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…
Monday, August 1, 2022 (Lammas/Midsummer) ; from Jinny in San Diego, CA to Sally in Taneytown, MD
Dear Sal,
Happy Midsummer! Happy Lammas! Since I last wrote, the Batterson clan has added a new member: Kenley Jean Batterson, born in Lima, OH on May 21. Mom, dad, and baby seem to be doing just fine. Although we knew the covid risks of airplane travel, Jim and I couldn’t resist a chance to see the new baby and her parents in person during a brief visit to Ohio in early June. Just before our return to San Diego, I did come down with a mild case of covid, possibly from our inbound plane ride, which was crowded and long. I don’t appear to have spread the infection to anyone else except maybe Jim, thank goodness. We both recovered fairly quickly.
Wonder if we’ll now have immunity for a while. For such a widespread infection, there seems to be an amazing lack of consensus about how to control the spread, how effective vaccines are, and how to treat those who get infected. At least mortality figures seem to be going down. No further trips planned any time soon, but we do video phone calls with the Ohio crew a couple of times a month. Kenley is growing incredibly fast. She has red hair, which pleases her fading-strawberry-blond grandma.
Son Jason and his family spent part of the summer in Scandinavia, alternately exploring urban areas and hiking among waterfalls. Somewhere in their wanderings, they, too, picked up covid, except for Kelly. No one got very sick. All are recovered now. While they were away, I was tasked with caring for both grand-dog Ginger and a bunch of “grand-fish.” Was able to follow a fairly complicated set of instructions to clean the fish tank while they were away. Last I heard, all the fish were alive.
I was distressed at the U.S. Supreme Court ruling effectively overturning the 1972 Roe v. Wade abortion decision. Their ruling was not totally unexpected, given the current make-up of the court. I believe their decision was overly broad, likely to worsen women’s health in general without having much societal benefit. The weekend after Mother’s Day, San Diego was one of the locales with a sizable abortion rights demonstration in anticipation of the court’s ruling. I went. I walked without a sign, but was touched by a fellow marcher who’d crafted a simple handmade placard giving the full name, birth and death dates of a woman who’d died quite young: Mary McCarthy, 1909-1933. When I asked my marching neighbor for a fuller story, she said she was honoring her great-aunt, who’d died from a self-induced abortion attempt back when abortions were illegal, difficult to obtain, and often deadly. Mary had been married, with four living children, limited resources, and an unemployed husband when she discovered she was carrying a fifth child.
Other marchers carried more generic symbols—twisted coat hangers, stylized uteruses with coiled snakes inside and the slogan “don’t tread on me,” unflattering comparisons between the rights of women and the rights of some AR-15 assault rifle purchasers. I know that no decision to end a pregnancy is easy, but wish the choice still rested primarily with the mother-to-be. San Diego hosted a smaller right to life counter-demonstration in the same general area on the same day. Local law enforcement tried to ensure that the two groups were separated in both time and space.
It seems to get harder and harder to find any sort of middle ground, either on the abortion issue or other “hot button” topics. I doubt you and I will ever agree fully about abortion (or any other topic, for that matter). I wish we could have further discussions in person, but know that’s not practical for now.
In cheerier news, my plot at the giving garden has produced enough tomatoes to can a good bit of sauce. I’ve had good luck with green peppers, less success this year with eggplants, though we had one for supper a week or so ago. I’ve made enough ice cube tray pesto to last through most of the cooler weather, I think. Some weeks I’ve even had enough extra veggies to contribute to the produce going to the drop-in center.
Wonder if you remember the “Lammas” celebration at White Rose Farm in 2015—I’d come up for a short visit, and got to attend a “Women’s Circle” workshop guided by your friend Gwen. I remember that you’d burned your face rather badly a few days earlier, while rushing around and using lighter fluid to start incinerating a big brush pile ahead of a thunderstorm. You’d put on some healing salve, but your skin was red and inflamed. Gwen had us make “seasonal scrapbooks,” using scraps of fabric, old journals she’d brought, and cutouts from magazines. I still have mine, with a frontispiece containing five visual images: Oprah in a red head scarf, a west-facing ocean sunset, a buffalo, a moose, and a mountain meadow with jagged peaks in the background. Three short sets of words form a caption “Better fire—pass on your values.” In the years since that session, I’ve written enough sporadically to fill that journal completely.
My recollection is that once we finished the scrapbooks, I tried singing a lovingkindness meditation song for the group. It seemed to me that the song, the effort of singing it, and the mutual hugs at the end helped heal the somewhat fractured relationship you and I had evolved in the decade after Mom’s death. It hadn’t been easy settling her estate and then dissolving the family real estate corporation and enabling you to purchase White Rose Farm. You, I, and White Rose Farm somehow all continued to exist. I didn’t get to the farm often. By the time of my next visit, your face had healed with no scars, something of a miracle.
Thanks for letting me reminisce on paper. No relationship is perfect, yet I believe ours has been special. Hope you’ll not have to experience any more fires, “better” or not. Please take good care!
Love, Jin
