The evergreens seemed to inhale the droplets and the clouds darkened to a charcoal grey as we traveled over the oily black road. My wife sat beside me on the verge of giddy, I wasn’t feeling quite so excited. A Young Farmers Coalition Pot-Luck is not exactly on my bucket-list. It’s kind of like a chamber of commerce mixer for hippies.
As we pulled into the antiquated church parking-lot a multi-colored Organic Valley bus pulled in behind us. Obviously having visited many of these events, the bus had the appearance of being painted by some bohemian artist right out of a 60s love fest. Admittedly I was intrigued.
My patent leather loafers stepped out onto the wet gravel, blatantly out of place. The common at this event included dreadlocks, patchouli oil, and the ever present “Iron and Wine” full beard. My look sat firmly on the other end of the spectrum with Dockers and a classic black button down. The best way to segregate yourself is by the clothes that you choose to wear. Say what you will, we are judged by our choice of attire. I felt like a salesman amongst farmers, deeply out of place, and sort of ashamed.
Being a farmer, that’s something to be proud of. Farmers work hard. These people aren’t ultra wealthy, they aren’t selling their food to big chain grocery stores. These are the little farmers, the growers who sell those incredible tomatoes at the local farmers market. These are the farmers trying to do it right by using poly crop methods and avoiding pesticides. They are the revivalists of traditions many consider dead. These people are my heroes.
We wandered through the booths until our sweaters were soaked and our hair stuck to our heads. We traded some seeds to be planted in our balcony garden, and we stood on the outskirts of a world mysterious to us. We were left to wonder what these people’s lives are really like, and to secretly long for that life.
Farming is tangible. It’s a living thing that can be touched and nurtured. It’s a way of life that allows a person to feel. I envy these farmers. From the outside they appear to be a rag-tag bunch of hippies, but then… I like hippies.
One day maybe I’ll get the nerve to kick of my shinny black dress shoes, give up my corporate medical insurance, and walk away from a life that asks for too much and gives too little. One day maybe I’ll find the courage to grow my hair into dreads and spend my days working with my family on a farm. One day, I like to believe it will happen, one day.
