Eden Hall Farm

Today is my day off, and I have woken up feeling sick. It feels like a stomach flu of some kind, so I dig into some chicken noodle soup and saltines which taste like the plastic that contains them. I feel the hypocracy of the situation, as I am filling up on Campbells condensed. Maybe it is the green movement, but I am beginning to tire of eating all things packaged. After volunteering some time at Chatham's branch campus, Eden Hall Farm, I am reminded that food is not meant to be contained; it is meant to grow in the dirt or from a tree. My first trip to the farm was spent weeding along the garden's fence. As I delved into the dirt with my pick-ax, and dirt crowded the underside of my nails, I was taken back to childhood when my parents asked me to weed the stone patio or the flower garden and sift dirt with my hands for a smooth topsoil. I realized how long it had been since I'd done this, and the disconnection I felt. I ripped roots out of the soil, using all the muscles in my body to remove their hard appendages. I was reminded of Nancy Gift's book and felt a slight guilt in their removal as I pursued control. Then, Lynne suggested leaving the morning glory (if I'm remembering correctly) because it would wind itself to the fence and bloom purple buds. She shows me the wilted and brown stems of last year hanging on the wire. I felt balanced again. I ask if "this" is something important, pointing to a plant that looks headstrong. And when she tells me that's mint I recall a childhood memory once again: my mother picking mint from the hillside and making iced tea. Being near this plant, which Lynne says is extremely invasive, is like being reunited with my mother, who is also invasive; many mothers are.