Tag: #farmers

I’m not a gardener. Well, at least not a successful one. In Connecticut, the soil is rich and summers have a healthy dose of rain, creating an ideal environment for growing plants.  After a long, cold winter, I can hardly wait to get outside to pull weeds and rake the leaves that fell too late the previous fall. I search for the first purple crocuses that invariably pop up on my front lawn.  I’m excited to go to the nursery to buy vegetables and herbs to plant in the yard.  I’ve tried to grow everything—cucumbers, beans, squash, peppers—you name it.  One year it rained so much that all the leaves were covered in mold and the plants died.  Another year, animals or bugs got to the veggies before I could.  The only thing I can ever coax from the ground is basil.  But, even then, I can never seem to make pesto before the plant goes to seed or we have an early frost and it all dies.  I’ve largely given up on growing vegetables—it’s cheaper for me to just buy what I need.

But, I come from a family of farmers whose livelihood depended on their ability to grow food. My grandparents owned a 100-arce pear orchard in Northern California, where I grew up.  They also grew walnuts and a few cherry and fig trees.  I loved that orchard.  Babi and Ðedi (my grandmother and grandfather) have both passed away but when I return to visit, I often go back to the orchard they owned. Their house is no longer standing, the sheds are collapsing, and all the pears have been replaced by walnut trees.  But, the remains of the small roses that Babi planted under three of the walnut trees are still there.  The last time I visited, I picked a small rose and pressed it between two sheets of wax paper.  There is something precious to me about this connection to her.  Unlike me, she had the ability to grow things that still remain to this day.  In fact, she had a way of making both plants and people flourish.