Follow the Sun

There are still a few places in the world where you can escape to see life as it actually is, raw, without those annoying marvels of civilization getting in the way, such as plumbing and electricity. One of those places is in Northern Vermont, where the night’s darkness is so profound that the Milky Way looks like a dense rain cloud about to dump the great mystery of the universe on your head.

It was time, and we were out of time… For the past couple of weeks we’d been watching the weather like a hawk. The sun was not there. It was freezing and miserable, not exactly favorable for planting, but Bill and I kept vigil and relied on our instincts. This week the weather gave us the break we were looking for: to plant the 4000+ garlic heads on the new field opened up on Bill’s property. We loaded up the truck with tools, jigs, garlic… and took off for Lamoille county, four hours North.

This wonderful patch of dirt has a commanding view of the valley and the mountains. There is a rugged beauty and poetry to these hills, a place to get away, to think and dream at night.

The name “Gracie” popped into my mind as I inhaled the crystal air and autumn aromas, in tribute to all I was sensing here. Fields have their own personalities and micro-ecosystems, so why not name them? Every field is different, with its own virtues, challenges, exposure to weather, biology, soil chemistry, nutrients, structure, and other metrics. Also, it is history that determines the viability of a field. Millions of years ago Gracie existed at the bottom of the sea; then ten thousand years ago at the bottom of a two-mile thick glacier; and, gradually, as the ice melted, Gracie made her way to the sun.

When we got there, Bob greeted us with his Kubota. He dragged the tiller over the field to loosen the soil, which pulled up rocks that had “grown” since the last till. Rocks and stones deposited by glaciers keep getting pushed to the surface from expansion and contraction of the soil. They gotta go. So we walked in front of Bob’s Kubota and tossed them in the bucket.

We have been planting on Bill’s property up here for a few years. The idea was to split up the garlic crop to grow in two distinctly different climates in New England, coastal and mountain. With the advent of climate change and a warmer Earth, as a farmer you have to diversify your investment. Garlic originated from the freezing regions of Northern Asia. This plant likes a good, tough winter, which it is certain to get in Northern Vermont, if not on Coastal Massachusetts.

I think the local Vermonters are intrigued (if not amused) at the fact we plant in November. After all, planting is the realm of spring, not winter. Thankfully this year the weather was fair; in previous years Bill and I watched the ground literally begin to freeze beneath our feet as we punched the last cloves into the ground, the first snow whirling around us. Maybe the locals think we’re just crazy. Maybe they just feel sorry for us, but they all drop in. All of them are characters.

Cormetia pops the cloves off the garlic heads, a very important function in the operation, and one that she takes great pride in. The cloves have to be separated quite delicately, as they tend to bruise, affecting the final product. Year after year Cormetia has come down to help us out with the planting. Afterward, she gives us tired old buzzards dinner and lets us use her showers.

Here is the field after planting the rows. Jim came down and rattled off a story about a local farmer who lost all of his fingers except one thumb in several farm machinery mishaps. Several? He keeps on going, no problem, and runs his farm with one thumb. I find a certain peace of mind planting by hand…

Here is Gracie with her full compliment of mulch, which will protect our young, dashing gourmet garlic from the harsh Northern Vermont winter, but not too much. Just enough cold to produce the some of the finest garlic in the world.

Stay in peace, and stay in the sun.

TG