Saturday, August 1, 2020 (Lammas/Midsummer); from Jinny in Cary, NC to Sally in Taneytown, MD
Dear Sal,
Husband Jim and I have become gardeners of sorts, planting lots of bulbs and perennials in the tree wells of our 95-unit condo complex. It’s a relatively low-risk activity during covid, and helps cheer the look of our place. Jim has also taken it upon himself to “de-vine” area trees of the ivy (and more rarely poison ivy) vines that have been choking the life out of some younger trees, besides being a visual nuisance everywhere they climb. He started with our condo complex and has now branched out to a 2-mile stretch of greenway along our nearest creek. I keep busy making masks, writing voter postcards, and sleuthing for reading materials at area “Little Free Library” kiosks, since our public libraries are still closed.
Sometime in mid-May, we watched a TV special about celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay and his makeover of parts of Ellicott City’s historic Main Street that had gotten badly damaged or wiped out entirely in the 2016/2018 flash floods. “24 Hours to Hell and Back: Save Our Town” was filmed in February, 2020. Shortly thereafter, Ellicott City again needed saving, this time from covid. Local businesses have done their best to adapt, but they are likely just as strapped as you are.
I’m torn about reactions to the killing of George Floyd. On the one hand, I’m gratified that the police officer who knelt on Mr. Floyd’s neck until he suffocated to death is facing criminal charges. On the other hand, I’m dismayed that some of the resulting protests about Floyd’s death and other police-related deaths have involved violence. Such violence tends to play into the hands of those who favor ever-harsher law enforcement. It seems probable to me that some of the recent violence is an outpouring based on more generalized frustrations—having to cope with an unprecedented pandemic without competent leadership. In our household, we’ve installed what we hope will be a harmless outlet for the excess frustrations of pandemic-era living—an inflatable “Bozo the clown” upright plastic punching bag. Bozo stands about 5 feet tall, with a sand-filled base. After a day of too much bad news, husband Jim and I can take turns discharging our anger or despair by pummeling Bozo.
Parts of our local economy are beginning to reemerge—the local farmers’ market is not as big as pre-pandemic, but is again being held on a regular basis. Grocery stores have gradually extended their hours to near-pre-pandemic levels. Spot shortages are less frequent. Nature has been kind here, generally, with adequate rain. Once, after a thunderstorm, a double rainbow. I’ve heard and seen owls in the woods near our condo. Having outdoor spaces in which to roam is truly a blessing. Glad to hear that you’re finding creative ways to sell some of White Rose Farm’s produce, and also creative ways to donate some to needy families in your general area.
As we come up on our first “pandemic era Lammas,” I 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. Two 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 further 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.
From what I remember, the Lammas (and entire summer) of 2016 was pretty rough on the farm. I tried writing a poem about it and think I may have sent it to you. Some of the verses resonate a different way this year, when the main trauma is not erratic weather but an ever-evolving, ever-present viral epidemic:
Bucolic Dystopia
My sister’s small farm suffered last summer.
Rains came in torrents, or not at all.
Temperatures soared; tempers frayed.
The cow calved, then keeled over dead—
Likely from lack of calcium, the vet said, afterwards.
…
It was tempting to blame some distant bureaucrat,
A too-rigid regulation, a fat cat absentee landowner,
For the ongoing distress. Tempting, too, to trust
Some wild-haired populist or bullying billionaire
To dispel the gloom and bring back prosperity.
But in the end, the problem persists, ages old,
One no external factor or leader can dismiss:
How can we bring forth beauty, bounty and balance
Out of the dark, dirt, and deaths of our
Own particular places and times?
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 keep up your spirits and keep growing food. Please reach out to your current and former volunteers for help. Talk with you tomorrow!
Love, Jin
