Yesterday, when my husband, Paul and I were returning from inspection our new farmer's market locations in Toronto, I casually asked him what vegetables would be harvested for the CSA bins the first week of June.

Quietly, Paul replied, "I don't know.  Maybe, nothing."

Stunned, I listened as Paul explained that the abundant April showers had in fact turned the fields into a soggy muddy mess, plus the cold temperatures had failed to warm the soil, so that any seed planted would in fact rot, instead of sprout, if planted in these conditions.

Immediately, my mind reeled with the impact of this information.  As I began to berate Paul about our soon to be disappointed customers, our deadlines and schedules, our reputation, Paul finally interrupted my meltdown with another quiet comment -

"You know, I've seen these cold springs before.  Two weeks of warm dry weather could change everything."

I almost didn't hear him in the clamour of my stress over the customers who might lose faith in us and the embarrassement I would soon feel over having nothing to sell at the farm markets.  Still fussing and fuming, I barely listened as Paul explained the marvel of sudden warm days in May.  "I tell you Jenny, sometimes, those plants just take off with the right amount of sunshine..."

Just as he predicted, today, everything changed.  After three days of warmth and sunshine, the whir of the tractor now heralded the beginning of the planting season, as the TW30's tires treaded carefully across the fields, while Rob, one of the harvesters, placed the plants, which Paul so painstakingly nurtured to life in the new greenhouse, one at a time into the land.  Later on today, Paul will most likely walk the land, pull a weed, taste a parsnip, check the strawberries and plant some more, right until sunset.  Tomorrow, if it's dry, Paul will rise and plant again. 

 

Day after day, he will rise before dawn, usually humming as he puts in long days of planting, only to crash into bed late, and rise again and plant some more.

This cold wet spring didn't break the rhythm of this farmer of mine.  Patient, expectant, he waited out the rains and the cold, sustained by the deep pleasure of the dance of the season’s beginnings.  Today, as he loads and plant and reloads the transplanter, one crop at a time, one row at a time, he’s on the land, enjoying the marvel and the thrill of the season.  Tomorrow, he’ll walk to this ancient rhythm again.

In the clamour of deadlines, schedules, payroll and profit margins, I have almost missed the song of farming and the dance of the planting season on this beautiful land of ours.  Unlike Paul, I don't have years of experience with the seasons, the rhythms, the pleasures of farming just for the sake of seeing the fields burst forth with produce come June.

Yet this season, despite the pressure of the business, the time constraints, and all my anxieties, I am choosing not to miss this song.  Most nights, the children and I will head out to the fields, to pick, to plant, to taste, to play on the land together for a short while, as we join Paul, with his callused hands and tender heart, in his pursuit of the rhythms of the planting and harvesting seasons.  Together, we’ll delight in the shoots that poke out of the ground, groan at the weeds, juicily munch on warm berries, and learn this song that guides my farmer through the seasons.
 
Certainly, some CSA customers will be disappointed should we have to delay the season's start. Yet while I cannot change the weather anymore than I can change my age, the song of the farmer is too beautiful to miss, and the kids must learn this song from their passionate marvellous farmer dad, as he scoops the soil, and plants another, and smiles.