We harvested the last of the root crops—beets and radishes—in cold rain on Friday. The wetness stuck to my skin, and at one point, after hours of violent shivering, I was convinced I had hypothermia. But, as Dylan said, quitting on our last day would have been like running 26 miles of a marathon and dropping out before the last 385 yards. So I took a quick break to make some tea, and I pressed on. Just as we finished storing the topped and washed roots in the walk-in cooler, the sun reached through the thick sky for the fields, highlighting the death that saved us.
“You guys are badass,” Chris said with a pat on the back (this coming from the person who at the height of the season worked seven days a week and who will continue to work in even colder weather by himself over the next few weeks preparing the farm for next year and harvesting greens for market—he is badass). Mostly I could think of nothing more than changing into dry clothes after a hot shower. But an inkling of pride forced a meager smile in response to Chris’ praise.
After all, making it through the entire season was no small feat, as evidenced by the continually decreasing number of workers on the crew. At the beginning of April Anton hosted a potluck orientation for the seven enlisted crew members. I spent the evening fantasizing about my farm experience, having wanted to work on an organic farm for the past couple of years. Anton wasted no time subduing my eagerness though, when he said, “Farming isn’t for everyone. If you reach a point where you’re thinking about quitting, don’t have any reservations.”
Most people didn’t. One girl, having worked on much smaller farms prior to Early Morning, quit during my second day. She was the first crew member, with Chris, to begin working and had already acquired hours for three weeks before telling Anton that the scale of the farm was too big for her taste. The second girl quit in the middle of June, discontent with the work to pay ratio and our crew leader. The last two ended their terms at the beginning of September (quite possibly the busiest time of the season), which left me, Dylan, and Chris mostly alone (with the exception of temporary help) for the last two months.
Truthfully, I thought of quitting more than once, and I’m currently reveling (for what will surely be a short period of time) in the disgusting indulgence of laziness that comes with unemployment. I am unsettled by my hypocritical content with the ability to retreat from growing food, though. If I hope to provide my own sustenance in the future with a small garden or a large homestead, I will have no easy escape from the work.
In reflecting on the experience, however, I’ve realized that farming is not personal gardening, a hobby that in many ways offers more incentive and gratification than working for pay at a commercial farm. More importantly, I’ve grown aware of the fact that the intensity of the work buried the root of my frustration.
Over the course of my six months at Early Morning, I learned more about people (others and myself) than I did about growing produce. In the end, I believe that the personalities of my coworkers ultimately fueled the mental exhaustion about which I wrote in previous posts. This is not to say I disliked anyone with whom I worked. My moodiness undoubtedly affected others negatively in the same way that the idiosyncrasies of others gnawed at me. When you spend forty-five hours working with the same few people every week, interpersonal issues are inevitable. As bodies are confined to the same space in a bed of vegetables for long periods of time, so are individual quirks; the tedious physicality of fieldwork compounds the mental stress, and what starts as tiny pricks on the skin quickly mushrooms into a sore that festers. Apparently all of those job seekers aren’t joking when they underline the importance of good interpersonal communication skills in the workplace.
Despite all of the unexpected drama that erupted over the course of six months though, I couldn’t leave the farm on Friday without saying to Chris, “We’ll probably be back next year.” I had barely thought of the words before blurting them, and I immediately knew I wasn’t kidding myself.
Saturday night we hosted a potluck and most of the people who had worked on the farm came. It was the first time of the season that all of us spent time together outside of the farm, and everyone was in high spirits. As we savored the good food, drink, and conversation, it became clear that any petty issues to have arisen between one another in the field, died in the field with the plants. As I cooked a stew with vegetables from the farm, I thought of all the dinners we shared with others and that our customers undoubtedly shared with others, using the produce we had helped grow. Surely we’ll continue to enjoy collective dinners during the next few wintry months, but I think the degree of one’s connection to the food enhances one’s connection with other people.
An inexplicable emptiness seems to always accompany the coldness and the gray of winter. I imagine this void will deepen for me without tangibly creating peace through the growing, harvesting, and communal distributing of good food.
