The Tao of Oma

Take the bluegrass parkway through bluegrass country Kentucky, ok, and exit onto a normal American paved two laner. You’ll notice there aren’t any gas stations, fast food, or roadside attractions around.  Keep going until you are forced to take a dirt road, then that will deteriorate to a really crappy dirt road with deep ruts and ravines.  Go all the way to the end, so far that you can’t get any further into the back country, and there’s Open Ground.

I saw Don standing there fiddling with a dry paintbrush as we pulled up the gravel drive. I parked the car, got out and walked up to shake his hand.

“Hello. Welcome to Open Ground. Glad to have you here. I’ll give you the tour and show you the river. One time the river spoke to me. I’ve been here for 17 years, and it only happened once. Never again after.”

“What did it say?” We asked.

“It said: My name is Oma.  I didn’t respond, but I wish I had said, ‘My name is Don.’ And that’s the weirdest thing you’ll ever hear me say. I promise.”

He kept that promise and gave us the grand tour of Open Ground, his remote woodland sanctuary. Open Ground was founded in 1993 and serves as a place for groups to hold retreats: spiritual, artistic, or otherwise. There is an open air ampitheater, a pottery studio, a dance hall, gardens, instruments in every room, art materials, a trampoline, and Oma. Open Ground has hosted pottery seminars, guest speakers, campers, community outreach programs, and wwoofers, to name a few. When we arrived, Don was heading out on a trip to Montana with his son. With perfect trust, he gave us the tour, a to-do list, and then the metaphorical keys (in actuality, there are no keys here). Along with another volunteer named Carissa, we had the whole place to ourselves.

The to-do list was mostly directed towards preparing the guest house for a mystery group of women scheduled to arrive in two days. Whoever they were, Don informed us that they valued personal space and would not want to be bothered. The three of us speculated who the group might be.  Based on the colorful masks that donned the walls, I thought they were going to be part of an Hispanic community outreach program.  Doug thought they were lesbians.  Carissa thought they would be spell casting Wiccans.

In the meantime, we repaired Don’s framed raised beds. We tried to complete a greenhouse that was designed by a group of college kids from Oberlin. Unfortunately, the design was poorly executed and fell apart in our hands. Here’s a photo:

Despite the obvious issues with the structural integrity, I really like the idea of recycling materials with glass, such as doors, into a greenhouse.

When the mystery group of women arrived, we were all wrong.  Don’s advice to leave them alone was a cautionary oversight. They turned out to be a happy, jovial group of ladies that had been good friends for years, they all met at Open Ground, and come back every year to drink beer and make art. Many of them were art teachers. All of them knew how to use the potter’s wheel. Incidentally, the night we spent hanging out with them will go down as one of the best nights of this entire adventure. I can say that with certainty even though it is still only July and there is still so much to do.

The night included swimming in the river, a wonderful dinner, a sing along around a campfire, and a powerful summer thunderstorm. I realized over the course of the evening how much we lucked out when we found this place. We’re moving on from the South now, onto a brief stay in Chicago, and then finally to the Great American West. I’ll miss the sense of humor and colorful language exhibited by the folk down here.

On a final note, Oma isn’t really a misnomer for Don’s river. On the contrary, the “Chaplin River,” the name you’d find if you looked at a map, is the true imposter. Don told us that “Oma” means “old mother” in two thirds of the world’s languages (we didn’t ask which ones). Oma, the old mother river, is the source of life for a flourishing eco system in Open Ground’s back yard. While enjoying a swim or sitting on the bank, it’s highly likely that you’ll hear a pack of raucous herons, feel a fish try to nibble your feet, or see a damsel fly land on your shoulder. All the while you can’t help but feel completely at ease, protected, and nurtured by this serene environment- where the only man-made noise is the noise you make yourself.

The Immaculate Kitchen, Part 2

Work began, and it was not the cakewalk that the lethargic interns made it out to be. If you wanted to drag ass and sit around, you certainly could, but if you showed the slightest bit of self motivation, Farmer Don put you to work. Like all farmers we’ve met, Don was a classic workaholic who didn’t like to think about what his hourly wage would be if he actually did the math. Anyone who has a romantic idea of farming will lose that notion very quickly when they actually get out there and sweat in the sun, toiling through some repetitive task or another. But, I’ve been told, and found out for myself that farmers are all romantics at heart. They have to be.

“Look at that ‘mater. Ain’t it beautiful?” Farmer Don beamed as he admired one of his ripe two-and-a-half pound Cherokee Purple Heirloom beauties. And there it was, in his hand, the whole reason for doing it. He was looking at thousands of his own sweaty ground-pounding hours, delicately resting in his hand in the form of food. It’s the only thing you can do with your time that is truly essential for human survival. Grow. Food.

At Spring Green Farm in Kentucky, Farmer Don headed all growing operations, but his Grandma Mona and Pappy Kip had invested a small fortune of family money in the farm, creating a three-headed boss. It was difficult to figure out which of them was really in charge. Don claimed to be in charge, because he raised the crops. Kip walked around like he owned the place, because he did- it was his money invested. But- it was Mona who had the strongest claim to power, because it was her money too, Don was her grandson, and she wielded the power of her Immaculate Kitchen, where every day she cooked a princely spread of edible marvels for everyone to enjoy.

…Everyone except the Mexicans, who would always refuse a lunch break. I wondered why they never ate with us. Then I wondered why they never ate. Then I wondered why I never saw them sit down, take a break, or drink water. I jump at any opportunity to speak Spanish, and in doing so I befriended one of the “Mexicans”, Eduardo, who was actually Honduran. Beyond his perpetual smile was a very serious man. Eduardo told me a little bit about his idea of farm work, in the form of commands: “You show up on time every day, you work hard, and you never eat the food.” I asked why, and he told me that his job supported more than just himself; losing it was not an option. After I had gained his trust, he allowed me to see him take a break. He actually sat down. But even while at rest, Eduardo was always listening. The sound of Don’s diesel would alert him like a deer when a twig snaps.

On the balance sheet in the EXPENSIVE column, Farmer Don had purchased a mint condition New Holland tractor with implements for making raised beds, laying plastic row covers, and installing irrigation tape simultaneously. He had all the tractor toys: plow; disker; boom sprayer; sub-soiler; brush hog; a medley of professional-grade lawn care machines; every tool you could need, brand new and in working order. Two barns, two hoophouses, a greenhouse, everything directed toward the principal thrust of his farm which was thousands of heirloom tomato vines. ‘Maters. The tremendous investment placed tremendous pressure on farmer Don, who kept a loose, friendly attitude, but a masochistic work ethic.  “I ain’t gonna fail.”  He told me once.

Early in the week, one more female intern showed up, Emily from Georgia, which made the teams complete for boys vs. girls drama a-la fourth grade down at the intern mansion: three boys, three girls, and me. I didn’t consider myself on either team. I walked a balance beam between the two snake pits, just trying to get along with everyone. The boys were escapists, who sought to do just enough work to make it to Friday night, re-up night. Friday brought with it another stipend and as much pot and alcohol by volume as their collective funds could acquire. The girls were summer vacationing, looking for fresh air, new knowledge, and clean living. They saved their stipends for practical things like getaway gas money. Trouble cropped up whenever the two teams mixed – all the time.

Nicole put it best: “Here it is, here’s the problem. You’ve got three creepy guys who think they own the place, and now there’s an equal number of girls here who don’t want to party with them.”

Where did I fit in? I had to distribute my time evenly between the two teams if I wanted to stay on everyone’s good side. I hung out with the boys at times, saw what they were doing when they holed up together in Waldo’s room- just some guys sitting around in a circle under the pretense of vague and poorly understood Buddhist principles.  Mostly, they laughed at Horace and hit the bong at every opportunity. With Nicole as an inroad, I was able to get along with the girls too. Sometimes we worked on a project together during the day, we played soccer, went out in Louisville one night for group Karaoke. It was fun, on both sides. When rumors started to circulate, I did my best to dispel them.

“What are they doing up there all the time?” Holly asked me. “Probably jerking off and plotting some way to get rid of us.”

“No, no, they’re just some boys hanging out together in a smoke circle. They ain’t talkin ’bout y’all (Ah, the South) Mostly, Horace puts on a show and the rest of them roll around and laugh at him.”

“What kind of show does he put on?” She asked.

“The boy can sing.”

“I know Horace can sing, all he ever does is play that same damn song on the guitar, It ain’t easy takin’ it easy. I actually liked it the first time I heard it.”

“You’ve gotta take the guitar away from him. Then, he goes through his characters. He can do Elvis, Elton John, Muddy Waters, The Temptations, you name it.  He’s really a talented vocalist buried beneath layers of grime and ignorance. He can mimic almost anybody and sound exactly like them.” I recalled.

“Why doesn’t he ever do that around us?” Holly didn’t believe me. “How come the only thing he ever says to us is women are worthless and he wishes he were drunk?”

“I think Horace is a very different person when women are around.”

“Well, let me tell you, he’s a PEACH compared to how he was when I first got here. I guess he’s got more people to bother now. Really, I didn’t think I was gonna make it.”

I thought about Horace for a moment, his filthy mouth, bad habits, bad breath, powerful voice, and I said “yeah, he’s a bit much at first, but he’s growing on me.”

Horace grew up in a trailer in Eastern Kentucky Appalachia. His mother used to leave him by himself locked in the trailer for days on end when he was a little boy. His father was no more than a taboo myth, a story not to be discussed. He lived on and off the street throughout his early teenage years after leaving home at 13. At age 19 Horace was a father himself, an absentee one, because “his momma’s a crazy bitch,” he explained. Horace was rough, indeed, but he wasn’t dumb. He had a seemingly endless repertoire of song lyrics memorized. He knew all about wild plants, which ones were edible, which ones made great natural sweeteners, which mushrooms would kill you and which ones were psychoactive. He knew birds by their songs. He knew how to find geodes in a river, crush them, and spread the resulting crystalline powder on the soil to reflect sunlight and retain soil moisture. The boy wasn’t dumb, he was just crude.  “I ain’t happy unless I’m fucked up.” He would whine, dreaming of a twelve pack and a joint.

So, we the interns worked as hard as we wanted to by day, and in the evenings, social time at the intern mansion, I socialized with both teams. This meant that I saw both sides, but missed out on a few things too. I missed out on moisturizer, toenail painting, and oatmeal face mask night, for one. And I missed out on Loretto County Jail.  I’ll get to that. I like getting along with everyone, so I was content to dabble in both camps and be as agreeable as I could be. There were things I missed, true, and as a result my face and hands are still rough from months of farm labor in direct sun, and my ass remains pasty white and unmolested.

-DB

The Half Lotus Hotel, Part 1

            The drive to Kentucky had been a strenuous one. We’d opted to traverse Smoky Mountain National Park instead of the smooth and steady stream of the interstate. The scenic merits of the park would far outweigh the burden of a few extra travel hours, we figured. The notion went to hell in a tourist town directly outside of the park entrance. The place was teeming with vacationers. It seemed as though there were more cars than trees. The scenic cruise turned into a rush-hour crawl that turned Doug’s mood sour.

“This isn’t what a national park is supposed to be like. This place is completely overrun.” He said with irritation.

“We’re here, too, aren’t we? We’re part of it.” I responded.

That only made him more annoyed. Departing the park didn’t give any relief, either. Pigeon Forge was on the other side, and it was also saturated with tourists. Pigeon Forge is like the Myrtle Beach of the mountains. Bright fluorescent lights and themed hotels line the street. There are family fun parks and laser tag centers. Mini golf and go karts. There’s even a building that was made to look like a Roman temple turned upside down! But… we weren’t amused. The trip had already taken 7 hours. To add the final, brilliant touch, the temperature sky-rocketed as soon as we hit lower altitude. Heat index included, the temperature was easily 105. We speculated how we would work in such stifling conditions.

“Do you think there will be air conditioning at this next place?” I asked.

Doug chuckled at the bold consideration.  “No, definitely not.”

 “How about hot water and good water pressure?”

 “Maybe good pressure, but probably not hot water. I don’t think I’ll want it anyway with this heat.”

 “Compost toilet or plumbing?”

 “Compost.”

 “No, I’ll bet the toilet flushes. I’ll bet there’s air conditioning, too.”

 “No way.”

 “Yeah, it’ll be the kind you stick in the window. They have to have something. How could anyone stand this heat?”

 The ride continued for another 3 hours. We were really close to our destination. Then we got lost. We were only five minutes away from the farm at that point, but we took a wrong turn and added another 30 minutes on to the trip. By the time we finally rolled into Spring Green Farm, it was dark, we were tired, cranky, and hungry. And it was still hot.

 I parked the car beside a beautiful, southern plantation-style home. The yard was trimmed and well-maintained. There was a processing station beside the driveway that looked organized and clean. A little stone pathway led to a lovely porch with wicker chairs. Plenty of lights were on, and I could clearly see a large kitchen with a wrap-around counter and stools through the window.

 “Wow this place is nice,” I said, “Do you think we’re staying here?”

“Nah, you see that barn back there? That’s probably where we’ll be.” Doug replied, pointing towards a large Dutch barn with an arched roof. It actually looked nearly as inviting as the stately mansion did. We walked to the door and knocked.

 A boy of about 20 years old appeared in the kitchen and came to the door. He was wearing a plaid button down shirt with a bright yellow peace sign pin over his right breast. He opened the door in one big motion, and a rush of cold air nearly knocked me off my feet. Air conditioning. Heaven.

 “Hey guys! Y’all smoke?” He asked excitedly. Doug answered that he did but I didn’t as we stepped inside. The boy clapped his hands and threw his head back.

 “I knew it!!! They smoke guys!” he called into the next room. He quickly turned back to us.

 “So where have ya’ll been? What kind of music do you listen to?”

 I began to wonder if there was something wrong with this guy.

 “Um, we just came from North Carolina and…”

 “Were they bio-dynamic?” he interrupted.

 “Bia what?” I asked.

 “I didn’t catch your name.” Doug added.

 “Didja eat? Are ya hungry? What kind of music do you like??? Do you know about Tibetan Buddhism?”

 The long drive and the heat were enough to put me off to exploring a religious conversation with a boy who couldn’t decide what he wanted to talk about the most. I let Doug take over the conversation and wandered into the dining room. There was a long wooden table in the center and large paintings on the walls. Glass decorations sat on display tables set randomly about the room. At the table were three young people, two boys and a girl. They all looked sleepy.  I introduced myself and took a seat. At the head of the table was Waldo. He was thirty years old, heavy set, had full facial hair, and glasses. He was quiet, and spent a lot of time looking down at his empty dinner plate. Next to him was Jake. He was 19 years old, and equally quiet. He had dark hair and a baby face. To my right was Holly, the only girl in the group. She was 23, tall and thin, with short dark hair and a pretty face. The group told me the boy who had opened the door was named Horace.

 “So where are the owners?” I asked the lethargic group.

 “They don’t live here,” Holly said, “this house is just for the interns.”

 Interns? It seemed a funny thing to call volunteers.

 “Wait, what? This whole house?” I asked in disbelief.

 “Yeah, the whole thing.” Waldo said, looking up only momentarily.

 “So… does everyone have their own room?” I continued.

 “Yep.” was the collective response.

 I learned that in addition to having adequate personal space, this place came with internet access, 3 meals a day prepared by a lady named Mona, two showers with hot water, laundry facilities, and free time. A lot of free time, apparently.

 “We don’t work real hard round here,” Horace said as he took his seat, “There’s not much to do. Put in a few hours a work, then smoke a bow’ and drink some co’beer. You guys like beer?”

 “Sure.” I said.

 “Oh, then you’re gonna like it here. I got drunk the other night and the house beat me up.”

 Holly turned to me and said softly, “I just wake up around 8, and wait for someone to tell me what to do. There really wasn’t much over the weekend, but maybe it’ll pick up tomorrow.”

 After dinner, Holly and I made some tea together, sat down in the living room, and had a little chat about the farm. The house has been around since before the civil war and was once a tobacco plantation. Currently, the farm was a family-run gig, and specialized in ‘mater production. I learned quickly that the word “tomato” simply does not exist in the south. Only ‘maters. Also, the family was Buddhist. Every Sunday they went to a meditation, and we’re all invited. Would I be interested? Sure, why not? They have a full library with books on yoga and Eastern philosophy if I wanted to take a look. I was eager to peruse the shelves. We observed the sheer absurdity of farm volunteers living in a mansion. It would spoil us for sure, and we wouldn’t be able to handle the barns that were sure to come. We laughed about it, but added in all seriousness that we wouldn’t mind living in barns and bathing in lakes or rivers. It’s sort of why we chose to have this experience. How could a place like this actually exist?

Then she told me to watch out for Horace. He didn’t really understand or respect boundaries. He follows people, listens in on conversations, and sings really, really loud.

 “I’m so glad you’re here.” She said with a big smile, “I didn’t think I was going to make it the whole two weeks. It was just me and those boys all weekend. I’m so glad there’s another girl here.”

 Horace walked into the room with a guitar in hand. He plopped himself down and looked at me and said, “You wanna hear a song?”

 “Yeah, sure. Let’s hear it.”

 Within 10 seconds a booming voice filled the room and resonated in the walls as well as my eardrums. It wasn’t a bad voice by any means, just loud. If it were in a stereo, the speakers would be giving out, crackling and unable to support the sound properly. My head felt the same way. I looked at Holly and she looked back at me with a blank stare that seemed to say, “I’ve been down this road 100 times already. Here we go again.”

 It aint easy takin’ it easy

Sometimes I wonder why life is hard

It aint easy bein’ free

It aint easy bein’ free

It aint easy bein’ who you wanna be

No, it aint easy bein free.

 When he was finished playing the song he stopped for a moment and looked out into space. He hovered in deep thought (or maybe complete lack thereof) for a moment and then snapped back into his usual high energy.

“Wanna hear another one?”

“That last one was really good.” I commented. I wasn’t being completely insincere. It really wasn’t that bad. I had enjoyed it, even though I wished Horace’s voice came with a volume knob.

“Let’s see if you say that after the 50^th time you hear it.” Holly commented without emotion.

Then without any further ado, Horace broke into a rendition of “Simple Man” by Lynyrd Skynyrd. His voice was at full throttle. He should have been on a stage. It really wasn’t half bad. The problem was that he had complete disregard of his surroundings. Holly put her face in her hand and drew a deep sigh. His voice was at a near scream. Why not? That’s how the song goes after all, right?

“You know Pink Floyd?!” He asked as soon as he had finished the song.

My patience began to wane.

“Yes. I’ll be right back.” I said and then slipped into the next room, which was the Eastern philosophy library. I knew I had to act quickly before my absence was felt. Quickly scanning the titles, my eye was caught by a book about Kundalini yoga. I knew a bit about it. Through disciplined and consistent meditation, a practitioner would eventually feel sacred energy being unlocked from the base of the spine, and, uncoiling like a serpent, it would work its way to the crown of the head and show the practitioner the true nature of the universe. I was intrigued. All you needed was some time each day to set aside and be still. Quiet. At peace. I took the book from the shelf and slipped it under my arm.

“MOTHER DO YOU THINK THEY’LL LIKE THIS SONG!?!?!” Horace wailed.

I’m not sure what I thought I was doing with that serene book as I tip-toed through the living room, past the concert, and towards the freedom of the steps.

The Immaculate Kitchen, Part 1

We pulled into the driveway after dark, as usual, not knowing what to expect, like always.  I noticed the BB gun right away, propped in an old butter churn right by the front door.  “Critters or cans?” I wondered.

“This house is way too nice for volunteers, we’re probably staying out in the barn” I near-guaranteed.  We stood at the front door of a beautifully restored plantation mansion.  Through the window we could see straight into the Immaculate Kitchen built out of hardwood and granite: Heavy-duty six burner stove with big burly grates and a griddle.  Two ovens.

We knocked.  Horace opened.  We didn’t know his name or any of their names at the time, but that wouldn’t take long.  Never does.  Just hear it, repeat it, forget it, then politely ask for it again later when I have the person one-on-one. If I forget again, and Nicole doesn’t remember either, then that person has not done enough to make their name stick. I only needed to hear Horace once.

“Y’all smoke?”  were the first words out of his mouth.

I said yes, Nicole said no.

“Well shit homey, we gon’ smoke a bow’.”

“I’m Doug, what’s your name?”

“Last night I mastered the full lotus position. Y’ever want to read ya about Buddism there’s about a million books in that room back ‘ere.  What kind of music y’all like?  Where you from? Me, I’m buddhist.  Waldo’s buddhist.  Jake, he’s hindu.  I’m from Mason County Kentucky, redneck capital of the world, my town has one light.  I show ya some arrowheads I found in the ‘mater patch, c’mon.”

“That’s Horace.”  Said one of the others.

Horace introduced us to the rest of the interns.  Interns?  Like volunteers?  Was everybody in the house a volunteer farm hand just like us? Indeed, and that same beautiful Kentucky mansion was the house we’d be staying in.  Yes, really.  Hard to believe, but yes.  The family we had yet to meet, the farmers, the ones who owned this prodigious guest house and its Immaculate Kitchen- they all had their own houses they went to at night.

“That’s Jake.  Waldo.  An’ that’s Holly.  She’s ’bout the purtiest girl I ever seen.”

“Shut up Horace.”  Said Holly.

“Yeah, seriously man, you’ve gotta stop with that.”  Said Waldo.

“We’ve all seen prettier girls than Holly.”  Said Jake.

They were eating dinner – together – something that wouldn’t happen again until Nicole forced everyone to sit down and eat together nearly two weeks later.  Our arrival upset a delicate balance of personalities already on the brink of collective-living chaos.  The drama only needed a few more characters to begin.  Holly, beloved by all of the boys but fond of none of them, finally had a team.

“I’m so glad y’all are here.  I don’t know if I would have made it otherwise.”  She told Nicole.  Rolling in on Monday night, We heard all about the previous weekend. For the three rowdy boys who all knew each other, it was business as usual, but poor Holly had arrived on Friday, immediately thrown into the party-with-strangers dunk tank. We listened to the story and it sounded vaguely familiar: Booze, pot, young people. Enough said.  Horace was still in a state of reflection over Saturday night: “I ain’t gonna be getting drunk this weekend, I done did that last weekend and the house beat me up.”

They offered us a late dinner and we eagerly obliged.  Horace did most of the talking.

“I’s at this farm before this’un, Jeff’s place, out in Backerville, man he’s got his own religious immunity.  Ya do whatever the fuck you want, cops caint fuck witcha.  Seventeen interns, all livin in one three room house, man, them females all laying around nekkid and males gettin nekkid, don’t nobody give a fuck, you wake up all tangled up in nekkid people, man.  And Jeff pays ya every week in beer and weed. Know what happened when I got there?  He told me I had to pass a drug test, handed me a little nug and a rolling paper, says what do you do with that?  I said, well shit homey!”

“So why did you leave?” I asked.

“Got too dang crowded over there.  Plus I heard that here they pay real money.  I’m gonna get in the full lotus position again tonight, done mastered it.”  Horace mused aloud; his thoughts became words as quickly as they developed.

“So, what’s it like here?”  Nicole asked the group during a brief pause in Horace’s continuing monologue.

None of them had a ready answer.  They looked at one another, searched for words, and giggled a little bit until Waldo told us:

“It’s really easy here.  We don’t do much at all.  You won’t have to either.”

“I mean, if you want to work you can, but you really don’t have to.”  Said Jake.

“I just wake up, get ready, and stand around until someone tells me what to do.”  Said Holly.

I asked them how anything gets done around there.  Horace made it clear for us:

“Mexicans.  They got a whole bunch of ’em.  Don’t try an’ keep up with ’em.  Liable to hurt ya’self.”

Waldo explained that the farmers only accepted interns so that they may “share the farming experience”.  This meant lodging in our own private rooms in a gorgeous home, air-conditioned to the point of discomfort, with laundry facilities, three prepared meals a day, and hot showers encased in glass and full length mirrors, accessorized with things I didn’t know how to operate like steam emitters, digital temperature control, and jets like you find in jacuzzis. Oh, and a stipend – $50 per week.  We expected to volunteer.  We expected to sleep in a barn, bathe in the pond, wash our clothes in a soapy bucket.  We thought we’d hit the jackpot.

Over dinner, we talked about where we’d been, and where we were going.  We asked them the same questions.  Jake scowled and mumbled something about bringing his wife up to the farm.  Waldo, sans wife, made the same kind of vague commitments to the farm, the family, and the land. Horace was just happy to be off the street.  All of the boys had been there for many months with no exit strategy, all openly admitted their own laziness, and all wanted desperately to be adopted into the family.  Holly was there for two weeks just like us, and sought only to learn a few things about farming during her summer vacation from school teaching.

*   *   *

Farming is interesting stuff, sure.  But seven drifters living communally under the laissez-faire supervision of a peculiar Southern family- well, we said we wouldn’t write about it.  But that was while we were there, see. We’re gone now. Some readers may have noticed that Nicole mostly writes about work, and I mostly write about free time.  The point of this blog is to chronicle our journey back to the land through rural America as we learn how to grow food.  To skip the drama, the people, the delightful idioms of The South and talk only about spreading fish shit n’ sea weed on the ‘mater patch, well, it would be plain irresponsible.

-DB

Buskin’

Buskin' in the sun

 

   It’s an integral part of being on the road- you have to be able to scrape together some kind of petty income.  Between unpredictable gas prices and city friends with jobs who recommend “this amazing place for a quick bite,” it gets expensive if you’re not careful. Chicago is a great city, well-planned, well maintained, delightful to the senses -yes- but for two jobless homeless farm volunteers, it’s outrageously expensive.  We’ve spent more here in two days than the entire trip combined.  Maybe double.  We’re not in the rural South anymore picking ‘maters off the vine.  There is however, a bountiful community garden right in Grant Park without a fence around it.

   Although we could steal veggies from the park garden, buy a cooler, and peddle it around the street, I picked up a better habit in Nashville – Buskin’.  Also known as cuttin’ heads in some circles, and probably a vast milieu of other colorful monikers depending on where you go, the principle is the same.  Street music.  Pick your spot, open up the guitar case, and start playing.  It’s not so easy in New York- I’ve been told that there’s an audition process before you’re granted a permit to play.  (Yes, a permit, and subsequent fine if you’re caught without one.)  Tennessee law, if it doesn’t outright encourage Buskin’, certainly does not prohibit, restrict, or regulate it.  In Nashville, there seems to be a live band playing in every bar at every time of day, and on almost every street corner you’ll find the rogue music makers who don’t have a gig, but they have a spot.

Mando-Busker

 

Sad Busker

 

Buddy Buskers

 

Novice Busker

 

Unrestrained Busker

 

   Buskin’ is good practice for a shy singer such as myself, because if you want to be heard above the din of the city you must stand up straight and project your voice.  I was a little nervous at first, but rapidly lost my inhibitions after enough people walked by without so much as a glimpse in my direction.  It’s a performance after all- if you’re not putting on a show, nobody will notice.  I found that the louder I sang, the more instruments I incorporated, and the fewer clothes I wore, the more attention I garnered.  So, the harmonica holder came out and the shirt came off, and in the end I made enough dollar bills and quarters to beat any hourly wage I’ve ever earned in my life.

It’s time to try Buskin’ Chicago.  Gotta keep our heads above water.

-DB

p.s. Expect to break a few guitar strings- carry extras.

 

‘Tater ‘Mater Soup

   One of the best things about volunteering on organic farms is having free access to all of the beautiful, fresh produce. We cook with these ingredients daily, and come up with some pretty creative dishes in the process. At Green Market Farm there are usually quite a few extra tomatoes lying around. As mentioned in a previous post, there are 8,000 tomato crops presently growing on the farm, and each one produces at least 20 pounds of fruit. That’s a whole lot of tomatoes. To help clean up the excess, the farm volunteers make salads, sandwiches, or just eat them raw. Last night, we made a delicious soup, and named it ‘Tater ‘Mater Soup. 

I usually don’t follow strict measurements when I’m cooking. I like to taste and tweak as I go, but I’ll try my best to share the recipe so others might enjoy this mellow, light soup.

Tools:

-A large stock pot

-A hand blender. If you don’t have one, you can use a regular blender

Ingredients:

-About 7 or 8 medium tomatoes, quartered. I used yellow taxi tomatoes, but I’m sure any type would work. 

-2 large potatoes

-2-3 table spoons of olive oil

-1/2 cup cream

-two handfuls of basil, chopped

-a pinch of cayenne, or more if you like a lot of heat. Do it to your taste

-4 cloves of garlic, chopped fine, or put through a microplane grater. 

-Salt and pepper to taste

Method:

Put all of the tomatoes and potatoes into the stock pot, then fill the pot 3/4 full with water. Add olive oil, and bring to a boil. Lower heat a little, but keep the soup at a low boil. Add garlic, cayenne, salt and pepper. The potatoes/tomatoes should soften within 20 minutes. I like to remove the tomato skins as they boil to ensure a creamy texture. When soft, add the cream. Then, use a hand blender to blend the soup. If you only have a regular blender, pour the soup in, blend, and return it to the pot. Lower heat and let sit for twenty minutes so the flavors meld. When serving, sprinkle fresh chopped basil on top. Enjoy!!

PS: Make sure to have some fresh bread with this.

Tennessee Under The Sea

   At first glance, I thought I’d found Civil War bullets at my feet in a Tennessee creek bed.  We’re on a farm just outside of Nashville, where spring flooding (locals are calling it a 500 year flood) exposed new layers of old earth that haven’t seen the sunlight in a long time.  

   Before I even picked them up, I imagined a frenzied battle scene in that very creek– sweaty soldiers muzzle-loading crude chunks of lead and shooting them at one another.  Cannon blasts in the distance, projectiles singing in the air overhead, horses thundering through shallow water.  Gunpowder.  Fear.  I thought maybe I was looking at a scattering of bullets that killed a score of men 150 years ago.

    I examined them closer, noticed that they were all the same cylindrical shape, but in varying sizes.  Different caliber bullets?  Was this where officers with pistols died beside enlisted men and their rifles?  Then, I looked at the center of the cylinders and realized that they were not made of lead, they were once living things.  They weren’t bullets, but broken bits of fossilized coral left behind from an ancient sea bed.  Suddenly, I wasn’t looking back 150 years, but millions.  

"Bullets"

 

   I got excited about a time when Tennessee was under the sea, and forgot momentarily about the deer fence I was supposed to be installing.  I took a fossil hunting break.  I was standing on a hotbed of them, everywhere I looked I saw more: comb-like invertebrates, sea shells of unfamiliar shapes and patterns, round coral, spongy coral, coral that looked like goosebumps on skin, some of them clearly defined, some all mashed together in a brick of ancient history.  

Found in a Tennessee creek bed

 

   Then–  I noticed a jagged rock that I’m not going to say was an arrowhead, but it may or may not have been a piece of one, and I leapt through the past to a different time, same place.  I thought of a teenage boy who wanted to go out bear smacking with his friends.  Bear smacking is a Native American game I read about in a book called  “The Tracker” by Tom Brown Jr., wherein the bear smacker attempts to sneak up behind a bear unnoticed– and smack it on the butt.   His friends watch from a safe distance.  

   “But Dad, the guys are all going bear smacking!”

   “You’re not going anywhere until you sit yourself down right here and make me ten arrowheads, boy.”

   “But Dad…”

   “Nope.  Get to it.  I want ’em nice and sharp.  Ten.”

            *                 *                 *

   They don’t grow tomatoes in Tennessee, they grow ‘maters.  Yellow Taxi ‘maters.  Purple Cherokee ‘maters.  Orange cherry ‘maters.  The deer love ’em all.  The ‘maters are ripe, the deer fence is up.    -DB 

Ripening 'Maters

‘Maters

 

            The first thing I noticed upon crossing from North Carolina into Tennessee was the stifling rise in temperature. Ten days in the Smokey Mountains made me forget how far below the Mason Dixon Line we actually are. The chosen route to farm #2 wound through Smokey Mountain National Park, where a cool mist and soft breeze rendered air conditioning obsolete. However, 45 minutes later, and a few thousand feet lower, the temperature went from 80 to 100, with a heat index that easily topped 105. Welcome to the South.

By the way, my car has no AC.

   With the windows down and lots of water handy, we continued on towards Nashville, speculating all the while how we would handle working in such oppressive heat. Will the next farm have AC? Maybe. Plumbing or a compost toilet? Compost, Doug guessed. Hot water? Doug guessed no, but I said yes. We made a few bets, then got lost, and finally arrived at Green Market Farm around 10 pm.

We pulled into the driveway of a stately southern mansion.

“This is their house,” Doug said, “We’re probably staying in the barn out back.”

     After knocking, a young guy with boundless energy opened the door. He informed us that the farmers didn’t live here. They lived a few miles away. This was the stately southern mansion for farm volunteers. Everyone had their own space, a comfortable bed, and a hot shower. The house had internet access and a washer/dryer. A wonderful lady named Jaya prepared gorgeous vegetarian feasts daily. The AC was blasting. Somehow, we had unwittingly stepped into a wwoofer’s paradise.

   There have been more lessons and a look into a different methodology with organic farming. In NC, everything was small scale and hands-on. We planted everything individually on our hands and knees. We watered with 5 gallon buckets. It worked out great, but painted a picture of organic farming that isn’t always true. Sometimes there are 5 gallon buckets and stirrup hoes. Sometimes there are power tools and a brand-new, air conditioned tractor.

    One method isn’t necessarily better than the other; it is merely a question of scale. Green Market Farm is much bigger. Although they have a wide variety of in-season produce (okra, squash, green beans, and cucumbers, to name a few), tomatoes are their strongest suit. The farm boasts 8,000 tomato plants, and each plant will produce 20-25 pounds of fruit before the season is through. Green market has every kind of tomato you can imagine, in most any size, shape, and shade of the rainbow. As for space, there are 15 acres of cultivated land spread out in three different fields. With this much space and these many plants, mechanization is necessary.

 

 Green Market has a tractor with some innovative flair: An attachment allows two people to sit on either side of an unplanted row. As the tractor rolls down the row at a slow speed, spiked wheels puncture holes into the row cover and dump water into them. Those sitting in the seats can then put the seeds or plants into the watered holes. Take a look:

 

It was a far cry from racing the other volunteers at Anna and Paul’s Farm down the rows as we planted on our hands and knees. However, there are good and bad sides to mostly any situation. Sure, taking a leisurely tractor ride is nice, as long as you can stand the smell. Some of the most nutrient dense, healthy-for-plants fertilizers around are fish poop and seaweed, and Green Market Farm isn’t shy about using either. They have a special blend of the two, and use it to make the soil a rich, ideal environment for growth, but it’s at the expense of the workers’ nostrils. The aroma is a cross between sweet and pungent, and a New Jersey bay in the heat of August. The volunteers had their hands swimming in the stuff all day, an experience that I’m certain toughened me up at least a little.

Green Market Farm didn’t only give me my first experience on a tractor, but also my first experience running a mean chainsaw–  I didn’t want to touch the big one, so they gave me one attached to a ten foot pole.  We put up a deer fence through the woods, but first we had to clear a path through the brambly Tennessee jungle.    

 

Green Market Farm sells produce at two farmers’ markets, one of which is in Nashville. Here are a few images I took:

 

A final note on tomatoes here in Tennessee. Folks like to call them “maters.”

“Did you see how big that ‘mater was!? Two pounds, easy.”

“The ‘maters are lookin’ great.”

“What are we gonna do with all these ‘maters!?”

That last question is easy. Pair them with some of the delicious lemon basil that’s growing in the field and make a killer ‘mater salad.

Great Smoky Log Jam National Park

   When we set out from Asheville, North Carolina, our road atlas showed two ways to Tennessee.  We could either take interstate 40 around the biggest mountains from here to Colorado, or Newfound Gap Road (“found” since 1930) right through Great Smoky Mountain National Park.  When time permits, and usually even when it doesn’t, we opt for the scenic route.  We ignored the warnings.  WARNING #1- First week of summer.  WARNING #2 – America’s most-visited National Park.  We saw no animals.  We saw vehicles.  We saw cars, trucks, motorcycles, and RV’s, loaded down with boats and tents and portable grills, firecrackers and kids and everything else you can cram in the back, on the roof, or strap to the bumper.  We crawled along that little two lane road like a string of fossil-fueled beads stretching from North Carolina up and over the mountains all the way down to Tennessee.

   “Don’t get upset” Nicole told me, “we’re here just like all the rest of them.”

   “That’s the problem.”  I said through my teeth, staring at the car in front of us, craning my neck to see beyond the car in front of it, and so on…looking everywhere but the beautiful scenery.

   No animals, no flowers, no waterfalls, no 360 degree panoramic views, nope.  That’s what you get when you try to see nature from the car.  You see only cars.

   After it was over, I didn’t feel inspired, refreshed, or soothed by nature, as I do when walking through it.  I felt only irritation, wanted only beer, and I was ashamed of myself for even thinking it might be fun to try and appreciate a mountain paradise from the confines of the car.  Go take a hike!  Give nature time to impress you, and she will.  Drive through in a hurry and you’ll miss everything.   -DB

Book Burning

   Old barns are a place where I seldom look to find amusement, but sometimes the best amusement finds you there, when you’re not prepared for it.  I’ve learned to appreciate book burning.  It wasn’t the fact that we incinerated four hundred books, it was the way  we burned them that made it so much fun.

  From a trailer full of barn trash bound for the dump, we set aside both junk that can fuel bonfires, and junk that is fun to burn:  Broken furniture filled with nesting animals; jagged scraps of lumber; a pay stub from 1962 ($18.75 a week)– that’s good for burnin’, not really much fun, though.  We struck gold when we found somebody’s stashed booty of paperback trashy romance novels, all starting to show their age; they smelled more like dirt than books.  Invariably, all of the covers depicted steamy half-dressed couples locked in scintillating embrace.  Whoever the collector was, she had ’em all.  

  We announced the titles aloud as we pitched them onto the bonfire.  

“Heart of Thunder”

“Windswept Harmony”

…always with a juicy on-the-cover anecdote.

“He stole her innocence, but gave her ecstasy’s treasure.”

    We found that the books featured different salacious locations and periods in history, to satisfy fantasies and fetishes such as the cowboy, the soldier…

“Her loyalties were with the blue, but her desire burned for a man in grey.”  

…the savage, the bullfighter, the pirate.  

“She was taught civil obedience, but became embroiled in savage desire.”

  We judged the books based on their covers.  Of the hundreds of different books we mocked before burning, the settings changed, but the covers never really did.  Look at the pictures– see if it doesn’t look like fun.  This is Book Burning:

 

   Now, why do we get such pleasure out of destroying something we don’t need or respect?  The broken furniture was once respectable furniture, which burns, but rather joylessly.  If I respected the smutty romance novels, they wouldn’t be fun to burn either– like the difference between cremation and incineration.  So, just because they weren’t to my taste means that I found it acceptable, if not thrilling, to send them to hell in a funeral pyre, laughing all the while.  Should I be ashamed of myself?  Should I feel remorse for burning up the sheer human hours that went into writing, editing, publishing, selling, and reading those books?  

   The barn looks great without the old junk.  Paul and Anna plan on using the newly reclaimed space to make a pottery studio.  But maybe, just maybe, one of these days, a man and a woman with their hair blowing in the breeze, their clothes torn to shreds by their own lusty fingernails, will appear in my nightmare and burn me at the stake.     -DB