Coming back to the present moment, I say to Sarah, “First sun, bringing all life on the farm into soft awareness.”
“That’s pretty,” she says and gives me a big smile.
Sean tells his mom the woman down the street observed our first block class a few days ago. “She thought Jake was terrific.”
“I can see why,” his mom says and smiles at me. “I feel so welcomed when I go into Stone Creek, comfortable in that environment to be open and appreciate other people. Daniel’s mom says the same thing. She is so thankful that part of Daniel’s life is stable and nourishing. Not that the group home is bad, but at school Daniel feels free to explore and be new, starting over rather than paying for past mistakes or being told to be patient for some future life.”
“You know, Sean, we couldn’t see how your spirit was withering away when you were at Hilltop,” his dad says. “The only hint was at the end, when you came to life planning the EarthWalk event for Adrian. And now, as we see you growing into your own more every day, I think, how could we have been so blind?”
What different experience from dinners with Dad, who spends most meals recounting stories of life in the county. Sean’s family seems more interested in reflecting on their own lives and what it all means. Sean’s dad pretty much admitted he was wrong about what was good for Sean, and he shouldn’t have fought Sean about transferring from Hilltop to Stone Creek. My dad would never admit he was wrong about something.
Maybe that’s where my growing interest in poetry comes from. It’s something I can do on my own, to express how I see things. Often the perspective is different from my dad’s. After dinner at Sean’s, this pops out:
Not observing the morning sun at a distance.
Seeing sun up close in every form on the farm.
All things alive with sun.
Sun encompassing us all.
Not one thing, sun.
Not two things, sun and us.
Both sun and us inter-are.
In science classes over the years, my focus has been relating everything to the farm. A few years ago, I started following developments in the movement for sustainable food. There’s a national leader whose farm is in the next county, about thirty miles away, just east of the Allegheny Mountain Range. I’ve read a lot about him, and also saw him in the movie Food, Inc. My science teacher this year keeps saying I should go spend a day with him. Teachers encourage every student to get out in the real world of work, to learn from the people doing something of mutual interest.
“Interest” is a mild word when applied to this farmer. I read a newspaper article where he referred to himself as a lunatic. He also calls himself a Libertarian, which to him means keeping the government out of farming. I guess we’ll get into that next year in government class.
For now, I’m more interested in how he does farming differently. And recently I finally got it together, on the courage front, to get in touch with him and set up a day to visit his farm. Today is the appointed day, which is why I’m currently driving up the narrow, dusty road that leads into Joel Salatin’s farm.
He’s standing out front when I pull up. I jump out of the car, feeling nervous, and walk up to him.
“Hello, Mr. Salatin, nice to meet you.”
“Call me Joel, Jake, so I don’t feel so old,” he says, smiling.
He doesn’t look so old, with his funny straw hat, though he does have a grown son who manages a good bit of the farm. But the main thing that makes him seem young is how he gushes over the animals, the grass in the pasture, and the marvels of nature. Other farmers I know in his generation seem hardened, hopeless about any positive landscape ahead; he’s just the opposite.
It’s one thing to read about the ecological symmetry of pigs, and cattle, and chickens in the pasture and its wooded edge. But it’s another thing to hear him explain “Let a chicken be a chicken” for thirty minutes, with me hanging on his every word (though I have no clear idea what many of them mean).
“Where did you learn all this?” I can’t bring myself to call him by his first name, yet.
“Getting a master’s degree in English helped me learn to think and express my feelings, but it was my father who introduced me to the long tradition of environmentally conscious farming,” he says. “Also, available land in the family presented an opportunity for years of experimentation. It all started with growing grass in healthy soil.”
He delivers another thirty-minute lecture on the science of grass—the importance of its height, the critters living in the soil, and the contribution of animals in the pasture.
The tour ends with him showing me the outdoor area where the chickens and turkeys are processed, right next to where people come to the farm to buy fresh items once a week. He also sells at a farmers market and directly to restaurants in the area. Buying groups in towns organize for one person to make the drive to the farm and pick up what people want.
“The ‘distribution’ organization takes a lot of time and planning,” he says. “Thankfully, my wife helps with that part of the operation.”
He tells me about other farms in the area who are converting away from the industrial food system of tilling, nitrogen-based fertilizers, feed that’s not good for the animals or the humans who eat them, and taking cows to markets that send them west to be processed before they’re returned to the local grocery store, resulting in a $500-per-cow profit loss to farmers.
“That’s corporate agribusiness for you,” he says, taking off his straw hat and drying his forehead.
“I’m having a hard time convincing farmers in my area to try a new approach,” I say. “They don’t seem to believe it can be more profitable.” I point to the crowd at his farm stand. “I mean, it’s clear that more and more consumers want healthier and fresh foods. It seems like what happens in the distribution system is beyond the farmer’s control, except for farmers’ markets, which the farmers I know aren’t interested in.”
“Yeah, there are lots of things to figure out yet, which is why farmers need to be smart and get a good education,” Joel says. “But I think it comes down to a moral issue of having a feel for the earth and every living thing. Believing nature has inherent value. I’m optimistic that young people your age have turned the corner toward sustainable agriculture and will be the ones who lead us in the right direction.”
I’ve never thought of this approach to farming as being a moral issue. Dad always talks about the economic issues. Me, I just love the work. I guess you could say it is a moral thing, humans tending the land.
This visit with Joel is a real shot in the arm of enthusiasm—and I needed it. At the last Chautauqua meeting, I was argued down around the idea of getting farm-to-school food for our cafeteria. On the school end, Chief got funding from the local schools foundation for more refrigerators in our cafeteria, to replace the many freezers serving as coffins for dead food to be thawed and heated. But those refrigerator dollars are pending the Superintendent convincing the School Board to expand the number of cafeteria workers to cut and cook even more fresh food, planned largely around what is in season at the moment.
On the farmer end, they want up-front school commitment to guarantee amounts of dairy, produce, and meats the school will purchase. That way they can be safe in planting appropriate amounts of crops and making the expenditures on feed and livestock. But the school food services director says they are not allowed to buy from exclusive sources and have to get the best price at the moment, so they can’t make the farmers any guarantees.
These arguments seem to me like technical issues. I think what is really lacking is both sides seeing their mutual interests and taking a risk to do things differently, and I said so at the meeting. It didn’t seem to convince anyone, though Chief did seek me out afterward, saying I did a good job making my case. He also told me he’s been meeting with farmers individually, and has been impressed with how many times they’ve described my dad as a strong, quiet force.
My gloomy prospect around chan
ge is very personal. I have not been able to convince my dad to plant produce crops beyond the family vegetable garden we’ve always had. He keeps saying that the change would mean hiring workers to do the planting, tending, and harvesting crops, and that would mean him losing money on the deal. Plus, he says, you can’t find reliable farm workers these days.
On the drive home from Joel’s place, it hits me. I will propose to Dad we try growing crops just for the summer. I will find and manage the farm workers, and he can continue with his summer routine of haying for the cows for next winter and doing small construction jobs on the side.
Today in first period, I tell Sean, “I saw a farm just like what I want to do. Sustainable agriculture, and the farmer has people coming to the farm to buy food. I’m not sure about that last part, but I’m going to try to convince Dad to let me expand our farm and hire some helpers for the summer.”
A couple of Sean’s soccer player friends overhear me.
“Hey man,” Jorge says, “I’m good at farming if you’re going to hire workers for the summer.”
“Me too,” Amelio says. “We both have experience in crop planting, weeding, and harvesting.”
“If you guys do it, I will too,” Sean says. “It would be fun working together.”
“Great!” I say, feeling galvanized. One big obstacle solved easily. I bet Dad never considered hiring immigrant workers. It’s nice to have friends that will help me out and want to work with me.
Tonight, Dad and I hammer out a plan for the growing season.
“I’m willing to help you do this because I figure you need to experience all the pressures firsthand to see it isn’t possible to make a go of small-scale farming these days,” he says. “The high prices paid to FFA kids at the County Fair for the animals you raise is about farmers being supportive of young people, but that’s not the way it works in the real world.”
Our plan is to grow only produce that will be mostly picked by the time school starts in late summer. Dad will move his cows to a neighbor’s field for the summer so we can use our fields of rich dirt, free of previous pesticides. He will also help me behind the scenes with each step of what needs to be done, and when. I will be in charge of managing the work with my crew of three, and maybe four at harvest time—though I’ll have to figure out who that fourth person will be. With the exception of a tractor, all the work will be done by hand.
I insist the workers be paid minimum wage, $7.25 per hour, even though their young age and the total number of employees only requires a $4.25-per-hour wage for farm work. I suggest that Dad pay me at the end of the summer, and then only if there are enough profits to pay my salary. Starting in March, weekend workers will be in the greenhouses, setting up beds and mending fences part time. Dad will front the costs of all seeds and other supplies needed.
When Dad goes to bed, I call Sean to fill him in on our plans.
“Sounds awesome,” he says. “And hey, I have your fourth farm worker! Cora. She can’t work until harvest time, but that’s perfect, right? The early part of the summer she’ll be at Howard on scholarship in a science program for rising high school seniors. Ms. Hoffmann helped her get in.”
Everything is coming together. I can’t believe how well it’s all going. “That’s great for all of us,” I say. “Cora will get to see if Howard is the college for her, and we’ll get more help just when we need it. You’re right, the timing is perfect.”
I didn’t expect to get all this help. Dad and his friends help each other out at times, but nothing like this. I better not get cocky, but I’ve passed the first major test in Dad’s eyes for a summer he is betting will be a failure. I really needed this boost in confidence. Thanks, guys!
Wait, is that sexist?
Tests of the usual standardized type are taken at Stone Creek at the end of each year. My dad is much more interested in these tests than he is in my summer farming test.
He told me one of the Stone Creek counselors came to last night’s Ruritan meeting to talk to them about giving scholarships to graduating seniors. She asked them to make financial need a priority in awarding scholarships, so all students get a fair shot at going to college.
“Charlie Parker asked her to explain all the tests that go on and are required by colleges,” Dad says. “The counselor lady gave us a handout she went through because the testing craze has made things so complicated. She said there are three types of tests, most not required by colleges.”
From here on, Dad is reading from the handout, shaking his head the whole time:
The first is state-required tests, which all Stone Creek students take to justify class credit for graduation and are not required by colleges. Second, some Stone Creek “Saturday” students voluntarily meet during the year to prepare for: SAT tests they may or may not report to colleges; AP tests for credit from whichever college they eventually attend for a Stone Creek class they take with regular students during the week; and Dual Enrollment tests for college credit through the local community college. The third type of test is for all Stone Creek students—the PISA exam. This test is the one widely discussed in the news comparing the US to other countries. The PISA focuses more on skills like critical thinking than do typical standardized tests, which ask for recall of information from memory. Many colleges prefer to see high school teacher recommendations and results of the PISA than other tests or information. Stone Creek teachers prefer project portfolios to assess student growth over tests.
“It seemed to us this testing malarkey is a mess,” Dad says. “What do you think?”
Finally, something we agree on. “I think you’re right. All tests do is make people nervous and feel like idiots. I know students who score well on tests and yet they cannot say things clearly or solve simple questions that come up in everyday life.” Not so many kids brag about their test scores anymore, of course. They’ve been shot down too many times by those of us who know better.
“Why doesn’t the school change things?” Dad asks.
“Chief is trying, Dad. I bet he would appreciate support from the Ruritans.”
“I got you to worry about. That’s enough.”
“You don’t have to worry about me, Dad. I’m doing fine, test or no test.”
I switch the conversation topic to plans for the summer. Dad passively listens to me talk about all my ideas for the farm, and even though he’s very helpful in explaining the nitty-gritty of what needs to be done, he is not excited, or even mildly interested, in listening to my outside-the-box ideas about future farming. My real partner in dreaming is Chelsea, who actually listens to all my thinking out loud about how farming has to change for new times. She says listening is what she has always done, but I’m the first person who has ever really listened to her. I feel the same way about her.
Sean, Jorge, and Amelio are easy to work with. Despite their playful approach, I’ve already realized from our spring weekend work just how much Jorge and Amelio know about the details of farm work from past experience. They’ve already rescued me several times when I misunderstood my dad’s instructions. Dad’s not long on words, and since he stays away from our actual work, I have to rely on his clipped explanations—not always the best formula for success.
In one of our downtime chats this weekend, I learn that the name “Amelio” means “hard-working,” which fits his style. Jorge says his name is the same as “George” in English.
“That’s my dad’s name,” I say.
Jorge laughs. “You must have smart grandparents, because the name means farmer.”
“The name ‘Jacob’ means to replace with something that works better,” I say. I googled my name long ago to see its origin and meaning, but thinking about it now it could be prophetic, making farming work better.
“Okay, don’t laugh,” Sean says, “but my name is the Irish version of John and supposedly refers to a people person—likable and optimistic. You think that’s me—or ‘mise,’ in Gaelic?”
“No way!” I say, just as Am
elio and Jorge both say, “Ni hablar!”—which I take to mean the same thing.
Then Amelio adds, “Well, maybe in a goofy kind of way,” as he grabs Sean and kisses the top of his head.
Our conversations get pretty silly, but when we’re working, it’s all business. All three guys have amazing concentration; we like to work while singing along with loud music projected from an iPod, an unsupplanted source of energy for the rhythm of farm work.
One Saturday afternoon in mid-May, as we wait for a rain shower to pass, Chelsea appears in the greenhouse.
“Are you ready to hear my report of the CSA outside of Charlottesville?” she asks me.
I stop what I’m doing. “Yes!” The Community Supported Agriculture farm I asked Chelsea to check on is supposedly the most successful one in the area.
“The farm has been around for about five years, financed by a wealthy person who lives in New Jersey,” Chelsea says. “The CSA has five hundred members who pick up their allotted produce at a central location once a week. It is a mid-size farm, around twice as big as yours, Jake.”
“Tell us about the important part, the workers,” Amelio says.
“You’re right, that is the important part, and the workers aren’t too happy. They have about ten workers, all of them recent UVA graduates, and they’re earning about $10 per hour. A few are paid by UVA as interns related to agriculture careers. Most are not experienced farm workers because there’s substantial turnover every year. They’re growing primarily vegetables. One of the workers’ complaints is that a lot of food is wasted because the owners say people won’t want the vegetables if they don’t look perfect. That relates to major concerns from the workers that they have little say in how things are done on the farm and just feel like hired hands. On the upside, they’re all young people who have a lot of camaraderie in the strenuous work.”
School Tales Page 23