by Sara Biren
Today’s the last Adopt-a-Trail Saturday for the year, which usually corresponds with the first frost. After this week, I’ll transition to my off-season position at the nature center on the north side of the park reserve. Part of my role is to explain the importance of the program and environmental stewardship in general, so at the end of the two hours, I congratulate the group for all they’ve accomplished. I talk about how much others will enjoy the trails because of their efforts and ways they can continue to conserve and protect our natural resources during the fall and winter months.
“Thanks for your hard work, everyone,” Israel says when I’ve finished my wrap-up, “and let’s all give Juniper a hand for her awesome stewardship and assistance this summer.”
The kids and group leaders pack up their things and start down the main trail to the parking lot. We follow at a slightly slower pace. I think we’re both a little sad that the season’s over. “Have they told you what you’ll be doing at the center?” Israel asks.
“I’d be surprised if they don’t put me in the gift shop or snack bar.” I sigh. “I really hope I’ll be able to teach a few classes, though.”
“I heard that they’re thinking about giving you birthday parties,” Israel says.
“Please, no.” I groan. “I like plants, not people.”
Israel elbows me. “That’s my line, young lady. And even if you claim that you don’t like people, which I don’t believe for one minute, you can’t deny that people like you.”
Israel has worked for the park since I was a kid. He’s tall with deep brown skin and scruffy gray hair. He’s about Mom’s age, maybe a little older. His wife died a couple of years ago, and their only son is grown with a son of his own. Israel sold his house in town and moved to a one-bedroom cabin farther out in the country. He jokes that he’s married to Mother Nature now.
“What’s going on these days in that greenhouse of yours?” Israel asks.
I fill him in before saying goodbye and continuing down the trail toward home. Today’s an unseasonably warm fall day. The warmth of the sun feels like a luxury on my skin as I walk across the yard to the greenhouse. As I open the door, I shoot a text to Gabe and try to block out my worry about our e-biz project.
This is the space where I feel most like myself, where I can experiment with different growing techniques and flavors. I started making tea about two years ago and even planted a Camellia sinensis shrub, a tea plant that takes three to five years to mature. For now, I make mostly herbal tea blends or buy base teas from a co-op in Duluth. A few months ago, I started experimenting with the idea of making my own essential oils, and it’s been a lot of trial and error since then.
Today, I’m full of new ideas, not surprising considering I spent the morning on the trail at the park. I’ve always turned to nature to tune into my creative self, another habit I picked up from Dad.
We didn’t go on many vacations or weekend trips as a family, but twice Dad and I were able to plan special hikes out of town, both in early spring before the work on the farm got too busy. Once, we drove up past Duluth and hiked along Lake Superior. Another time, we camped at Banning State Park, about an hour south of us, and hiked a four-mile loop. I was nine and complained nearly the whole way that my feet hurt. I’d give anything to have that time with him back.
I move through my daily tasks quickly and then sit down at the desk. I pull down a book on herbal teas and a notebook to jot down an idea for a cranberry-cinnamon tea for Thanksgiving. I’ve got to make this quick because there’s a pile of homework waiting for me, including the revision of the Beet Street executive summary. Neither one of us brought it up at the game last night, and Gabe hasn’t responded to the text I sent about it after work.
As much as I’ve tried not to worry about the project and the farm, as much as I tried to let it all go on the trail this morning, I can’t help what I’m feeling. This is our life, our home.
I need a cup of my comfort blend tea ASAP, and I need to up my friendship game with Gabe Hudson. Last night was a start. He seemed to have fun hanging out with us. Youa can be a lot to take in, but he was a good sport. And that smile he gave me after HRH tied the game right at the half—when I closed my eyes last night and tried to sleep, it’s all I could see.
I stand up, tuck the book on herbal teas back on the shelf, and turn toward the door. I’m surprised to see Gabe standing only a few feet from me. He smiles—not like the one, but close enough.
“Oh, shoot,” I say, pressing a hand to my chest against the pounding of my heart. “You startled me.”
“Clearly,” Gabe says. “You were pretty deep in thought.”
“Oh, right,” I stammer, not wanting to give away that I’ve been deep in thought about him and that smile and how I can’t seem to figure him out. “What are you doing here?”
“I went up to the house, and Laurel said you were here.”
“Why did you go up to the house?”
“To talk to you.”
I wave my phone. “You could have sent a text.”
Gabe shrugs. “Battery’s dead.”
“So charge it?”
He shrugs again. “Every now and then, I like to disconnect. Seemed like a good time to do that. Dead battery and all.”
“Are you . . . charging it, then?”
“Why are you so worried about my phone battery?”
“Well,” I say with emphasis, drawing out the word, “what if someone needs to get ahold of you? For example, me. I sent you a text. We need to work on the executive summary revision.”
“Well,” he mimics, “here I am. That’s why I went up to the house looking for you. Let’s talk about our executive summary.”
I put my hands on my hips, then drop them again quickly. This is so frustrating. If he’d charged his phone battery like a responsible human, I wouldn’t have spent the last hour and a half wondering why he wasn’t responding to my text, worrying about getting the executive summary revision done on time. Which spiraled into a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach at the thought of not acing this class, what a poor grade would do for my GPA and my scholarship.
“Can we talk about it at the house?” I ask. “I haven’t had lunch.”
He nods, drops his sunglasses down over his eyes, and follows me out of the greenhouse and across the lawn.
Mom’s at the stove stirring an enormous stockpot of chili. “Perfect timing,” she says. “Slow-simmered two hours. I’ve set out all the toppings. Scrub up and help yourselves.”
I half expect Gabe to decline, but he surprises me and Mom, I think, by rolling up his sleeves and stepping over to the sink to wash his hands.
“Smells amazing,” he says.
I watch, stunned, as he picks up a bowl and holds it out for Mom to ladle up the chili, then moves around the island, choosing cheddar cheese, jalapeños, sour cream, avocado, and Fritos.
Mom beams. “You must be hungry.”
“I think it’s this crisp northern Minnesota air. I opened the windows last night and slept better than I have in weeks.”
“You know there are tomatoes in chili, right?” I ask.
He grins. “Aren’t tomatoes fruit?”
“Well, yes,” I sputter, “but what about the onions? And the jalapeños? Peppers. Vegetables.”
“Maybe I’ve decided to expand my vegetable repertoire.” He laughs.
“How was the game last night, Gabe?” Mom asks.
“Better than I expected, considering it was my very first high school football game.”
“No way!” I say. “You’ve never been to a high school football game before?”
He shakes his head as he sits down at the table with its mismatched antique chairs and French stripe place mats. “That wasn’t really . . . my scene back in LA.”
Mom hands me a bowl of chili. I add toppings and sit down next to Gabe, who is already chowing down.
“I took a walk around the farm this morning, too,” Gabe says in between spoonfuls. “It looks
different in the sunshine.”
“So,” Mom says as she sits down across from us. “What do you think?”
“Delicious,” he says. I narrow my eyes. He knows she’s not asking about the chili.
“I meant about the farm,” Mom prods gently.
He crunches a corn chip, then says, “I think it’s got a lot going for it.” A lot going for it? What does that even mean? I open my mouth to ask the question, but he continues before I get the chance. “Tell me about the round barn.”
She smiles. “That’s our favorite place on the farm, isn’t it, Juniper? It’s one of only a handful of round barns in the Midwest made with fieldstone. It was originally used as a dairy barn. When your great-grandfather bought the farm, it was called the milk house, but he sold off the cows and raised sheep instead. That’s how he came up with the farm’s name, too.”
“Has it ever been renovated?”
“Not a complete overhaul. The exterior has held up well. The walls are twenty-four inches thick, so it would take a lot to damage them.”
“The interior looks a bit run-down,” he says.
I lift a spoonful of chili to my lips and blow on it to cool it. He suddenly seems very interested in the farm, considering he couldn’t get away fast enough the day I gave him a tour. And why is he asking so many questions about the round barn? Who cares when it was built or that it’s a little run-down? I agree, the inside could use some sprucing up, but the sheep don’t seem to mind. It’s an iconic fixture on the farm, visible from the overlook at the park reserve and by anyone canoeing on the river.
“I’ve asked Chris about renovating,” Mom says, “but it’s in good-enough shape right now that I’ve been able to focus on other repairs or equipment needs. Eventually, I’d like to expand the flock, which will require moving the sheep to the larger barn, and then we can renovate the interior.”
“Why are you so interested in the round barn?” I ask, trying to keep my tone innocent and even.
“I’m interested in all the buildings,” he says, “but wouldn’t you say the round barn is something of a focal point? Iconic, even? As you say, there aren’t too many of them around.”
“Oh, I agree,” I say pleasantly. “Mom, we should contact the county historical society about the barn again. Maybe they can help us get it listed on the National Register of Historic Places.”
“Interesting,” Gabe says. “This chili is delicious. What’s your secret ingredient?”
He changes the subject so smoothly that I don’t think Mom notices. She beams again. She loves when people ask her for the secret ingredient.
“Two secret ingredients. Cinnamon and honey.” She gives me a pointed look, a reminder. Honey and vinegar.
“Honey,” Gabe echoes. “I wouldn’t have guessed. How many sheep do you have?”
Once Gabe has had his fill of chili (two heaping bowls) and insider information, Mom clears the table and offers to clean up the kitchen so we can work on our project together.
“So,” he says, once I’ve gotten my laptop and pulled up the shared doc Marxen sent with a blank executive summary worksheet. “How do you want to do this?”
I’m crabby. I don’t like how he’s been digging for information. “What do you mean? Marxen told us we need more, that our business needs to be more than a place that sells vegetables. We need to add two or three additional components to show that we can manage multiple objectives.”
“You’re the subject matter expert here. What the hell do I know about farming? Not a damn thing except there’s something near the big barn that makes me sneeze. So, I defer to you.”
I pause. Even after last night, I don’t trust him. A large part of me wants to tell him this, but a larger part thinks it’s probably not wise to poke the bear. Remember the honey. Bears like honey. “You defer to me,” I repeat.
“Yes.”
“May I remind you that I technically have no experience besides running a stand at a farmers’ market, and even that’s cursory.”
“Which is way more experience than I have with any of this. You run a successful stand at a farmers’ market. I fucked up the one thing I know how to do.”
Well. I finally listened to the second album this morning while I was getting ready for work, and I can’t disagree with him.
“Tell me your ideas,” he says.
I sigh. Yes, I’m worried about Stone & Wool. Yes, I’m wary of his motives and his sudden interest in the round barn. But I remind myself that this is a school project, completely separate from reality. I’ve been practically begging him to take this project seriously, and now he is. I take a deep breath.
“OK. Let’s say the farm stand is the focal point. Maybe we make it more than a stand. An entire barn filled with produce and other items, and we call it a farm store.” At his nod, I keep going. “Pony rides, a hay wagon. Corn maze. Strawberry picking and a u-pick pumpkin patch. School field trips. Freshly baked apple fritters and donuts and apple cider. Any of those sound good?”
“All of them sound good,” Gabe says. “I would murder an apple fritter right now.”
“You just ate two bowls of chili.”
“If you put an apple fritter in front of me, I’m going to eat it. Gran used to make the best apple fritters. Oh, and cinnamon rolls.”
I smile at the memory of Leona baking in her kitchen. “Yes, with that maple icing. And her sour cream coffee cake? So good.”
“Funny, Allan said the same thing. You don’t happen to have the recipe, do you?” he asks.
I nod. “I’m sure if we don’t have it, we could find it at the farmhouse.”
“Put that in the bakery, too. What about sheep?”
“What about them?”
“Should we have them on the farm? If we’re having ponies, we should have sheep, right? Don’t kids like sheep?”
“I guess.”
“Could we do sheep shearing or something?”
“I don’t know much about sheep shearing. I’ve never done it myself.”
“But you can tell people how it’s done, right?” Gabe asks. “In theory, you could stand in front of a group of people and describe what the person is doing? And, you know, it’s not like you really have to do this. Beet Street is completely fabricated.”
“You know we only shear sheep once a year, right? People can come see the sheep any time of the year, but we’d need to call it something else.”
Gabe nods and thinks for a minute. “Right. How about something like a living farm tour? Annual sheep shearing can be a special event.”
“Sure, that sounds good. And visiting the lambs in the spring.” My fingers fly across the keyboard as I list our ideas.
“This might be a dumb question, but what do you do with the wool once it’s been sheared?” Gabe asks. “I mean here, in real life.”
“We take it to a fiber-processing farm in northern Wisconsin.”
“All the way to Wisconsin? Why not do it yourselves?”
“We don’t have the time or the equipment to skirt or scour the wool pieces. Mom buys some of it back to card and spin herself.”
Gabe shakes his head. “I have no idea what any of that means, but whatever it is, I think we can put it into the proposal. Eventually it becomes yarn, right? We could sell the yarn at the market?”
“Sure, we could sell yarn. We could sell the wool at different stages for people who like to process it themselves. Maybe even some of the equipment, like hand carders. Finished products, too, like what Mom makes now.”
“What types of things does she make?”
“She uses felted wool to make bowls, purses, slippers, coasters, that kind of thing. She also makes mosaic wall-hangings.”
“Mosaics? Out of wool?”
“Felted wool.”
“What’s the difference?”
I stand up. “Follow me.” I lead him into the office off the living room where two of Mom’s designs hang: a seascape and a mountain sunset.
“Hmm,” he says as he
tilts his head to inspect the mountain sunset. “Interesting.”
“Interesting?”
“Well, they’re amazing. She’s really talented.”
I nod. “She is.”
“So, all of this,” Gabe says. “We need to add all of this. We can sell yarn and felted wool stuff and whatever else. I think this all works well together. Now we need a new name. Beet Street doesn’t really work if it’s more than a vegetable stand.”
A name comes to me out of nowhere. “How about Field & Flock?” I ask. “We’ve got the growing side of the business and the sheep side.”
“Field & Flock. Like Stone & Wool. Hmm.” He doesn’t say anything more, and I expect him to tell me that it’s too similar. Then, “I like that. A lot. Field & Flock it is.”
This is going well. Almost too well.
“You should come to the farmers’ market tomorrow,” I say as we walk back into the kitchen, surprising myself.
“Yeah, that would be cool,” he says, and he gives me another one of those devastating smiles that sends little flutters from my stomach to my throat.
I shake my head to clear it. I think I’m starting to like those smiles—and the flutters—a little too much.
Chapter Nineteen
GABE
“Field & Flock?” Ted laughs. We’re in his truck on our way to the farmers’ market in town. “What the flock, Gabe? Careful what font you use.”
“The name works,” I say. “It evokes a simpler time, an invitation to slow down and enjoy what nature provides.” I didn’t come up with this—it’s what Juniper told Laurel when she asked about it yesterday.
“Oh, like you’re doing now, according to all the gossip sites?”
“Exactly like that,” I agree.
“What does Juniper think about the idea?”
“She loves it. All of it.”
Ted laughs again. “Does she now? She hasn’t argued with you?”
“She does like to argue, that’s for sure. We seem to have come to an agreement over Field & Flock, however.”