Having lived in a suburban area for almost two decades, embraced by farms, I haven't really seen what a farm is like. To make up for that pity, in the morning on May 3rd, off we drive to where "our hard-working farmers harvest the grain of crops."
It is a warm, sunny day. On our left side, stripes of slight greenery crawl along the fences that sprawl miles ahead, running fast behind us as our car speeds on the asphalt road. On the right are claybank houses scattered here and there, shabby-looking but in perfect harmony with the surroundings. We should have reached our farmer friend's home in less than 15 minutes, but it took us nearly half an hour to get it. Thanks to their newly-set telephone, we finally arrived there by the mid-morning.
On getting off the car, an odor gets into my lungs, the kind of odor I catch only when it rains in the suburb. It's the odor of earth. The couple show their hospitality at their best and usher us into the yard. In front of the living house stands a small stall and beyond that is a small garden. In a far corner of the yard a dog stares at us. When we stroll along the brick path to him, he begins to wag his tail! But when Father takes the camera out of his pocket, the dog sparks his lungs out. He probably thinks he does not look good on a photo!
A mushroom house is on the right of the path. Usually the husband and the wife cultivate mushrooms in winter when they are no longer busy in the field. Inside the house are piles of cottonseeds stored in long bags. The cottonseed is "earth" for mushrooms. I even discover a little mushroom growing on the tail of a bag at this time of year.
After a short stay in the dark, cold living house, we make our way to the field across the road. No crops, but a world of flourishing strawberries and flat peach trees burst in blossom. The trees cannot grow tall in the cold West since they must be buried in earth to keep from being frozen when winter falls, so that they all look sad in abjection. But the fact is that those farmers live on them better than crops in this Western region. Sometimes, wisely are either humans or plants able to find a way to conquer nature.
An hour later we return. Along with a bag of eatable wild dandelions, we come back with the image of hundreds of acres of farmland dotted with the claybank houses, of the smiles on the couples' tan, wrinkled faces, and of the computer in the somber house.
Jenny
P.S., David, will you please point out my errors, if you have the time? Thanks.
