|Bean plant and edible wild purslane|
The bell peppers, green beans, Genovese basil and beefsteak tomato plants have been in a week or more. This morning I finished up by putting in the kumato tomatoes and sweet basil. The first of the lettuce was harvested on Memorial Day, and my herbs are in decent shape, especially the oregano, chives, and sage (God bless 'em (see my last blog on superstitions)).
|Purple sage flowers|
Really, though, I think farming's in my blood. On the 1920 U.S. census and on his WWI draft card, my Santangelo grandfather listed his profession as "farmer" even though he also made shoes and kept a small grocery store. When my father was growing up in the 1920s and '30s, his older sisters sometimes took him to New Jersey in the summer. They weren't after a vacation at the shore-- they were migrant farm workers, picking blueberries, peaches, whatever.
Of all the things I do--writing, singing, accounting, historical research, ranting about politicians--nothing gives me the same solid, wholesome feeling as when I'm growing something to eat. I feel connected to the earth and to a long line of my ancestors.
When I farm, I know who I am.