The first time I worked on a farm I lasted a week. It was mud season and on the 7th day, I broke my right leg. Crack! Right in half. The pain wasn't the first thing I noticed. It was that my foot stayed in one place while I turned my body around to sit up. I remember a constant stream of "fuck!"’s playing in my head, because I knew the next few months I'd be sitting on my parents couch drinking cheap beer and watching HGTV instead of eating fresh mico-greens and working the first job that ever felt right. Eight months later I applied for a kitchen job in my hometown and I went to the interview on crutches. The woman who interviewed me asked if I could manage walking around on the wet floor. I said yes and got the job.
After about a year and some change, I made the decision to work in kitchen where the compost pile was just as visually appealing as the food we served. So naturally, I moved to Vermont.
What I didn’t realize at the time, was that the actual state of Vermont (specifically the NEK) can be a bit like an abusive relationship. At least from a climate-against-human (read:flatlander) standpoint. It lures you in with all its mystique, beauty, and wisdom, and entices you back at the beginning of each season - a little maple syrup never hurt anyone, right? But when the sugar high wears off and the snow starts to fall, and you have never even filled a propane tank never mind stoked a wood stove before in your life, you're tested. "You're never gonna be as smart as that bad ass bitch Mother Nature," my friend said to me once. The trees stand stoic while frost covered fields silently stare you down. The yellow lines on the roads smile smugly at your tires under a light dusting of snow, waiting. Just waiting for you and that hunk of metal you’re driving to hit a patch of black ice. I lasted two winters and only had to sacrifice a taillight to the frozen pavement.
But eventually, we broke up - Vermont and I. At least decided to take some time apart. It was April 1st. "Cheers to the lessons in solitude and building up my tolerance for whisk’," I said out loud to myself at a bar on my 28th birthday. Everything I owned was in the back of my truck and I was heading anywhere, as long as it was south.
I don't know what this all says about me, or the point of this narrative, but I'm moving back to Vermont and still working on farms. So there’s that. I'll save the road trip stories for another day.
P.S. I now work as a freelance graphic designer and want to specifically help promote small farmers and food-related business. Feel free to get in touch if this speaks to you!
Questions:
1. DECISIONS | Does every decision fall between 49 and 51 percent "I’m sure about this" ratio? Is it that 1 percent tipping point that makes you act upon a decision?
2. MUSIC | I'm driving to Georgia (again). What should I listen to? Accepting all suggestions - from Waylon to WuTang.
3. FARMING | Are you a farmer? Worked on a farm? What's one piece of advice you'd give to an aspiring farmer? (Not accepting suggestions such as, "Don't start.")
I like penpals so if you'd like to nerd out about agriculture, herbalism, and traveling, I'd love to hear from you.
Stay true,
kathryn
[email protected]
been six months ramblin' between Vermont and Georgia