behind the scenes | Squash and Awe

Dear farm, garden, and culinary friends, It has been a dramatic year since I left the little farm project in Hawaii. It was shocking to stop one thing, and move onto another, especially when you don’t know what the next thing is going to be. It wasn’t entirely my choice to stop farming, but in order to write about my years of exploration, I know that I need to write from a reflective place. It also was getting too difficult to physically protect what I had worked so hard for, I’ve always felt that it was hard to keep boundaries in farming, and so few understand how hard it is to do what you do.

I miss many things, but there is a point when you have learned what you needed to learn, then it is time to go out into the world, and see what else there is, and compare notes and strategies with people all over the world. As opportunities were happening outside of my island, it opened up many connections to places around the country and the world. I began to get more inspiration from other places with rich culinary traditions, like Italy, or the giant pumpkin growers on the US mainland and in Europe. My mind began to wander, and wonder more about those pumpkins that I grew from Thailand, and Japan, Georgia and Armenia. I began to think about what their culinary traditions were, as well as how they grew them there.

My plans were to use my education and classroom experience to teach at a university in China. I was planning on continuing my culinary and agricultural research while there. As things would happen, my visa process was delayed to the point that I couldn’t make the fall semester 2019, then we know what happened next. It was deeply troubling to see China in the throws of Coronavirus. I attended to everything from seed storage in NYC to distributing family heirloom treasures to my cousins, while also attending to the many things that need to occur before you can achieve a launching platform for a life more nomadic.

The emails and social media messages poured in with the general summary being, “you can’t stop.” Although one area, the little farm, had to stop, while my research and education would not. Regardless, people were not happy with my decision to step out of Hawaii so to reflect. I didn’t know then that I would get perhaps too much reflection time due to Covid, and all of that time would be spent very alone on the other side of the planet. Mandatory lock down in Europe during Covid was both rewarding, and frightening. I bunkered down in Prague after only one month of teaching. I was barely launched into the “what’s next” when the world came to a screeching halt.

I had dreams of treating the Covid time as a government imposed writing residency, with daily writing and reflection punctuated with research. It didn’t turn out that way, as I, like so many of you, were shocked and numb. I did force a return to my writing, and I felt like a part of me again took flight. The flight path was neither steady or predictable, but it was an upward trend after a lot of what felt like nothing. Writing became one of my quarantine explorations, along with learning how to use an espresso machine to make a soy cappuccino, and watching nearly every available video in the NYPL online library catalog. I felt so far away from all that I knew, but I also have been through times like this: a time of rebirth. For as much as I wanted to be able to settle in, I needed to face other things, primarily years of grief, loss, and the anxious moments that they unleash.

As much as I wanted to pull the blankets over my head, I went forward in small steps dictated by border closures, and new regulations imposed due to the State of Emergency in the Czech Republic and beyond. I reset my worn body and mind the best I could. After 7 years of an exhaustive effort at farming, it was both foreign and awkward to force rest. My body had been rewired to be active to the point of exhaustion: a multi year exhaustion that was hard to shake free from. How does one shift from one extreme to the other? Slowly, and with patience.

I have allowed myself to sleep, eat, and watch lots of films. I’ve allowed myself to return to a more reflective state that I had before switching from garden research to commercial farm. I’ve given myself time to process long held grief.

Along the way, words began to appear. Thoughts and reflections on life both on the farm, as well as life as seen through my travels were emerging. I began to give myself the time to remember. The time to walk, look, recall, and occasionally that would become a small spark of a dream. I found myself facing off with fears that I thought had gone away. In the long pauses and silence of Covid, they had been shaken free. As I processed memories, some nightmares emerged out of the darkness.

At times I relished in being a hermit, by simply enjoying the great luxury of being safe, healthy and free, all while being tucked into a tiny historic flat. When anxious moments arose, I’d put on my mask and walk to the grocery store: fixating upon labels printed in a variety of Slavic languages that I couldn’t read. The labels were a visual depiction of the distance that I felt in my heart. I found hope in well stocked shelves and strangers.

My days grew busy with research into where I could go, and when. Where could I teach? Where could I enter? Would a Czech visa come to pass? The data changed frequently, leaving weeks to be filled with little more than statistics and analysis.

At some point, I decided that I need to stop planning, as the plans all fell through. One entire year of plans fell like dominoes. With Covid, any and every plan seemed hard to pull off. The second visa that I had worked to achieve was falling out of my grasp. My security documents for teaching were expiring, and borders remained closed. I found a neighbor who was in the same situation. She too could no longer get her work visa processed, and the EU needed her and I to exit. A solidarity occurred when I needed it most. We both had to take the plunge away from our plans, and into the unknown. She took a bus to a new country; I took the night train.

I’m now five weeks into that unknown, and my future is no more certain now as it was then. One thing that did emerge was the practice of writing. I’ve tried to make writing a top priority. On more days than not, writing is my only priority. It is something that no matter what the future holds, I will never regret doing it. In a time when planning doesn’t help, looking at moments, one page at a time, gives shape to an otherwise blurry time in our history.

I feel as if my writing is something that I need to defend, like I once did with my art. It threatens people, rattling them in such a way that they make uncaring remarks, and interrupt when you’ve asked them not to. After months of being alone and silent, I’m now fighting off people who only want to talk enough so to dampen my work. When I asked a pushy neighbor why writing isn’t valued as work, I received a blank stare followed by a trail of their own insecurities. My question remained unanswered. Writing takes time, focus, and discipline. I’m finding it also takes courage and strength. You are making yourself both vulnerable to attack, and empowered all at once.

We will see what happens during these next weeks of writing and reflecting during these uncertain times. I’ll continue to revamp the old website, while writing away in my notebook and online. Just know that you all are not forgotten, your kind words have given me strength to stand up and speak about my experiences time and time again. It perhaps goes without saying that when I had to leave the Czech Republic, I left for a country with a notable squash production. I may be a long way away, and traveling on a sometimes dark and winding road, but I’m the same girl who remains fascinated with these fat fruits. Rest assured, my friends, that as autumn approaches, I will have squash in my sights.

When thinking back to the family farm of my childhood, I remember the animals most of all. Some things will never change. I have always felt a connection to the creatures around me. I credit my parents for instilling the strong sense of responsibility that goes with caring for animals. When the storms came, you went out, not in. You stayed out until every single one was accounted for. Their health and safety was always on our minds. But with that being said, I’ve found that I have had to acquire what feels like an enormous amount of skills. Now, I am the grownup, and that means that I need to figure out how to care for hurt or injured animals, often times on my own. Some of it is natural to me, some of it takes all that I’ve got.

2015 brought upcountry Hawaii the mosquito spread avian dry pox, in wave upon wave of illness. It does not effect humans, or other animals, but it can be devastating to birds of all kinds. I was fortunate that I was given the “heads up” warning by an old artist friend of mine. Her alert allowed me 72 hours of precious time to come up with a game plan. I was able to prep the birds, by giving them extra things in their diet. Nutrition was key to helping them through the pox, that can also cause blindness. For six weeks, the illness first struck the domesticated laying hens, then spread to the wild poultry that are near home, and then those at the farm. I steamed pumpkin scraps and fed all of them really good food. Lethargic sad looking birds were everywhere. Even very wild hens and roosters allowed me to gather them up and put them in poultry ICU. That was a clear signal that they were very sick.

The most challenging order of business was eye care, as the pox often involves the eyes of the birds. I wrapped them in bath towels, nice and snug, then bounced and patted them like a baby before swabbing their eyes with homemade saline solution. Every day, I made a new batch of simple medicine from local Hawaiian salt, and boiling water that has been left to cool. This went on three times a day, for each bird, at both locations, for weeks. This work was on top of the normal ins and outs of vegetable farming. It felt like I lived on coffee for 3/4 of each day. There are things that you just have to do, regardless, and this seemed like one of them. It wasn’t the kind of thing I could turn my back on.

I had been down this road before, when the neighbor dog was injuring the hens. I realized how much was possible, and how loyal and grateful each animal became after caring for them. A lot of people ask me why these animals are so loyal to me, even though none of them are mine. I think a lot of it comes from the fact that each and every one of them has been sick or wounded in some way, and I did my very best to step up and help them out.

I have been told that chickens are mean, dumb, that they have no memory, and they are untrainable. I have found that none of these things seem to be true. I will never forget the day that Ruby, a wild rooster that was blind in one eye, laid at my feet while I kept his son alive, and also able to see. I was trying to save at least one of the young rooster’s eyes. I will never forget that day. It was pretty powerful to have a full grown wild rooster lay at your feet as you gave another one emergency care. It was clear that he knew what I was doing. I was caring for his family, and he knew that he could trust me. Ruby remained loyal to me. He was a lovely, powerful rooster that had survived three mauling by roving dogs, the pox, and even severe injuries from a rival rooster. In the end, he died in my arms, wrapped in a towel, warmed by the setting sun. I had administered treatment for him dozens of times, but then finally, his complications let me know, that I had to put him down in the quietest way possible. I cried.

I buried Ruby beneath the chili peppers at the farm. For a good long while, the dogs and I just sat and watched the scene around us. The setting sun. The closing squash blooms. The young hens that stood on Ruby’s new grave. I realized that my family taught me to not overlook such times.

For me, this rooster’s story became symbolic of so much more. I realized how much we learn about ourselves by observing. Ruby’s story also impacted the life of a WWII veteran at a talk I gave a few months ago. I was explaining about why I chose to explore squash and farming. I give some context so to help illustrate what keeps you going. There are a lot of reasons to give up, but also plenty of reasons to continue on. Ruby was part of that context. I had given out one of my farm cards to each and every of the 60 Sr citizens in the room. Each of the cards had a photo image that I took at the farm. Some were of flowers, others of pumpkins, baby chicks, and, of course Ruby the rooster. I passed them out before my talk, and decided not to give a power point. Each person held an image of the farm in their hands, like a piece of the puzzle. If you put them all together, you understood how I live my life. If you listened to my talk, you understood why I live as I do.

I had tried my best to guess who would like what photo card. Who might like dogs. Who loved cooking. At the end of my talk, many of the elders were now holding those cards like a treasured possession. They had a tiny piece of my story, and that inspired them to share their own stories. In my talk, I noted that in order to make the drive up to meet with them, I had to reassemble the fuel injection of the old VW that now sat in front of the “speaker parking” sign that they had placed in the parking lot for me. I told them that I also chose to go out of my comfort zone, so to save a rooster’s eye, before making the drive to meet with them. I generally do not discuss surgical type farm things, but this seemed like a group that could handle it. The point was that farm life can nudge you into self discovery. There are those that will act, and those that will look the other way. Along with this came the story of Ruby, and more, filling over an hour with sharing.

As I made my way out, to the sun filled doorway, several hugs and handshakes came my way. One of the WWII Veterans that lined the back row, pointed at the photo card that I had chosen for him, and excitedly asked if “this is the rooster whose eye I was trying to save?” I said no, that the photo was of Ruby, the young rooster’s Dad. I was happy that my card selection was right, that he would like roosters. He kept holding my hand, squeezing tighter as the tears welled up. The previous excitement washed away in an instant. I squeezed back and simply said in the most comforting voice I could muster up, “yeah, that is good ol’ Ruby.” Then I simply waited in a way that my WWII Veteran father taught me how to do. Just wait.

I can only guess what my rooster story meant to that man. His eyes gave me a few clues. To be the young rooster was easy in comparison. Young rooster fell ill, and the farm girl cared for him. To be Ruby was much more complex. Ruby had put himself in danger over and over again, so to protect. He had been mauled, and left for dead, and recovered over, and over. Then, after being through so much, he laid at my feet, showing strength and courage without the fight. Ruby had learned to trust, regardless of what he had been through.

The Veteran’s handshake tightened, and he lowered his head as a few tears slipped away. Maybe it was my story, or the symbolism, or the fact that in the end, I recognized the complexities of other lives. Maybe he realized, that if I could see all of that in a rooster, that I probably saw right into his soul as well. I could only guess that he’s been fighting the war, and fighting the flashbacks, and fighting in ways that I’ll never know. He’s been fighting for more years than I have been alive. Maybe just what he needed was some farm girl to drive up in an old Super Beetle and allow him to stop fighting so hard. That maybe in his own way, his tears allowed him to lay down like Ruby, and to trust, before watching me drive away.

the pursuit of pumpkin