Looking at the garden from the front gate. the funky beds are in the foreground, planted with tomatoes and herbs, while the orderly beds are on the back side.
Reflective Essay on Native Earth Teaching Farm
Afternoon sun beamed down through the flickering foliage of trees lining North Road. It seemed as if I was driving through and ocean of light and shadow, waves of green danced and shimmered, the wind sent silver ripples across fields of tall green meadow grass. I was on my way to Native Earth Teaching Farm to have a much anticipated conversation with Rebecca Gilbert. As I pulled in at he handmade sign and arbour I was greeted by a flock of chickens wandering across the dirt drive. I parked beside a fenced garden with a long wooden sign saying “Community Garden” in cheerful letters. As I wandered over the green grassy lawn, past an old shingle barn and a small circular herb garden, I admired the house. A small, rambling old farm house with small old windows, a graceful brick chimmney and a settled air of permanence and belonging. Under the maple tree, beside the house, in deep shade and deep contemplation sat Rebecca, with her husband Randy and their in-house friend Jim. Walking towards these three figures, propped comfortably against logs and tree trunks in the green shade, I felt a comfort and familiarity between them that put me at ease and gave me a wonderful sensation of nostalgia, admiration and anticipation. I could tell these were my people, the sort of people I would love to spend endless days with, gardening, cooking, talking and learning.
Rebecca rose with a smile to greet me and as I shook her hand, apologizing for being a little late, my anxiety returned. I was here on a mission, not just as a friend to pass the time, but also as a a student researcher and semi-journalist. I remembered the tone that the other gardeners and farmers had used when they asked what Newspaper I worked for? How proifessional should I be in order to be taken seriou8sly. All I wanted was free flow conversation about my questions. I'm not an experienced journalist, how should I ask my questions?
Rebecca introduced me to the two men beside her and to their dog Dexter, a large, brown, rough-coated creature with a happy smile and laughing brown eyes. Then she led me to her queen-mobile, the resuscitated Go-cart. A much used and appreciated gift from a local hotel. Several years ago on the last night of the summer season, it was flipped over by the wait staff during a boisterous night of partying and bumper cars. It was passed on, dented, warped, ugly but still functional to Rebecca. She loves her Go-Cart. The dashboard, cup-holders, and all nooks and crannies were filled up with plant tags, stakes, rubber bands, seed packets and dirty gardening gloves. I was surprised by how quiet her little farm chariot was. It purred along almost silently as we drove gently over the bumpy dirt, parting the sea of chickens and ducks and guinea hens like waves on either side. We drove the short distance back to the community garden and teaching hut, with Dexter happily seated between us panting heavily and cheerfully drooling on my knee.
The teaching hut is a long, low, hand-built, post and beam cabin with a 3 sided covered porch and a welcoming, double-wide front door. The wood was milled on the property, from trees that were rooted up and felled by their pigs. The porch is supported by twisted, statuesque white and gray locust posts and the effect of he place is similar to an old fashioned Colorado mountain cabin or a Montana ranch house. The porch is deep and cool after the hot sun, and as she sat down Rebecca commented that when it got too hot to work she would come up on the porch to read or spin wool on her spinning wheel or teach local plant lore and handicrafts o the children who come for her teaching programs.
She was obviously proud of her community garden, and intimately connected to the precess of inviting people onto her land to grow their own food. She led me around the fenced in garden, showing me the different plots and describing the gardeners that tend each plot. It was remarkable to me to see the vast differences in style from one person to the next. Where one person planted in straight rows with row-covers, the next planted in tiny raised ridges that creased and crinkled the surface of the ground in a complicated maze of walking paths, and the next planted in small circles, corn, squash and melons all together in each circle. The variety of personalities reflected on the soil, and the care with which the gardens were tended made it clear that this community effort was working out splendidly.
We crossed the grassy pasture towards the second community garden, picking our way over numerous different types of animal droppings in the grass. Rebecca paused by the sheep shack to release 3 lambs and a couple sheep that had trapped themselves inside. She spoke to them in a calm and apologetic voice and explained that the sheep shearer hadn't come to the island yet because of all the rain delaying his work on the mainland. The massively woolly sheep gazed at me implacably and hung their heads in the heat. Across the field I spotted some pygmy goats gazing through a metal fence, and as we got closer I realized that the fence was not closed...in fact none of the fences were closed during the day. Goats, sheep, ducks, chickens, guinea hens, cats and dogs all wandered freely on the land. The pygmy's were enormously pregnant and their tiny, expanded bodies seemed buoyed up with tension. “Due any day now”, Rebecca commented in a pleased voice as she scratched a black nanny behind the ears. Beyond the goats lay the second garden, larger and on higher ground, the styles of the gardeners were more conventional, though still unique. One woman was experimenting with fava and garbanzo beans on her plot, and the tall green stalks swayed their delicate white and black flowers in the breeze. Two of the plots lay empty, mowed weeds with nothing planted...people chickened out or lost interest.
From the garden she led me to the pig sty, where a gigantic Berkshire black sow snuffled industriously in the mud. I always forget how big pigs are and it is always a shock to see one and remember their massive bristling bulk and their flapping ears and cloven hooves. The boar got rented out to several other farmers this year to fertilize their sows, but somehow the Native earth pigs never got pregnant and Rebecca had to buy piglets from off island to satisfy the demand of her summer pork customers. Those are the kinds of unexpected expenses that can make or break an entire season.
She reminisced about her grandparents, re-enacting her grandmother's competitive edge in blueberry picking, and her grandfathers great appreciation for Island light in his paintings. After a brief nibble on the perfumed seeds of the white angelica plant growing tall in her herb garden, we parted ways in the golden honey of afternoon light. My heart felt full and content as I drove away. An old friend met and remembered, a way of life so familiar and steady. It is reassuring to find people like Rebecca in the world, steadfastly doing what they love, despite obstacles and opposition. Following their constant heart-tugging passion towards a destination that is not so much an end as a perpetual beginning. The joy of growing lighter on the earth and passing knowledge on towards the future.
