Weeds, in fields and in life

My husband started a farm on our 10 acres almost 14 years ago. Over those years I have learned that farmers are always a little bit overwhelmed during the warm months, and grapple with the feeling of falling behind and needing to catch up – whether they truly are behind or not

But some years, it isn’t Pete’s imagination. This year he started late because he was laid up with a broken leg most of the winter, although, if a farmer has to resort to hobbling, winter isn’t a bad time to do it. Then, spring rains fell longer and heavier than usual. That makes planting late, and also sparks the growth of one crop that is not welcome at all – weeds.

In recent years I’ve pulled back somewhat from helping on the farm. I have things to write, after all. I don’t assist with as many farmer’s markets as I once did. I help with some of the planting in spring and harvesting week to week.

But weeds are mortal enemies. About 10 years ago, the weeds got the best of our garlic field and really damaged the crop, reducing it by 70 percent. We learned that you can’t take your eyes off these evil plants for a minute.

This is what a few days of rain will do. The white flowers are the strawberry plants; the tall, malevolent plants are the rampaging weeds. They are gone now! Here, Pete holds a container full of weeds he has pulled out.

After days of rain, Pete said to me, in his understated way, “I could use help weeding the strawberries.” I went out to take a look and realized the situation was close to an emergency. The weeds had shot up after just a few days of rain. Last year, we planted 800 strawberry plants knowing that the second year - this year - the fruit would produce in earnest. The weeds threatened what we thought would be a good spring harvest. I grabbed some tools and headed out to the field.

Pulling weeds used to make me nuts, but the task was almost a healing balm in the early days of the COVID-19 lockdown. I could go out into the fields and lose myself in the mindless work, gradually shedding my sense of crisis-fueled panic about how long the quarantine would last and when I could see my granddaughter again. I would hoe or pull out the tiniest shoots of the destructive plants and feel soothed at having accomplished something.

But there was nothing small about these weeds, and I brought big and small tools to battle them. Pete started at one end and I at another. The labor, away from screens and cell phones, gave me time for self-reflection. After a while, as my hamstrings ached from bending and I filled buckets with weeds for disposal far from the field, I began to see the invasive plant as a metaphor.

What were the weeds in my life that I needed to yank out?

Well, I thought, as I get older I certainly am gaining the bad habit of doling out to my two adult children advice they haven’t asked for. Sometimes I hear myself dispense bromides on autopilot and mid-sentence, I want to stuff a sock in my mouth. That’s one weed I could live without. My guess is that Anna and Tim would agree.

And though I try to be grateful, I need a reset when my innate impatience rises. I can use reminders that I am lucky; lucky to have a family to care for, that I feel a sense of purpose in writing, and when it comes to having enough money, I always recall my mother’s response. “Hey, we’re eating, aren’t we?” Yep. We’re eating.

Impatience is a weed. So is seeing the glass half empty.

When having two large dogs gets under my skin, I tell myself that I have rarely had a day with fewer than 10,000 steps since Pete insisted on getting the golden retrievers three years ago. Like it or not, they are gym memberships on paws. I get all the aerobic exercise I need the moment I grab a leash, dodge a furiously wagging tail, hook the leash onto a collar and open the door.

My musings were interrupted when rain began to fall again. We had finished one field. The rest we will get to this week. When it comes to my own personal “weeds,” though – well, they are a work in progress. Disposing of them will take more than a shovel and a bucket.

I’ll tackle them one weed at a time.

This is how I walk Bella, left, and Zoey, right, in the morning on a path next door to our farm. The dogs are pretty good on the leash because they have been walking together since they were puppies. It still gives me a workout!