A Farm Farewell

Today was my last day at the farm. This is a beautiful property purchased and restored by a woman ("Erica") with a dream.

What the dream is, she hasn't really been able to articulate. 

It's a demonstration farm. Only she doesn't want lots of people on her property.

It's a farm for growing and selling herbs, only she only wants to do wholesale despite issues with the ability to produce on a wholesale level, and her recalcitrance at having the salesperson actually try to drum up sales for fear that things will move too fast, and terrible things like success will happen, possibly leading to people on her farm.

The other offerings are cool workshops on homesteading skills, offered at the farm and designed to bring people to the farm.

You see the mind-fuckery here.

Coming from an extremely wealthy family has allowed her the luxury of hiring people and buying expensive equipment and draft horses and and retaining an expensive architect who specializes in historical restoration.The place is beautiful, has won restoration awards, and hey, if this is what she likes, go her. I liked her, although she can be stubborn and moody in that way that people with a big buffer of cash can indulge in.

The thing is, when you are trying to understand your goals and purpose each day, it can be a bit frustrating. So I would often comfort myself by kissing the horses and wandering the permaculture garden, where I'd eat things off the ground.

It wasn't a terrible job, but after a few months, the sense of not really fitting in was wearing thin. There was a cliquishness between the head gardener "Penny" and one of the other women,"Sally," and while the marketing gal "Karen" was super nice, she had the attention span of a cat in a room with a flock of moths.

Then we had the other part-time help, a young man,"Wilson." right out of college. His major had been music, but apparently his permaculture workshop certificate, accompanied by his ability to make declarative statements and carry a penis, earned him a deference that baffled me.  

I sensed an issue with Penny during my interview, when she told me somewhat defensively that she didn't have a degree but learned all she knew when she lived overseas. I'd come across this before, this fear that my college education was somehow going to cramp their authority. The owner hired me, and I tried to keep a low profile, hoping to learn from Penny, but she barely spoke to me, and I'd arrive to the farm to find her disappeared somewhere in the extensive garden. I mentioned to Sally that I'd been hoping to learn more than I was.

"Oh, Penny really doesn't like to manage or explain. She just prefers to be in the garden."

Except that Penny was the head gardener, and seemed to find the need to give me work just one more chore, which meant I usually had to track her down to ask what she needed me to do. One morning I arrived and couldn't see her, so I started harvesting some pole beans Karen had said we needed for our six farm shares (oh yes; we were also sort-of selling farm shares, in a half-assed what-can-we-find-today way). 

Penny eventually appeared in the distance, saw me, and bitched me out loudly from a knoll for not coming to her first, because she might have something for me to do.

What ran through my head as possible responses:

"If you are so concerned about organization and assigning chores, HEAD GARDENER, you might want to be at the top of the garden WHEN WE ALL ARRIVE AT 9 rather than buggering off a half-acre away in your own world, and I'm not sure how many times I can suggest a daily morning gathering to discuss the strategy for the day, only to have my idea embraced by the others and dismissed by you."

"Why is it I'm the only one who catches shit for doing what everyone else does when they don't want to track you down by the freaking calendula? Why is this tone of voice reserved for me?"

"Fuck you and the Monarda fistulosa you rode in on."

What I actually did was put down my harvest basket and say, "I'm really sorry, Penny; Karen had said we needed this for the CSA today, and since I couldn't find you I wanted to be productive, so I started in on this, but I can certainly do this another time if you have something pressing."

Feel like an overreacting asshole yet?

"Well... no, I don't, but I want you to come to me first."

Then what the fuck?!?!?

"I understand, and really, if you have something you'd rather have me work on, I'm happy to do this later."

Because I'd hate to recklessly focus on the farm shares that are being picked up today when I could be satisfying your need for a good old kowtow, by harvesting herbs for which we have ZERO buyers.

"No, I don't have anything."

Except a giant bug up your ass.

"OK, so I'll do this then, and check in with you when I'm done."

I didn't question the validity of the message; what irked my shit was that she rarely spoke to me, and when she did, it wasn't "Hey, could you make sure to check in with me," it was Full Bore Spank in a tone that she would never, EVER have used on the other workers. I was being treated like some wayward adolescent, and I wondered whether she was projecting some sort of insubordination motivation on me because my education threatened her.

Oh yeah, there was another thought:

Really? For fifteen dollars an hour I have to take this?

So the weeks went by, and the loneliness and irritation grew, and there was only so much bright smiling I could do when I saw people or asked what needed to be done, and I watched Wilson decide he wanted to focus on making tea, and didn't want to do more onerous things, and whined about having to walk across the farm, and he was completely accommodated and not once reined in, and I seethed at the remembrance of the Pole Bean Ass-chewing. And the other women discussed their hobbies and gossiped about mutual acquaintances, and the latest projects their contractor husbands were working on, and I remembered why I hate the North Shore suburbs.

At the beginning of this, my last week, a school bus full of ten-year-olds arrived for a field trip. I was sent to stake some blown-over dahlias in the garden, which I proceeded to do. While I was doing this, Penny came by with part of the group.

"We've planted peach trees and apricot trees and medlars and paw paws," she rattled off, while the kids squinted at her.

They're TEN. They have no idea what medlars are. Or paw paws. tell them what they are and why they were planted. Explain permaculture.

But no. Explaining isn't her thing.

They came down by where I was working. She saw them looking at me.

"JC is staking some dahlias that blew over," she said in passing as they went by.

I stood and smiled. "We like to keep these off the ground because it's important to have good air circulation around them, or they can develop things like fungus, and be susceptible to bugs and disease."

Penny just looked at me and then started a pollinator speech.

"Which are the best pollinators? Bees. Right."

Tell them which bees, and why.

Nope.

They are standing in front of a bank of lemon balm. Pick some and let them smell it.

Nope.

Finished with my chore, I headed up and walked into Penny's buddy, Sally, with a group. Everyone was helping, it seemed, except the person who used to organize and lead tours for school kids at an animal shelter. Who would that be? Oh right.

"Hey, guys," I said to the kids, "Make sure you don't touch anything without checking with Sally first, because we have stinging nettles in here and if you touch them they are worse than a bee sting."

"Oh --oh yeah," Sally said absently, walking past me.

You're welcome.

Today there was another tour, and I watched Erica try to gain control of her group as I potted some plants she'd asked me to collect for a float for the fair. I watched as she coaxed out the chickens and then tried in vain to explain about chickens over the din.

When you want kids' attention, never put something more interesting than you in front of them. P.S. live animals are always more interesting.

They moved on, and I continued my work. Wilson was having hand issues, and apologized for not being able to help much. I assured him that his company and conversation was value enough.

Eventually the kids went with their teachers to have lunch, and Erica came over.

"I shouldn't be paid for today," Wilson said to her.

"Why?" she asked.

"His hand is bothering him," I said, working on the plants. "I told him his company was good enough, and he is helping some, that it's not a moral failure--

"CAN I PLEASE TALK TO HIM ALONE?" Erica snapped at me.

I stood there, stunned. Her normal voice is very quiet and I hadn't realized she'd started speaking to him.

Still, and not for the first time at this place, I thought, "Who the FUCK are you to speak to me that way?!?"

Instead, I stared at her for a few seconds, said, "Sure," and went back to my work. I checked the time, debated just walking off the job, but decided to make my money off her before leaving. It was my last day, after all.

I went into the barn, where the draft horses were cross-tied for the kids, calmed myself with some horse-nose smooching and neck scratching, and then went to harvest nettles at Penny's direction.

While harvesting by the fence, Erica came down.

"Is today your last day?

"Yes, it is."

"Oh, well thank you for everything. Those plants look good."

"You're welcome. Do you have enough?"

"I think so."

"OK. Well, I have friends who are interested in the workshops, so I'll likely be back."

Like hell.

"OK, well, I have to go pick some things up and I probably won't be back before you leave, so I wanted to thank you."

"OK, thank you too."

She left.

During the entire conversation I kept working and did not once look at her. The thing is, I'd really liked her, and I thought we got along. But when someone is that rude, it just says that this is the relationship the other person has always assumed; it just never played out until then.

As I left for the day, the young man who books the workshops said, You're in school, right? I never knew what for."

"Environmental Horticulture."

He looked stunned. "I never knew that."

I smiled wryly. "Why would you? After all, we have the benefit of a music major who took a permaculture workshop."

"Wow, I didn't know; that's really cool that your'e studying that."

"I think so. Take care."

Next week I work at a garden center where the people really like me. And for a new landscaper where the crew really likes me.

But no chickens, alas.

Ok, where the fuck was I.

Summer:

House sat, listening to the horrible sounds of karaoke night coming out of the local dive bar, having my eardrums assaulted by the parade of amplified motorcycle exhausts that made my fillings rattle each time they went by.

Preparing for final semester left of school (OK, technically, two classes left, but thanks to the completely effed-up healthcare situation, I'm taking three to qualify to buy the plan offered through the school, because the past year had been The Age of Decompensation. So a low-deductible plan it is.)

Also, I'm in an easily piss-poor mood. I realize it when it creeps out and gets loud. Someone said our city needed some good sports bars, and before I knew it I was off on a supercharged rant about how there's a fucking bar on every goddamn corner, and for once I'd like to find a place where the vegetarian "option" isn't a portobello mushroom "burger" or a hummus wrap , neither of which is worth leaving the house or tipping anyone for.

Mid-Summer:

 The woman I worked for has a world-class persecution complex, is virulently passive-aggressive, and can dole it out but can't take it, so when, after a few weeks of her abusive behavior and putting me in untenable situations such as overseeing the retired guy who is in landscaping as REHAB FROM A PACEMAKER IMPLANT and who, in addition to missing every third weed and making a huge mess everywhere, has decided that his former life in corporate translates into he doesn't have to take orders from me, I sent her a message basically saying, "hey, you're clearly unhappy, what can I do, because your impatience is difficult to manage," she decided to de-stress by sending me on jobs by myself while she trained other people and then canned my ass out of the blue. My reaction to this was twofold: 1. You card-carrying BITCH for letting me go mid-season, after I'd turned down an opportunity to work with another landscaper because I'd already committed to you, and now have to scramble to find work with no notice or severance, and 2. Hallelujah, I no longer have to put up with the abuse of a woman so in need of therapy I'd happily start a GoFundMe for it as a service to mankind.

My actual response to her was: "Thanks for letting me know. Here are my hours."

Because our work means our paths will cross again, and I'm not going to be the embarrassed one.

So. I ended up working seasonally at a restored farm that, among other things, grows and processes herbs. There's no clear business plan or structure, which drives me nuts, but it's low stress, which is a welcome change. So whenever my highly organized brain encounters seemingly nonsensical processes, I head to the garden and eat some sweet cicely or cherry tomatoes. Also there are chickens, and who hates that?

I'd had tea with the gardener I'd wanted to work for (but couldn't because I didn't want to leave Psycho Woman in the lurch OH THE BITTER IRONY) as a sort of informational interview, and when I lost my job, she, who had a full crew by then (like most everyone else, WHICH IS WHY IT'S SO SHITTY TO CAN SOMEONE IN JULY), looked out for me, and is now using me one day a week until season end. AND a classmate put me in touch with a garden center, where I auditioned today, and I guess they liked me (I was told I have "hustle"), so I'll be starting there, which gives a great opportunity to learn plants. The pay, like every other job, is poor, but on the bright side, it's not seasonal, so there's a chance it could go full time after I'm done with school, if I don't go back to landscaping, which is also a great learning opportunity.

I'm learning that you have so many more options when you don't expect any real money. It;s liberating in a sad way. I also need something regular and permanent so I can get a mortgage at some point, because by next summer I'm determined to have my own place with some freaking land where I can grow shit and practice canning, and keep my bees in my own yard, even if I have to move two hours away, which is likely. I want to own the place I'm going to die in. I want to unpack and never pack again. I want to put up shelves without thinking of resale value.

Now:

House was going on the market, so we had a massive clean-out, and I moved a bunch of big stuff to a storage locker and the rest to my uncle's. Yes -- I'm back with my uncle, who now has two cats, one of whom decided to editorialize on my three cats' presence by pissing everywhere. Buy stock in Nature's Miracle, folks.

My uncle doesn't like to clean the cat box, so his solution to his one (I know who it is; we lock eyes across rooms, and there's a silent acknowledgment that it is ON, motherfucker) cat's pissing/shitting out of the dirty box reaction was to buy puppy pads and put them around the box, upon which the cat pissed and shat and my uncle avoided dealing. (Parents, take note:this is what happens when an Italian mother babies her son until he's in his fifties: he keeps house like a bored 10-year old).So now I awake, feed my cats (who stay in my room at night), scoop the litterbox in the cellar and the one in my room, empty the dehumidifier in the cellar, wash cat dishes, and then start getting ready for work. While I'm doing this my uncle sits with the TV on at the usual "I won't admit I have severe hearing loss" volume, accompanied by the wheeing, clanging, cheering sounds of the Wheel of Fortune app on his tablet.

It's basically bedlam with cat piss.

Also I've never been so proud of my cats in my life. They are being friggin' PERFECT.

And in a weird way, living out of one room is also kind of liberating. I feel very den-like.