Difficult Times

As I sat down to write, the events scheduled to occur in our nation’s capital and Georgia on Wednesday hovered in my periphery on various devices, apps, and streams. How many parameters could I monitor while concentrating on the task at hand? Kind of like watching all the sheep and goats in a paddock while trying to repair a section of fence that has been broken open by a fallen tree branch. Will one wander curiously through while I’m concentrating with a power saw causing the whole herd to stampede to the greener grass on the other side? Or worse, a territorial male takes a swipe at me for good measure. That always leaves a good bruise, and better inventory of sausages.  Bad behavior is not tolerated on the farm.

Carrots. I was writing about carrots because the Capital Weather Gang had a story about the Polar Vortex splitting into two which could result in “wild winter weather.” As a farmer, that’s not something I want to hear, but need to read in order to make long term project plans, especially ones that require long days outside. “…potential for paralyzing snowstorms and punishing blasts of Arctic air” had me grateful that the breeding ram arrived late last summer pushing out lambing season past the worst of winter. I was going to tell customers how wonderfully carrots kept in the refrigerator for weeks, even months at a time. They were colorful additions to stir-fry and salads, equally delicious raw or cooked. Running low on flour? Shred carrots and use as a filler for sweet or savory recipes. And carrot cake! Everyone loves carrot cake, don’t they?

Before I could get into the history, taxonomy, and nutritional value of the vegetable that sliced thinly and fried with the correct seasonings was being touted as vegan bacon, everything started chirping, vibrating, and buzzing as if the storm of the century were bearing down upon me. Only it wasn’t the weather apps raising the alarm; it was the news sites. The election in Georgia? No, rioting in the Capitol. Just as long as they didn’t interrupt what was going on inside, they could exercise their right to protest which over the last year has become increasingly dangerous in DC as well as other cities throughout the country. As if the pandemic isn’t bad enough. Last summer I felt for fellow farmers who had to cancel out on markets within the District because they feared for their safety.

For several years before the advent of Central Farm Markets I attended markets in Washington DC. Not once did I ever feel unsafe or even threatened. A homeless man would help me set up tables the tent in exchange for breakfast. A still intoxicated kid in his early twenties joked about mugging me one morning. Holding my tent weights in each hand and easily outweighing him, I laughed and told him, I’d like to see him try. He ran. I’ve gone to markets in low-income areas where over 90% of my customers didn’t speak English, in gentrifying areas where drugs and prostitution were in the open and not once did I ever feel unsafe. The citizens and local businesses always looked out for their farmers.

A different set of chimes went off—incoming message from a customer, but the content gave me a queasy pause as I read, “Just to let everyone know I’m safe and sheltering near the Capitol.”

Forget the carrots and bombogenesis, protestors seditionists had stormed the Capitol, breaking windows, overwhelmed the Capitol Police, invaded the House and Senate chambers, vandalized the offices of Democrats and were proudly smiling for the camera as they looted furniture. There were responses from elected officials. A woman was shot and killed. A few more blanket I’m safe messages pinged on my screens. Doom scrolling. I couldn’t take it anymore and suited up to head down to the barn leaving everything electronic and connected at the house.

Filling water tanks, checking the flocks and herds, picking up eggs, picking the matts out of the Pyrenees’ fur—anything to prevent my return to the house, my office, and the blog. As I walked back the lane I thought about the people who settled this land in 1752 among the British and Native Americans also in the region. There were skirmishes along a line of forts that led to the outposts of what was becoming the colonies, one only a few miles from here. And entire school of children and the teacher were massacred.  About a hundred years later, one side of a divided country marched over this land, camping in the fields, purchasing hogs and mules from the farm’s owners, the invoice now framed and hanging in the limestone house. They were on their way to Gettysburg. And here I am watching the insurrection on Twitter and YouTube. Times have changed and yet they haven’t.

I think our government needs to be run more like our farmers market. For the most part, we get along with each other despite our differences. You don’t see vendors tearing down each other’s tents or smashing tables because they disagree. The vegetarian vendors don’t berate the meat sellers for their point of view and in twenty years I haven’t seen a single certified organic producer throw rotten tomatoes at those who aren’t. The occasional kerfuffle gets worked out so as to always benefit our patrons.  As residents of the United States we have the freedom to agree to disagree agreeably—something I have learned the value of thanks to the experiences and insights of many customers who came from places where a different opinion than that of the government could get one killed.

I’m back at the house as there wasn’t much more to do other than putter about in the damp cold. Twitter has locked the President’s account, the Capitol has been cleared of the bad actors, America looks like a fool with images of looters plastered across every major news outlet in the world and those damn carrots are still sitting on my cutting board waiting to be photographed for the blog.