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.

Healing means baring it all

Arriving back to Knotty Pine Farm felt a bit like coming home. I had friends here and knew the territory. Since I left, Biscuit had birthed 11 piglets, so the very first order of business was to go see them. There were only 9 piglets left because she had managed to lie down on 2, killing them. This is not unusual for pigs. The piglets were tiny and always on the move. If you were to blur your eyes a bit, they seemed to move in a wave as one amoeba shaped being.

Second on the agenda was to check out the 20 or so chicks that had been incubated from eggs from the chickens. They also moved as one--one moment chirping and puffed up and the next deflating down into a pile of fluff while they slept. After that, I inspected the garden. The lettuce and herbs that I had planted with Lani from seed had come up! Planting seeds was a nerve wracking experience. Lani had the front line of responsibility and we both were enormously relieved that the seeds had sprouted.

It was great to be back on the farm. At Knotty Pine Farm, there is never a dull moment. Floyd, Kim, and their 3 children, Maddie, Jackson, and Grace lead busy lives and we Wwoofers, Lani, I and Erica, added to that equation.

Dinners in the evening were delicious, lively and fun affairs usually followed by a game. I never knew there were so many possible variations to bingo! Later in the week, I was whooped by Floyd and Grace in a game called Rummy Cube. I realized that quite possibly these months on the road have addled my brain. Even the simplest words were beginning to escape me, much less mathematical equations. Somewhere, the seed was planted deep inside me: It might be useful to do some brain challenging work soon to exercise those muscles.

Floyd suggested that Kim do a healing session the next day with each of us. Because Lani and I had received an energization only 3 weeks before, it was decided that this session be a "channeling" of our spirit guides with messages to each of us. While our farm work is important, Kim and Floyd are equally interested in the healing aspects of working with nature, animals, and devoting free time to meditation and creative pursuits. Ultimately, the dream is to weave these together to provide people a place to come and heal. In fact, this is already happening. Lani has been thriving at KPF and had decided to extend her stay.

The next day, each of us had a one on one session with Kim. While there were many messages shared, Lani and I had some commonalities, including the counsel to dance and have more fun. Like many, the grind of life, survival, disappointment and stress has taken its toll on me. The session helped me to remember the fun loving, even a bit wild, self that I used to be in my younger days. Getting in touch with that self has great appeal to me and there is no time like the present. So, the next day, after a hot and hard morning in the garden, I announced that I was going to skinny dip in the pond. Truthfully, I was a bit wary of the cold water and possibility of creatures, but I strode down to the dock boldly and apparently convincingly as I stripped off my clothes. Lani, who was willing to swim, but only with a bathing suit, was suddenly by my side stripping off her clothes. Thankfully, she was the first in, and once I saw that she was unharmed by turtles, monsters and what not, I followed screaming like a wild woman under attack. It wasn't dancing, but in our minds, it met the requirement.

There is something a bit miraculous about life, when you are open to it, I believe. I've never lost the ability to appreciate magic as it manifests in my life even in my darkest hour. What is new to me, I realize, is the canvas. Here I was, enjoying a hot afternoon with two women that felt like old friends on a farm with people that felt like family. Only a matter of weeks ago, I did not know any of them.

Later, when Floyd commented on this, I told him the truth: "It feels completely natural". This, I realize, can be the power of community when it is provided the space to blossom and tended with intention and love.





He who stands on tiptoe is not steady.
He who strides forward does not go.
He who shows himself is not luminous.
He who justifies himself is not prominent.
He who boasts of himself is not
given credit.

Moving to distant cities, or not

When visiting small cities, I try to imagine what it would be like to live there. I'm open to relocating, so this exploration is done with a level of seriousness. A friend had recommended Mobile to me, so I was particularly interested in what it might offer. The city is very small and therefore easy to navigate. The downtown area featured only a few tall buildings and a working port area. Downtown was linked to Mobile's main historic neighborhood, Oakleigh Garden, by a main street lined with businesses, including restaurants, bars, boutiques, and a fine used bookstore. There were also a number of well maintained park areas. Many of the historic buildings, mostly 2 storied, featured balconies with living or office spaces on the second level. The buildings, even the ones that were not being used, we're in good condition.

Stacy and I were thrilled to come upon a cafe that was across the street from a park. The restaurant had tables across the street along the sidewalk on the park side reminding me of the cafes in Europe. But what stood out more than anything was the service. No matter where we went, the people were friendly, beaming smiles and offering assistance. They seemed to thrive when we asked them endless questions about real estate, employment, places to check out, and the pros and cons of living in Mobile.

As a real estate junkie, I was most excited about our walk through Oakleigh. The streets were lined with adorable historic cottages and gardens with just the right amount of imperfection (no step-ford wives here!). And, at just the right time, after walking in the rapidly warming day, we came upon a fabulous neighborhood watering hole with decent food. The next evening, we returned to hear some live music.

In the end, I realized that Mobile would not likely become home for me. It is true that I could buy an adorable cottage in an amazing neighborhood, have a lush garden year round, and walk to downtown. But there was the "so what" factor. If there is one thing that I've learned on this journey, it is this: It is not about the real estate, the climate,or the job. The issues that I struggled with in Baltimore would simply duplicate themselves in Mobile.

Stacy and I discussed this at length. I'm convinced that there is a tremendous market of people feeling the same vague discontent with their lives, not to be confused with everybody, because it is dependent on many factors, including life stage and the presence of institutional structures such as religion, marriage, and culture.

Yet I am an American, able bodied, have a family, and have friends, and I would be the first to say that the "norm" is no longer working for me. And after spending a mere 3 months on the road I suspect that it will never work for me.

A part of this journey is about finding the alternatives. For now, I can cross home buying in a distant city off the list.

Sweet Home Alabama: Does Your Conscience Bother You?"

I had to go north to begin to experience the deep south. First stop after Coldwater Gardens was Mobile, Alabama. My friend Stacy suggested that we meet there--she would fly in from Baltimore and I would drive 2 hours northwest. I agreed under one condition: we would camp in a state park just outside the city. With my renewed appreciation of camping and my limited budget, this was an easy call.

I decided to go to the campground to pitch the tent before picking up Stacy from the airport. That way, if we decided to go out on the town, we could just unroll our sleeping bags and go to sleep. Meagher State Park was not particularly charming, but our campsite featured a waterview slightly obstructed by a chain link fence, offered the soothing noise of interstate traffic across the waterway, and had large overhead lights that could be confused with moonlight from within the tent. We were in the "primitive" section, which was about a tenth the size of the RV section and it appeared to be fully occupied. The only other primitive camper around was my immediate neighbor. He was rather attractive from a distance, but upon closer examination, he had a strange, but non- threatening look about him. I discussed with him our lack of a picnic table, grill and obvious camping spot, and he seemed rather alarmed at the notion of sharing his trappings. In a defensive rather than helpful mode, he went to the park manager and persuaded him to deliver me my own picnic table. By that time, I was locked in a battle of wills with my tent and I did not even notice its arrival.

I love to camp, but none of my friends do. And my past romantic relationships did not either. Every time I would question the viability of a relationship, number 1 on the "con" list would be: "does not like camping!" Even Stacy, who had presented herself to me some time ago as a potential camping partner, had seemed slightly hesitant in her response: "I'll try it." I ignored the potential implications of that and made the reservations. As it turned out, she took to camping very well. Upon noticing our attractive-from-a-distance neighbor, she announced, "I like camping". Excellent. Happily, I waved at him and pointed to our picnic table flashing him a big smile of gratitude. Of course, camping in this case came with a heated and very clean bathhouse, perfect weather, and meals out in nice restaurants. What's not to like?

On our first evening, we found our way to an art walk in Fairhope, AL, a nearby town that featured a perfectly groomed entry road lined with American flags. The town was quite charming with its perfectly renovated historic cottages, main street lined with mom and pop businesses, manicured city park overlooking the bay, and an absolutely impeccable urban infrastructure. Stacy and I could not help but to note this town's somewhat "step-ford wives" vibe, but it seems a bit unfair to accuse towns that have been lovingly maintained as "step-ford". Lack of trash, peeling paint, and buckled sidewalks should not be regarded with suspicion. But this is exactly what I do.

We leisurely strolled down to the municipal park overlooking the bay for the perfect sunset that was unfolding that evening and were startled to read the inscription on the monument that was its centerpiece. "Capital: The primary tool in the production of all wealth", by Henry George. And underneath that: "Taxes applied to capital destroy this tool of production". As I walked back to Main Street on the perfect sidewalks, I contemplated this and more.

Later, while the crowd at the bar went wild over"Sweet Home Alabama", Leonard Skynyrd's  answer to Neil Young's "Southern Man", I realized how hearing that song in Alabama gave it new meaning.

The beauty of traveling is that one can step outside of the familiar and experience the mundane anew. One's prior experiences are suddenly displayed on a larger canvas and given new context. The truth is, I, like Neil Young, have judged the South from afar.

With 3 weeks of farming in Alabama and Georgia ahead, I could not have been more excited to get going.

Adapting, longing and homesickness...

I never know when a party will break out. A party can be a dinner together, an evening around the bonfire, or a late night gathering on Juan's porch. at CWG, parties have a way of emerging out of thin air and the term "party" is used loosely. The main commonality would be the appreciation of one another's presence--the pure pleasure of connection through food, fire, and conversation.

I was disappointed that CWG does not have organized daily communal meals. For me, the communal meal is the lynchpin of the experience of communal living. Without the daily gathering, the community lacked coherence for me at first. I was confused about how to gain access to a group that had already formed social bonds. Working and living together was not enough. When dinnertime arrived, I found myself floundering, irritated that I had to cook and envious of the couples that shared their meals. The solidarity of my meal seemed to punctuate my being single and traveling alone. Suddenly, I found myself wanting a partner in crime--someone to share the trials, tribulations, and hopefully, joys of this arrangement.

After a while, I realized that there is a strong culture of independence reigning at CWG, one that facilitates creativity while maintaining enough structure that order is preserved. As a result, interns and staff work hard throwing their souls into what they are doing and new projects emerge in a co-creative fashion. The formula, which may or may not be accidental, seems to work. Many of the interns have ended up staying and some have been hired.

The end result is rich conversations over the labor--people who have gathered for the love of the work and a sense of shared values.

It was after my last night at CWG, after I felt my first pangs of homesickness since I've been traveling, that I realized that I have crossed some sort of line. Because the homesickness was not for my old life or my hometown Baltimore, or my friends or family. I was surprised to feel longing for CWG, my tent, my outdoor kitchen, my conversations with Claire, the sunsets over the peanut field and Pine forests, and the sound of laughter and jazz through the woods. I was tested, I survived, and I miss it.