Farm Life

Entranced by the stormy sky and the sunset - eerie yellow in a clear band beneath layers of flat slate-grey clouds - we stopped so J. could take pictures just as the light was going. I got out of the car and walked up the road and back, while the huge trucks carrying logs and sheetrock, flattened cars and food products whizzed by, shaking the tripod and the very ground under my feet. Along the road stretched a drainage ditch, filled with tight brown cat-tails and the umbels of vigorous mustard plants, chartreuse in the low light; purple vetch and Queen-Anne's lace. Beyond them: a wide stripe of bean plants, as far as I could see to my left andright, and in back of the bean field, tall corn: dark green with a yellow haze of tassels on the top. In the far distance, roiling light grey and white clouds were sandwiched between the green growing earth and a ceiling of dark grey, flat-bottomed cumulus clouds, as unmoving and impenetrable as a sheet of smoked glass.

The little farm stands selling corn and tomatoes had shut for the night, but when we came close to Ferme Reid a bluish fluorescent still glowed in the open shed. "Want to stop?" J. asked, and I nodded, pulling the car off the road. We chose three ripe tomatoes from the mound on the counter; a paper bag full of wax beans; a cucumber and some small new carrots; a little tray of fresh raspberries and a basket of blueberries. The last of the day's corn lay scattered in its big bin, and as I started to peel back the husk from an ear, the young blond farm boy minding the stand came over and solemnly opened five more ears in turn, discarding those that didn't meet his standards and silently proffering the others to me, waiting for my nod or shake of the head. "Six are fine," I told him in French, and he rang up the purchases, handing me the bag with a small smile, while a young tabby cat rubbed her bony ribs against a post and refused - already haughty - to respond to my "psst psst" with anything other than a brief glance.

"Bonne soirée," we said.

"Merci, bonne soirée," the boy replied, and he looked after us a bit wistfully, I thought, across his red orbs of tomatoes and bushel basket of beans.

Comments

[dale]

(o)

[Robert]

We aren't a farm (unless rhubarb counts) but our "patio" tomato(e)s are starting to produce. So far none of the ripe ones have made it into the house; indeed, they haven't lasted more that a few seconds before being devoured (cherry tomato(e)s).

Maybe you have some patio space that is sunny enough to grow your own sometime? There are some excellent varieties that do well that way.

Inspiration from the great Guy Clark:
http://www.guntheranderson.com/v/data/homegrow.htm

[beth]

Thanks Robert! I loved the song lyrics! Our terrace here is too shady for tomatoes, but back in Vermont I've always grown my own - this is the first year without in, well, at least thirty years. In the fall I plan to rototill my old now-overgrown garden and start a new smaller plot from scratch, where tomatoes will definitely be planned for the following spring. Otherwise, they'll be in pots.