One of the best things about working out here is that all of us come together bringing our various experiences to make this farm what it is, and my experience working with the Mains seems to continually be of use- everything from making dried-flower wreaths to organizing the cash box at market. I think of Annie all the time, especially on Wednesdays when we go to market; I now know that getting to market- the planning, harvesting, washing, packing, driving- is more work than most people are cut out for. My appreciation for and amazement of Annie continues to grow even when I’m 2,500 miles away. Just about everything I do, I think to myself: I wonder how Jeff and Annie do this?
Though it is hard to describe exactly what I’ve been experiencing, here’s a recollection of one of my days (actually just half a day). I hope it gives you a taste of Tennessee island farming.
It’s 7:15 Tuesday morning. The others have just crossed the river, and there are no more canoes left. I make a call and then wait to be picked up. With my few minutes to spare, I sit on the concrete boat ramp and soak in the beauty around me. In front of me is the calm water of the Tennessee River and beyond in all directions are giant green hills (often called mountains) completely covered in forest of all shades. Coming down the river gorge is a light fog from the humid summer night. The sky is not yet clear and the sun is only beginning to crack through and heat the damp air. There’s a stillness around me, yet I know it’s about to all break loose. A fish leaps into the air, the birds chirp loader, and a cluster of ants pace by my feet. The canoe arrives, and I know it’s time to start my day.We paddle across the 200-yard stretch, pull the boat out of the water, and set it on its side under some trees. We make our way through the cleared path, over roots, under weeping trees, and pass the “Williams Island Farm” sign hand painted in white letters against a royal blue background. Continuing through another path knocking down spider webs from the night, we finally make it to the kitchen. The kitchen has many functions- it’s not just where we cook and eat, it’s where we rest, talk, read, and just gather together. Once at the front, I slip my dusty Chacos off my feet and walk through the kitchen to the other side where I hang my backpack on a bent nail. Just above the row of nails is the almighty white board- it’s the never-ending list of things to do. Most mornings I take a few minutes to study it, talk priorities over with everyone, and then plan out our day’s work, but today is a harvest day and I’m already late, so I pass the board without a glance. I run out to the field to meet the others.
They are just beginning to gather boxes and containers to collect the harvest in. We walk over to the spring garden. Though it’s early July, the spring vegetables are still hanging on. Most mornings there’s about six or seven of us on the farm, but today we have some volunteers. We divide up, some in pairs, each taking a vegetable. I take chard. I count out twenty-five rubber bands stretching them over my wrist, still red and swollen from yesterday’s ant bites. I start on one end of the row, pick a few leaves, and estimate how many bunches I think I can get. The plants are looking rough; this will probably be the last week to harvest it. I think I can stretch it and get twenty-five bunches. That will be enough for the fourteen CSA shares that pick up on Wednesday and some to sell at market. It’s always difficult to estimate what will sell - one week chard flies and the next it sits and wilts. Eleven bunches should surely sell. At first I notice bumps on the stems and holes in the leaves, but before long my mind drifts and I make my way down the row- sorting, picking, bunching- all in a sort of rhythm. I make it to the end and use the last rubber band; my estimate was right. I pack the box of chard in the mule making sure it’s still in the shade. There’s a crew pulling out the carrots and then a few finishing up on kale, arugula, cabbage, and beets. I check in with the others first before heading over to the Elder garden, where our summer crops are planted. Someone else has already started on the sungold tomatoes. I grab a basket and head to the peppers. They are just beginning to turn red, so I get what I can not wanting to reap those that still have potential to sweeten. With room left in the basket, I gather what I can find from the sickened cucumber and squash plants. My basket is full.We reconvene in the kitchen. I fill a mug with water and take a seat. It’s mid morning, and we are doing well. As others return to harvest, I man the washing station. First, I turn the generator on, ceasing the quiet serenity, and then proceed with the hose. The chilled well water, splashing my hand, makes me shiver as mud runs off my fingers. I dump the box of chard in, give it a good soaking, shake each bunch, and place them back in the box. As I proceed with the rest of the greens, two others are washing and bunching the carrots. How quickly they change from long brown sticks to shiny orange deliciousness. I scamper over and bite into a fallen carrot. Yum! Still crunchy and sweet, but I can tell the summer heat is starting to take the best of them.
By noon, we have finished with harvest. Of course, there will still be some things to get last minute tomorrow before market but for now this will do. We pack the mule high with boxes, buckets, and crates full of fresh produce. Noah turns the key. The starter’s shot. He tries again. Third time’s the charm. I find a spot and squeeze in. We drive down the path going over roots and big holes slowly and with ease. Once at the dock, we unload everything out of the mule to the dock then from the dock to the motor boat. Everything fits and I find a spot to sit. We try the motor but somehow water has leaked into the gas. So we row. As an unexperienced rower, I get a short lesson from No
ah and then give it a go. For his every one stroke, it takes me two or three- so much for unison. Twenty minutes and many zig-zags later, we make it to the other shore. We jump out and begin unloading onto the dock. Noah brings the truck down, and we load from the dock to the truck. I climb aboard the old Ford and close the passenger door with a rickety bang. Noah chain locks the boat to a post, but the lock is rusted, so he ties it tight and hopes it’s still there when we return.
We drive down the gravel road, as rabbits and squirrels dodge the tires, and then approach the paved road- the smooth roll of the tires contrasts the roaring diesel engine. It’s a different world on the “other” side. Stop lights, fast cars, people with places to be. After about an eight minute drive we pull into an industrial site. Down by the river in an abandoned lot there sits an old ice cream truck- that’s our walk in refrigerator. We back the truck up to the fridge door. I climb in the back and hand off each box to Noah as he packs them into the cold fridge. With the last box, I step in to get a cold shock and see how much space is left. Just enough to take a nap, I think to myself. Before anymore cold air is lost, we lock it up, get in the truck, and journey back to the island. When we arrive, the table is set, everyone is gathered, and lunch is ready. Ah, a moment to restore and relax!
They are just beginning to gather boxes and containers to collect the harvest in. We walk over to the spring garden. Though it’s early July, the spring vegetables are still hanging on. Most mornings there’s about six or seven of us on the farm, but today we have some volunteers. We divide up, some in pairs, each taking a vegetable. I take chard. I count out twenty-five rubber bands stretching them over my wrist, still red and swollen from yesterday’s ant bites. I start on one end of the row, pick a few leaves, and estimate how many bunches I think I can get. The plants are looking rough; this will probably be the last week to harvest it. I think I can stretch it and get twenty-five bunches. That will be enough for the fourteen CSA shares that pick up on Wednesday and some to sell at market. It’s always difficult to estimate what will sell - one week chard flies and the next it sits and wilts. Eleven bunches should surely sell. At first I notice bumps on the stems and holes in the leaves, but before long my mind drifts and I make my way down the row- sorting, picking, bunching- all in a sort of rhythm. I make it to the end and use the last rubber band; my estimate was right. I pack the box of chard in the mule making sure it’s still in the shade. There’s a crew pulling out the carrots and then a few finishing up on kale, arugula, cabbage, and beets. I check in with the others first before heading over to the Elder garden, where our summer crops are planted. Someone else has already started on the sungold tomatoes. I grab a basket and head to the peppers. They are just beginning to turn red, so I get what I can not wanting to reap those that still have potential to sweeten. With room left in the basket, I gather what I can find from the sickened cucumber and squash plants. My basket is full.We reconvene in the kitchen. I fill a mug with water and take a seat. It’s mid morning, and we are doing well. As others return to harvest, I man the washing station. First, I turn the generator on, ceasing the quiet serenity, and then proceed with the hose. The chilled well water, splashing my hand, makes me shiver as mud runs off my fingers. I dump the box of chard in, give it a good soaking, shake each bunch, and place them back in the box. As I proceed with the rest of the greens, two others are washing and bunching the carrots. How quickly they change from long brown sticks to shiny orange deliciousness. I scamper over and bite into a fallen carrot. Yum! Still crunchy and sweet, but I can tell the summer heat is starting to take the best of them.By noon, we have finished with harvest. Of course, there will still be some things to get last minute tomorrow before market but for now this will do. We pack the mule high with boxes, buckets, and crates full of fresh produce. Noah turns the key. The starter’s shot. He tries again. Third time’s the charm. I find a spot and squeeze in. We drive down the path going over roots and big holes slowly and with ease. Once at the dock, we unload everything out of the mule to the dock then from the dock to the motor boat. Everything fits and I find a spot to sit. We try the motor but somehow water has leaked into the gas. So we row. As an unexperienced rower, I get a short lesson from No
ah and then give it a go. For his every one stroke, it takes me two or three- so much for unison. Twenty minutes and many zig-zags later, we make it to the other shore. We jump out and begin unloading onto the dock. Noah brings the truck down, and we load from the dock to the truck. I climb aboard the old Ford and close the passenger door with a rickety bang. Noah chain locks the boat to a post, but the lock is rusted, so he ties it tight and hopes it’s still there when we return.We drive down the gravel road, as rabbits and squirrels dodge the tires, and then approach the paved road- the smooth roll of the tires contrasts the roaring diesel engine. It’s a different world on the “other” side. Stop lights, fast cars, people with places to be. After about an eight minute drive we pull into an industrial site. Down by the river in an abandoned lot there sits an old ice cream truck- that’s our walk in refrigerator. We back the truck up to the fridge door. I climb in the back and hand off each box to Noah as he packs them into the cold fridge. With the last box, I step in to get a cold shock and see how much space is left. Just enough to take a nap, I think to myself. Before anymore cold air is lost, we lock it up, get in the truck, and journey back to the island. When we arrive, the table is set, everyone is gathered, and lunch is ready. Ah, a moment to restore and relax!
