Work work work. First with planting broccoli under some black plastic. A few long rows, I was meaning to count the cells in the planting tray, never got the chance. I'm guessing 125. Bridget is always on top of the job, and in the morning her pace is set to beat the sun. Again, it is all I can do to keep up. Meg walks in front of us to stab holes in the ground with a "dibble" stick. I think this method is good for my fingers and Meg's back, but sucks for the seedlings. First off it compacts the dirt, so when I plant the little guy he is just sitting on top of the dirt and will have to jack hammer his way through the soil. Second, the spacing, too much room around the plants, wasted space in my opinion. This broccoli does not care if it is cozzied up next to it's neighbor, give them some space but over a foot is too much. I hold my tongue, what could I the lowly intern know about it?
Yesterday the group of volunteers miscounted their beets so now we are picking just twelve bunches of six to eight beets. This goes quickly. We drop them off at the barn. at some point we collect one hundred stalks of kale and ten more bunches for market. Then someone gets the bright idea that I should run the push string trimmer, that Fred has just fixed, along the corn. This is a six horse power monster which weighs about 60 lbs., essentially it is a powerful lawnmower with plastic blades. Fred takes some time off of his tractor The White "field boss", to tell me everything and nothing about his fix job. "Added a screw here, and cleaned the carburetor", he instructs me to, "cut the rows on one side, then the next, then down the middle. Clear the top, here, this is part of the cooling system." About every quarter of a row the air intake would in fact fill with grass and the machine would stop. I knelt down, wearing gloves luckily, and my cowboy/sultan outfit, to wipe off the machine. Then I had to wait about a minute or five, whichever suited me, for it to cool down. I took this time to hide amongst the corn, hunkered down avoiding all contact with sun on my bare skin. At this point I am red and even a moment of exposure becomes hot and painful. This job is putting me on the edge. This is about the time I start thinking up plots, that I will never carry out, to sabotage all the string trimmers or turn something upside down for my amusement. I would be getting paid twenty dollars just to mow a family yard, not have to dodge corn stalks and rocks and the sun. Did I mention the string trimmer is not self propelled. I think that I am done, when I realize there are three or four more rows of corn that are only about six inches to a foot off the ground, providing me with no shade what-so-ever. As I get to the end of the final row of tall corn, Meg is there motioning me to turn the machine off. Lunch break.
I have requested to do something in the barn basement, my body can not handle any more sun. What it might have done to my mind is now only speculation. I spend my time washing a few beets then peeling a fair amount of onions. CSA members pick up their goods above me, I hear their footsteps and talking through the wood slat floor. I hum a song or two, think about things away from the farm. Alone in my head again.
Back to planting with the girls, this time cabbage. Same old story. I finally comment on Bridget's Bruce Springsteen t-shirt. She has not been to a concert but does like him very much. The Boss is alright with me. I make a game of tossing the seedlings into the holes made by the dibble stick, the game is somewhat like lawn darts. The real bonus is if I sink the shot all I have to do when I come back around is give them a little push down in to the dirt. Fred shows up later with the tractor and helps us for about a second. He's got a three hundred gallon tank filled with more fish and kelp that is pumped off the tractors engine.
Yesterday the group of volunteers miscounted their beets so now we are picking just twelve bunches of six to eight beets. This goes quickly. We drop them off at the barn. at some point we collect one hundred stalks of kale and ten more bunches for market. Then someone gets the bright idea that I should run the push string trimmer, that Fred has just fixed, along the corn. This is a six horse power monster which weighs about 60 lbs., essentially it is a powerful lawnmower with plastic blades. Fred takes some time off of his tractor The White "field boss", to tell me everything and nothing about his fix job. "Added a screw here, and cleaned the carburetor", he instructs me to, "cut the rows on one side, then the next, then down the middle. Clear the top, here, this is part of the cooling system." About every quarter of a row the air intake would in fact fill with grass and the machine would stop. I knelt down, wearing gloves luckily, and my cowboy/sultan outfit, to wipe off the machine. Then I had to wait about a minute or five, whichever suited me, for it to cool down. I took this time to hide amongst the corn, hunkered down avoiding all contact with sun on my bare skin. At this point I am red and even a moment of exposure becomes hot and painful. This job is putting me on the edge. This is about the time I start thinking up plots, that I will never carry out, to sabotage all the string trimmers or turn something upside down for my amusement. I would be getting paid twenty dollars just to mow a family yard, not have to dodge corn stalks and rocks and the sun. Did I mention the string trimmer is not self propelled. I think that I am done, when I realize there are three or four more rows of corn that are only about six inches to a foot off the ground, providing me with no shade what-so-ever. As I get to the end of the final row of tall corn, Meg is there motioning me to turn the machine off. Lunch break.
I have requested to do something in the barn basement, my body can not handle any more sun. What it might have done to my mind is now only speculation. I spend my time washing a few beets then peeling a fair amount of onions. CSA members pick up their goods above me, I hear their footsteps and talking through the wood slat floor. I hum a song or two, think about things away from the farm. Alone in my head again.
Back to planting with the girls, this time cabbage. Same old story. I finally comment on Bridget's Bruce Springsteen t-shirt. She has not been to a concert but does like him very much. The Boss is alright with me. I make a game of tossing the seedlings into the holes made by the dibble stick, the game is somewhat like lawn darts. The real bonus is if I sink the shot all I have to do when I come back around is give them a little push down in to the dirt. Fred shows up later with the tractor and helps us for about a second. He's got a three hundred gallon tank filled with more fish and kelp that is pumped off the tractors engine.
He begins spraying the mornings seedlings with a blast of water directed at the holes in the black plastic. Some of the mornings transplants already look as if they were dead. Good luck little fellas, if this were my farm I would have waited till the thunder storm that is rolling in right about now, this evenings planting will be soaked in for sure. We finish planting and before we leave Meg asks Fred if he needs help, he doesn't hear her, so I yell. He says "yes". Meg has to go downtown because her friend needs a character reference for a date with the magistrate, she and Bridget are already in the cabin of the custom, I hop off the tailgate and bend over to take my punishment.
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