Starting in 2005, my sister Sally took over a small farm in northern Maryland, part of an inheritance from our parents. Sally had never farmed full-time before. Her lifelong interest in gardening was scant preparation for this late-middle-age career transition from more sedentary work. Especially the first few years, Sally struggled. She wanted to run the farm as a biodynamic one, paying special attention to the cycles of seasons, sun, and moon. Gradually, she got an acre or two into biodynamic production. She rented the rest of the land to nearby more conventional farmers. She built up a cadre of part-time volunteers. Her work was more than full-time, with scant occasions for the travel she had enjoyed earlier in her varied careers. Her internet access was spotty at best, so we kept in touch through phone calls and letters.
For a biodynamic farmer, “cross-quarter days” are especially important in deciding harvest and planting schedules: Halloween (Samhain), Groundhog Day (Imbolc), May Day (Beltane), and mid-summer, around August 1 (Lammas).
This November, I’m posting six years’ worth of cross-quarter day letters, through multiple changes in government, a global pandemic, and major changes in our respective personal circumstances. Please read along…
Tuesday, February 2, 2021 (Imbolc, Groundhog’s Day); from Jinny, in Cary, NC, to Sally, in Taneytown, MD
Dear Sal,
Happy Groundhog Day! Read that “Sir Walter Wally,” Raleigh’s official groundhog, remains in seclusion at his winter quarters in eastern Tennessee this year, rather than on duty for local Groundhog Day celebrations. The natural history museum where he typically holds court in Raleigh is closed because of the pandemic.
Some breaking personal news—I am now partway to being covid-vaccinated! I got my first of two shots at a mobile clinic I found out about through a local mostly black A.M.E. congregation that I’ve been attending either virtually or in person as conditions allow. When I phoned to sign up for the shot, I had a slight twinge of white guilt, thinking I might be taking a slot that would be more equitably filled by a black A.M.E. congregant. After a little consideration, my desire for covid immunity overrode any twinges of guilt. In our area there’s a certain amount of “vaccine hesitancy,” regardless of race or ethnic background. I think the A.M.E. minister at the church I’ve been going to has done a great job of alerting people both to covid risks and protection possibilities. Once I got to the vaccination site, I found an appropriately masked multi-racial mix of folks in the waiting area. Most of the people I saw at the clinic were over 50. Nearly half were black. I noticed a few other local A.M.E. parishioners on the day I went, which further eased any guilt. I’m a little sore and headachy, but don’t have a fever.
It makes sense to me that health care workers got first access to the vaccines. It’s a big relief to me that son Scott and daughter-in-law Kelly, both working in hospital settings, are now fully vaccinated. Health workers are the people with the highest risks and exposure, and those most needed to help us deal with serious covid cases. Still, I’m glad there’s finally a publicly available set of vaccines. I’ll need to wait several weeks before getting a second shot. Husband Jim will see about signing up in a few days.
The weather has been pretty dreary lately, though not uniformly so. We’ve had a couple of “light” snowfalls sandwiched between periods of cold rain, chilly nights, and a few mornings of glare ice. I’ve even seen an initial bluebird on a branch out behind our condo; it seems to me that nesting season is starting earlier than usual.
Our library is again partially open—they now offer “take out books,” a little like take out food. You order online, then come, appropriately masked, to a vestibule area at the entrance to the library. A staffer checks your temperature via contactless thermometer. If you aren’t feverish, you get to sanitize your hands, then go to a temporary set of shelves and find your selections in a paper bag with your last name on it. Not the same as full library access, but a lot better than nothing. It seems a shame that our big new regional library was only open a few months before the pandemic hit. I’ve heard that some of the library staff, instead of being furloughed, have been converted into contact tracers. They’re good at research and tracking down leads, so the transition makes sense. We’ve been getting lots of publicity about “flattening the curve”—keeping the rate of new infections low enough so our hospitals don’t get overwhelmed with cases.
Jim and I have learned enough about a new-to-us video conferencing application called “Zoom” to try to organize a set of virtual “Groundhog Day” parties this coming weekend. We bought a year’s subscription to the service. We’ll invite two separate shifts of friends to sign on for a couple of afternoon sessions. The bad news this Groundhog Day is that it’s still too risky to try large in-person gatherings; the good news is that virtually we can include friends, like Bob and Rita in Georgia, whom we wouldn’t otherwise get to see at all. Wish you had enough internet access to join us!
When planning the party, I read back through my journal entries from February 2, 2020 and was surprised at how different life was just a year ago. Jim and I had just gotten back from a mid-winter break to the Turks and Caicos Islands in the Caribbean, transiting on our way back through a poorly ventilated local airport that would have been a real super spreader of covid infections. Our Sunday afternoon in-person Groundhog party coincided with the 2020 edition of the Super Bowl, so attendance was sparse.
The two of us are beginning to think about moving to San Diego to be near son Jason and family once we’re fully vaccinated. From what we’ve seen or heard of friends and neighbors who’ve gotten covid infections, plane travel is one of the highest risk activities—poor air circulation and lots of people in tight spaces. We’ve been in the habit of flying out to see the San Diego Battersons at least a couple of times a year, which doesn’t seem very smart during a pandemic whose duration is still very much in question. I’m not sure how we would manage the relocation, or even if it is practical—real estate sales are pretty well stymied for now, with “open house” home showings a non-starter.
Still, we won’t have many more years to watch grandkids Parker and Ada grow up, and we’ll eventually likely need help coping with life as we age. It makes sense to move sooner if/when we can, rather than waiting until this awful pandemic has run its course and/or we’re too doddering to take care of ourselves. I’ve started looking at online real estate listings not far from Jason’s house. Housing prices in southern California are ridiculously expensive, but unlikely to get lower any time soon.
Now that the election has been decided and a new administration has been sworn in, I’m paying somewhat less attention to politics. I’m relieved not to face the prospect of four more years of the “orange man.” I’m still disgusted by some of the shenanigans that went on on January 6. Remember how our folks would tell us that watching too much TV would turn our brains to mush? Guess our outgoing chief exec is a good example of that, or maybe it’s more his moral sense that is mushy.
Occasionally, I indulge my spiteful side by listening to musical satirists. One of my favorite numbers at the moment is a parody of “Johnny Be Good” entitled “Donny Be Gone.” Peppy tune, clever words, good rhymes. We still have a lot of work to do to get through the pandemic, both as a nation and as a global community, but at least we’ll be less inundated by lies, slurs and innuendos coming from the White House. Got this quip from a recent phone call with a friend: “I bought a warranty for the year 2021. Is it too late to turn it in for a refund?” On an earlier phone call, a different friend summarized 2020 this way: “It was like looking both ways before crossing the street and then getting hit by an airplane.”
I’m still making face masks for the project at church, though at a slightly slower pace. I sent a big packet to California for Christmas. As far as I can tell, grandkids Parker and Ada liked their quilt-lets. The good old U.S. Post Office has been a real boon during shut-downs. Hope spring will come early at the farm. Please take good care!
Love, Jin
