A farmer, an amateur linguist, and all-around layabout.
A year of garlic farming
The morning dew always falls heavy in September. Walking up to clip garlic stems each morning, takes on a ritualistic feel, since I arrive to the drying greenhouse and remove my soaked shoes as I enter. Some days, with clear eastern sun, it very much feels like I’m entering hallowed ground, as the greenhouse is ablaze with light as I stoop underneath the open eaves and take my shoes off as a first act of recognition where I am. I sit down in a lawn chair, pull up a crate of garlic, and get clipping, to either the echoes of nature, or later in the season, to music especially selected for helping with endurance.