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Words to guide, inspire and entertain
My husband [he’s Max] and I have a big black Yamaha motorcycle named Rita, which we’re addicted to, and ride as much as we can, especially in the summer. Yes, we wear all the gear. Even when it’s stinking hot.
We had gotten pleasantly lost way down South Jersey, where the farm country remains untouched. We were very thirsty and cranky with hunger; there was a cute little farm stand; we stopped. Now we thought that likely we would scare the farmers [black gear, black bike, and some tattoos] but no… the old man came limping out and talked about a german bike he’d stolen in the Big War. The old woman waved, we went in and bought home grown apples, water, and a muffin to share. We talked about everything, talk you can only have with folks with no agenda. These people grew food, had a stand, sat in lawn chairs, sold the food, and talked to strangers. They were so, I don’t know… they looked like Idaho potatoes. That sounds unflattering, but it’s hard to say what I mean. They were dirty. That doesn’t sound nice either…. They had worked their whole lives with soil and plants. They were permanently stained with the earth they lived on, they were the color of their land and were as wrinkled and peaceful as two figs. Their produce was ordinary and very pretty, and they farmed very small scale. When I went out back to use the port-a-pot, I noticed six odd plants there in the dirt. In a minute I realized they were cotton, and the bolls had opened. I’d never seen cotton in person before. With a little guilt I picked my way in and stared closely; it’s an amazing plant. Where did it originate? Why don’t I know all this stuff?
I went out front and said to the old fig: is that cotton back there? She nodded and grinned. Isn’t it neat? she said. We’ve never grown it before and so we thought we’d see what happened if we did. Her smile was so childlike and lively, and she got such a kick out of those six plants. This is the tradition we keep whenever we get dirt under our nails and kneel in earth. This is what keeps us where we ought to be in the cycle of everything. Bless them both; when I get old I want to be a wrinkly old fig.
photo: Amanda Bennett, www.bennettmassage.com
Posted By Gordon's Garden at Wednesday, July 02, 2014| Permalink
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