It was 6 am and I unwillingly crawled out of bed onto the cold cement floor of the grain silo. I had given up my cozy apartment in Denver to find the meaning of life just east of Boulder, on a small organic farm. My previous life contribution to the good of the world was at best a recycling bin next to my trashcan under my sink in the kitchen. I discovered the farm via a link to a Community Supported Agriculture directory, Local Harvest, in the index of a cookbook, Angelica Home Kitchen. I called the first farm listed in my area, Hedgerow Farm, thinking that I had found a source for healthier veggies by buying directly from the farmer. The pleasant voice on the other end of the line invited me to join the farm crew the next day for a few hours of harvesting. My introverted nature tugged on my anxiety strings but I managed to mutter, "sure, that sounds like fun." As I walked past the farmhouse towards the fields, a bright cheery voice called out to me. She was knelt down in a patch of short fluffy leafy-ness with several other women dressed like vagrants. They were all just as cheery as the first voice, and found compassion towards my visible social angst. I calmed myself thinking I would be out of here in just a few hours. But by noon, I had a few new friends and future. I was ready to sell off all my belongings and move back to the farm to begin my new life as a farmer. What a glorious life, I thought, to be my own boss, work outdoors, live a life rich in public service and only have to deal with people if I wanted to...why, I could even hire an intern to staff a booth at the farmers market!
A short year later, I was making my way out into the field to get my assignment for the day. The romantic reality of farming long gone, I cringed remembering that it was fertilizer day and that I might get picked for the duty. The thought of carrying a 50-pound container of liquefied fish parts on my back turned my stomach and stirred my victim-emotions. My fear became reality. I dressed myself in my rain gear to prevent the fish guts from dripping out of the bottom of a bent and rusty liquid sprayer onto my clothes. With my backpack securely strapped to my body, I headed to the muddy field to douse the little veggie sprouts with fish power. The mud sucked on my rubber boots with every step through the narrow rows. My attitude was worsening and I tried to find solace in thoughts of a nice bowl of hot soup over lunch. But my visions of warmth and comfort were suddenly swept away by the panic of falling.
As my left foot sank into the loamy quicksand, I spiraled backwards into the tender lettuce bed that was just as soggy as the narrow row that took my foot hostage. In a flash, I was hurled on top of my still-full fish tank and with a thug, I found myself starring up at the cloudy sky. The moist lettuce bed took hold of my plastic tank and I began flailing with my arms and one free leg back and forth trying to free myself from the cruel world. The rusty straps tightly wrapped around my shoulders were unforgiving. Too humiliated to cry for help I began incorporating rhythm into my rocks back and forth hoping I could gain enough momentum to break the suction. As I hurled my right arm and leg up to the sky, then left arm (left foot still stuck) I felt it. Oh the world has cruel lessons...in the panic, tumble, and struggle, my rain jacket had eased up my back leaving my waist line exposed to the slow drip of fish guts now oozing under the elastic waistband of my rain pants. My breaths shortened and began to pulse as I felt my underwear soaking up the vile juices and squishing on down my legs.
"Farming sucks!" I thought. $400 a month and a cold grain silo, more commonly referred too as 'intern housing' is hardly an incentive to consider this wretched lifestyle a career. I'm no stranger to physical labor in inclement weather. I've worked as a delivery driver, hiked 10 hours a day with a chainsaw and gas can strapped to my back in knee high snow drifts in the Colorado mountains, and sweated under the Texas heat and humidity shoveling dirt and weed whipping myself through fire ant country. The difference? The well-deserved compensation and benefits package I earned by being employed in undesirable public works projects.
As I lay there in the mud waiting for the last bit of fish emulsion to drain, giving me the ability to finally pull myself free, I realized the fortitude it takes to make food. This was just one lesson gained from many experiences in many a 60-80 hour workweek for pay that keeps many farmers below the poverty line. No wonder farmers are leaving their land and the only people most often willing to be farm laborers and endure the grueling labor and pennies for the hour are the most desperate individuals or idealistic romantics. If we are to attract a new generation of people willing to strap on backpacks of fish parts handed to them by an aging generation of food growers, farmers need to be compensated fairly for the food they grow, the environment they manage, and the health benefits they support, and the local economic system they have the potential to contribute to if given the infrastructure.
As Obama and Tom Vilsack enter into their offices of presidency and Secretary of Agriculture they bring new opportunities to show our gratitude and commitment by supporting the lifestyle of the farmer and increasing the compensation farmers deserve for their labor. The rugged individualism that has built our local food system has left our farms barren and farmers without livelihood. In addition to paying farmers for their products in the wholesale and retail markets, they should be compensated for hosting beginning farmer programs, paid for good environmental stewardship, and be subsidized for selling into low-income and nutritionally deficient communities.
My life as a farmer was short-lived. I spent a mere 5 years in the field and opted out when my savings ran dry. I currently manage a farmer's market and organize local people, including farmers to take a look at local policies that would support farmers who support us. If farming isn't the life for you, find time in your life to contact your representatives in government to urge Obama and Vilsack to support our farmers who endure more than a romantic life immersed in nature. They are worth our time and the contributions they make to the good of the public.