By now, I doubt my parents are surprised by anything I do. I’ve dragged them along through three (maybe four) different careers, from North Carolina to New York City to Newport and Newtown. Surely this latest venture—farming on Martha’s Vineyard—has given them a chuckle (and a wrinkle) or two. But they’ve never been anything but supportive.
Still, I don’t think they realized that Roy and I were going to put them to work as farm hands when they came to visit last week.
We didn’t have a choice. I don’t get to see my parents much, and I didn’t want to miss spending time with them. But the farm stand has been hopping and there are a zillion plants still to get in the ground (not to mention the daily farm chores of harvesting and egg collecting and washing), and no matter how early you get up, half the day slips by in a heartbeat.
So we had family farm time. This is a most excellent concept, I tell you. Now I know why farmers traditionally had big families. Lots of help! Help that already speaks your language, knows your quirks, and can interpret instructions without a lot of explanation.
Granted my parents, though they are not exactly young anymore (they don’t want me to embarrass them, but they’re probably used to that, too, by now), know their way around plants and fresh food. My Dad is a talented landscape gardener and long-time plantsman, so asking him to turn over soil was like asking him to put on his socks. (And turn over soil he did, de-weeding a huge bed and making it tomato-ready in only a few hours.) My Mom is a great cook and vegetable lover, so asking her to help wash and pack greens was a no-brainer.
My
dad lived part-time in Sag Harbor and made the drive from the city
every weekend in every type of weather. I would visit him and my
stepmother every summer, and we’d stay put for the weekend, usually
poolside. My dad and I would swim back and forth and read books and
nap. He would do his Sunday puzzle and I would nudge him for clues; I
would read books he gave me and he would nudge me about which part I
was up to. Because to me, my dad was part Phillip Roth and part John
Updike, I read Phillip Roth and John Updike. Because we both loved to
punctuate the headier reading with murder mysteries, he would toss me
his copies of Lee Child or Lawrence Block, and I would gobble them up
like candy. I still have the water swollen copy of Annie Proulx’s Shipping
News that he accidentally tossed into the water in order to save
me from a hovering bee, and I remember how he had said he envied my
getting to read it for the first time.
On a trip through Oklahoma, I was reminded again how deliciously satisfying homemade food can be in restaurants off the beaten path.
Last night my husband Rob and I attended a meeting of the East Lansing City’s Planning Commission (because we know how to have a good time) which started at 7:00. These meetings, or at least the part with which we are concerned, usually end by 8:30 or 9:00, so we left Sam Home Alone. He is 11, we were literally 3 minutes away, and there were neighbors home.