To grow a farmer
I just wanted to share a poem my mother wrote for me for my 37th b-day last december. She’s a poet and writer and teaches english up at UCSC in the environmental studies department. My father and she have always been super supportive of the crazy things i get into (surfing, farming, parenthood) and i really do owe it all to them. Anyway I’ve read this poem about 5 times and i’ve cried 5 times. I’m not totally sure why but I think she just nails the stresses, sacrifices, and mistakes I’ve made over the years farming. I hope you enjoy it. Love you mom.
(for Joe, my son on his 37th Birthday)
You must step in
when grandparents advise your son get a job with Dow Chemical
since he’s so interested in agriculture.
You must help fix water pumps, put up deer fencing,
remind him in spring to get a haircut,
pluck strawberries at their plump stems
before morning sun’s wilting.
To raise an organic farmer you must
offer a prayer while he loads
his first Kubota on the flat bed
in threadbare keds.
Decorate the refrigerator with photos from the local paper.
Frame the one of him striding between rows
cippolini onions draped across his arms,
a harem of swooning bulbs.
Pray the right girl comes along.
She’ll want a peach tree for her birthday,
put out traps when wood rat droppings
streak the trailer’s ceiling brown
during February rains.
To grow an organic farmer you must share his faith
in soil, seeds handled gently.
Invent recipes for turnips,
even if you don’t like turnips.
Fill in at the Farmers Market when tomatoes avalanche,
memorize prices
so when customers force red kale,
chioggia beets, and cranberry beans upon the counter,
you might even make the correct change.
answer , “Absolutely.”
—Mom (And look how far you’ve trudged! Dad and I are so, so proud of you.)
