory for me.

When I finally pulled down the road leading to the farm, my stomach dropped as I navigated major potholes on one of the worst dirt roads I had ever seen. The scene was not encouraging. My first view of the farm wasn't encouraging either. Overgrown grass, a animal yard that was decidedly not pastoral, and a pile of trash on the hillside. "Trash? Seriously?" I thought. "There is no way I can stay here."

I parked, entered a building that had a sign, and found three women working away. Laurie, the farm owner, greeted me with a big smile. "You must be Tracy". I admitted that I was. Laurie dropped what she was doing and gave me a quick tour of the farm. The trash was not garbage, but a huge pile of packing boxes. Moore Farm (and Friends) is a regional CSA (Community Supported Agriculture). I was excited about their model because they have a sophisticated online purchasing system and broker local foods and produce from over 30 farms. Cardboard packing boxes, lots of them, is an unfortunate bi- product of this system. Every week or so, the boxes become fuel for an enormous bonfire.

Laurie showed me my digs. I had a renovated barn to myself. The bed was cozily made up, there was a kitchen and bath, and a huge wall of windows overlooking woods and fields. I immediately went out to the fields to inspect the grounds (and to seek a phone connection, the lack of which was magnifying my anxiety). They were beautiful, filled with red clover, barley, and wildflowers. Laurie and Will use a cover crop system where they plant the cover crop next to the food crop. Once the food crop has been harvested, the cover crop takes over. Because it was still early Spring, there was not a lot in the ground except for carrots. I would get to know those carrots intimately.

It was hard not to defrost around Laurie. She was easily one of the most knowledgeable people I had encountered on my trip. She was full of information, sharing with me the ins and outs of the business, candid about hardships, and incredibly positive and uplifted about the benefits. The other really important detail: Moore Farms is walking the talk. It was the only farm so far that served only organic/naturally grown foods and used environmentally friendly products everywhere. No cheating on this farm. And the results were apparent to me later when I was in the fields. I saw more ladybugs than I've ever seen anywhere. And, the bird life was incredible.

Any issue, was decidedly mine. This was the first farm that I visited where the owners were making a living. There were some stark realities with living within the farming budget. The animal pens were all made of recycled materials. The fences were functional, not pretty. Yet. The cleansers were enviro-correct and more expensive. I was humbled. I legitimately had to ask myself about my own priorities. And so, my next two weeks of farming began. A new dream to wrap my brain around.

Southern women, smiles and shaped brows

After a few days at Knotty Pine Farm, I found myself downplaying my "northern-ness" and emphasizing my tenuous connection to southern culture: "My mother's family was from Richmond....". And truth be told, I've always felt a special connection to Richmond with it's gentile architecture and less frenzied pace. Plus, two of my closest friends are from Alabama. And even though West Virginia is not southern, I'm half West Virginian and feel that gives me plenty of latitude as far as the whole gun thing goes. Plus, Maryland is on the Mason Dixon Line and the eastern shore is clearly southern in my mind.

After close observation of the women in Mobile, I determined that one secret is to smile. Not a fake smile, laced with sugar, barely covering strain and stress taut face muscles, but a full on flash bulb kind of smile. A smile that really did make me feel welcome and want to sit down with a glass of sweet tea and stay a while. I found myself wondering if they taught this in school.

So, I practiced this. I had been alerted to the whole smiling thing before by one of my southern friends, but that was in the context of flirting. This was different. This was equal opportunity smiling. I had some work to do. To help myself along with my attempt to pass, I also threw in some southern euphemisms, like "y'all", until Floyd called me out on it.

Lani tolerated this, but she is convincingly, assuredly, and confidently, northern. New England northern, in fact. I, on the other hand, want to ferret out all my possible parts, and I was hoping to find or create some southern in me. Or, maybe I'm just Mason Dixoned.

That weekend, Floyd and I went into town for dinner at the local saloon (the one that doesn't actually sell alcohol) to eat and hear some live music. Kim and Lani had gone on a two day trip for a meditation seminar and we were left holding down the fort. The restaurant was packed and I did my usual scan to see who was there taking note of outfits, makeup, hairstyles, and smiles. We had arrived to town on an ATV, which seemed pretty authentic, and I purposefully did not wear my urban eyewear, which surely would have outed me as a urbanite. The ladies in the restaurant were not decked out at all. I fit in.

Dinner seemed to go smoothly enough. I was facing the musician, who was quite good incidentally, and Floyd and I chatted about future plans for the farm while he waved and greeted nearly everyone in the room. So, I was quite amazed, and maybe just a tad humiliated, when the musician, who had not been talking much at all up until that point, looked at me and dedicated the next song to the northerner in the room. He said it was a song about how things are done down here in the south.

I was quite flummoxed. And Floyd seemed a bit unraveled as well. This was out and out finger pointing and it was done with a level of seriousness. He nailed me, but based on what? The song itself had a bunch of lyrics that celebrated southern hick-ness. I was a bit distracted, but I know there was a line about rifles, and definitely one instructing me to never order grits (because they always come as a side).

I scanned the room once more to see what physical characteristic might alert someone that I'm not "one of them". I decided it was the eyebrows. Southern women all have very shaped eyebrows.

Eyebrows and smiles. They go a long way.

PS. The extra beautiful images are compliments of Lani.