Friday evening we left work in the kind of rain I hate. Incessant, dripping, cold, slow drizzle. Shivering in my short sleeved cotton shirt and the hem of my blue jean caked with mud I traipsed behind K on our weekly visit to Maisie’s Farm. A local community supported agriculture effort. We signed up just to get an idea of rustic America.
Stepping gingerly on wooden planks that led to the barn that housed the produce, I looked around. It was no different from the villages of yore that I frequented as a child. The cement slab, the mud caked area that housed the bovines. The thick rope coiled and hanging off the nail on the wall. The single bulb hanging from the rafters. As we squinted and read the chalkboard that laid out what each member was eligible to take, I spied tons of greens all around. We picked a bag and stuffed our share of carrots, radicchio, kale, spinach, collard and other greens I don’t remember the names of. There was also a pick your own section where we could pick snap peas, shelling peas and something else.
K set out eager to experience his first brush with farm life. I stayed back, bags of greens in hand, shivering under the umbrella. I looked around at the neat little beds of plants. A lady in business attire passed me and crouched on the muddy field picking peas with abandon. A little girl with her dad in hoodies bent over looking for peas at the bottom of the brush. I watched as K inspected each plant fascinated with the concept of picking your own produce. I was preoccupied by the cold rain to enjoy the greenery or the lovely dirt path lined with trees laden with rain.
Sitting in the comfort of my couch, it all flashed before me now. The beauty I had missed.