The Mad Farmers Garden
To be perfectly honest, I was quite
nervous upon meeting and interviewing Ian and Hannah. I had never conducted an
interview that did not involve someone whom I knew personally, so needless to
say I was nervous. I felt that no matter how I tried to illustrate the entire
experience, I would fail to express the nuances and details that gave my
interviewees their essence. I was intimidated by the information I had
collected, for it was a blank canvas that seemed far too precious to embrace. I
realize as a writer that I am never fully objective that my insecurities keep
me from writing freely. All I can really express in this preface is my
gratitude for having met such delightful people, and for all of the insight I
gained into what their world was like. So to Hannah and Ian and the little
Farmer Person on the way, I am eternally thankful for the experience and the
good company… and the delicious meal!
There are some experiences in life
that exceed even our greatest expectations-- a strain of happenstance that
revives ones faith in humanity, in love, in nature and all things deemed
hopeless. The Mad Farmers Garden will warrant this warmth in heart and in mind.
The hospitality of a lovely couple, Ian and Hannah, with a baby in the womb and
a warm Mung Bean Pannier stewing on the stove, is enough to make a staunch
conservative turn into the next Wendell Berry.
These sincere and brilliant people
will welcome a stranger into their home, concoct a delicious meal—which took
them days to prepare after waiting patiently for the ingredients to grow and
harvest. Then they sit with their new friend, formerly the nervous stranger and
talk in soft, melodic verses of passionate intent. These farmers, gardeners,
lovers, friends, chefs, enthusiasts, environmentally aware “Arch Druids” are at
the local Farmers Market every Saturday morning. They have what is admittedly
the saddest booth amongst the rows of decadent venders. Their smiles may seem
weary and tired, but their tanned faces illuminate as loyal customers approach
them with beaming stories of how their purple broccoli salad was hit at the
Church Sunday Luncheon.
To prepare for the interview/dinner
date, I furiously flipped through some writings of the venerable Wendell Berry,
a poet and farmer who was the original “Mad Farmer.” The Manifesto: Mad Farmer
Liberation Front famed poem was one I had in my possession, but never read out
loud. Within the first five minutes upon entering their home, I was rolling
dough for dinner and reading aloud (upon request of the lovely Hannah), the
following:
Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
Vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
Any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.
Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion - put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection. (Berry, 1973)
After reading this, Hannah spoke
softly “Beautiful, sometimes it makes people cry… I did, I wept.” She continued
assisting my sad attempt at rolling the dough. Her instruction was poetic and
gentle if I made a mistake Hannah was quick to remedy it with reassurance. Ian
watched her watching me as he stood stirring something odorous and orange on
the stove.
I was initially embarrassed by
bringing a bottle of wine (which I spent a solid hour choosing what I thought
would be the best candidate, local and organic) as a token of my gratitude,
upon greeting a very pregnant Hannah. I apologized repeatedly as she laughed
saying “Oh I love wine, thank you, and I will drink it after the baby is born, I
assure you.”
This led me to my next quivering
inquiry, “ Do you know if you are having a boy or a girl? Do you have a name
picked out?”
Hannah and Ian quickly glanced at
one another, Ian interjected, “No, we just hope it is human.”
Hannah followed with a giggle, “We
hope it is a human, see, I have a deep affection for one of the goats.” We
laugh collectively, and I sigh, “Have you chosen a name?”
“Well, we have considered giving
the baby a separate last name, something anonymous, like person.” Hannah smiled
slyly.
Ian continued on with fortitude,
saying “And maybe with a first name of Farmer”
“Farmer Person… It does have a ring
to it.” I interjected.
And with that we all sit at the
table. Ian serves us the dish with a discerning poise. The dish is a Mung bean
Pamir with goat cheese accompanied by flat tortillas (which I contributed to
their oddly shaped majesty) and Greek yogurt. It was delicious, savory and in
all honesty, quite pungent. Mung beans are notorious for their distinct smell,
although the scent deceives the tongue because they are absolutely lovely in
taste. Hannah reveals that, since they grow and live (literally) off the land
and garden, that up until a few weeks ago, “We were living off green beans.”
“For six weeks straight, just green
beans, breakfast lunch and dinner. It was all we had, so we had to get
creative” Ian reveled in what I could only imagine was a green bean leaning
tower of Green Bean Pizza, with a side of curried green beans a la carte, a la
mode a la on and on and on (I am neither a chef nor a wine connoisseur, so I
will refrain from being ostentatious, for the sake of my own sanity and
credibility).
Hannah and Ian are both incredibly
kind and nurturing people, although Ian can seem somewhat intimidating at
times, for his matter-of-fact tone and swift body language can be
misinterpreted as aggressive, though in reality, this is the farthest from the
truth. Ian is passionate, frank, and irreverent. When I asked him about the
history of the farm, he corrected me immediately, “It is actually a garden; the
farm is 105 years old and has been family owned since the fifties.”
Hannah interjects, “In fact, Ian’s
great uncle lives with us as well, Bob is his name; He is 90 years old.” She
motions her head towards a closed door behind her, insinuating that Bob must be
residing in there, catching nuances of conversation creeping through the
floorboards. I continue on, taking out a pencil and notebook, writing
vigorously as much as my hand will allow while keeping my composure of a polite
and grateful guest in mind. After the meal is devoured Ian collects our empty
plates as Hannah asks, sheepishly, “No Dessert?”
“No, no dessert.” Ian seemed
serious at first, but quickly grabbed a dish of sesame candy. Hannah described
the ingredients behind these delicious trinkets. Peanut butter, Tahini, honey,
sesame seeds, and sugar make up the candies anatomy. While devouring the bars,
they discussed what a typical day in the garden was. Wake up time is at 7 am,
immediately followed by chores and then breakfast, the rest of the day is
devoted to growing, “what do you grow?” I ask, “everything we can,” Ian says
until interrupted by Hannah saying, “Except Winnebago”; they both laugh and Ian
responds, “I will one day, you’ll see.”
After gardening they tend to the
goats, which they milk, at least six a day. One of the goats I had the
opportunity to meet after dinner, her name was Bella, and she had been the last
baby of Ian’s first goat who died after giving birth. Bella was affectionate
and frisky, full of personality, and had obviously been quite spoiled by her
doting owners. I watched as Hannah milked a goat named Camel (many of the goats
were given names of other animals), and was moved by the obvious care and
affection Hannah and Ian had for their animals.
After sunset and work had been
accomplished for the day, Ian and Hannah would pick from their garden the
supper that would be prepared and shared together. There was so much love in
that kitchen, so much kindness, and warmth. The entire experience has left me
yearning for more, and I intend on returning very soon… and then perhaps I will
try my hand at living off the land, truly and passionately so, as these Mad
Farmers do.
Works Cited
Berry,
W. (1973). Manifesto: The Mad Farmers
Liberation Front The Country of Marriage. Harcourt Brace Jovanovich,
Inc.
