Two Farm Musings

I. Delicate Brutality: The Roto-Tiller

Machinery, in particular power tools of the farm and the woodshop, is both brutal and delicate; I challenge anyone to find other things that embody that unlikely pairing.

The roto-tiller's blades cut through the grass and soil, tearing them apart and turning them upside down with efficiency and brutality. The first garden snake to encounter the machine received a wound that did not prove immediately fatal, but gave me enough remorse to take the time to toss the second one into the brush pile, not trusting its instincts for dealing with the machine.

Despite this ability to so quickly destroy and overturn so much, the roto-tiller is also sensitive, like a poet or the fine-adjustment knob on a coffee grinder or a sextant. Roots, stones, and the fragments of brick and glass that remind me of the urban part of this urban farm can all cause it to cough and shudder, and sometimes jam the blades. Slight hummocks and valleys in the field drive the machine perceptibly off course, and the heavy spinning blades only reinforce the false directions. It seems incongruous: these are exactly the things that roto-tillers encounter in regular operation, yet these are the things that are its downfall.



II. Refinement: Espresso and Compost

Compost, I realized while sifting it into a wheelbarrow, is not unlike espresso. Before I continue, let me elaborate on compost sifting. After many other, longer-term processes, the compost is ready to be spread on a field. First, however, the larger pieces that have not decomposed (twigs, rinds, etc.) need to be removed. So I laid two boards parallel across the sides of the wheelbarrow and laid the sifter on it. The sifter is a square wooden frame with mesh nailed to the bottom. Once I've shoveled two shovelfuls of compost onto the mesh, I slide it back and forth along the boards. Any more than two, and it will jam; that is, there will not be enough space in the frame for the compost to shake about and settle the small pieces through the mesh. The wet hot compost rubs into the grain of the parallel boards and lubricates the frame's sliding. Once the wheelbarrow is full, it gets dumped into a compost hopper, stored in the heat of the day until it is needed.

All that to say that compost is like espresso, because both are a fine brown powder. On one hand they are different: compost is the lowest form; the beginnings, the primordial ooze from which plants, perhaps coffee plants, will emerge. Espresso is, on the other hand, the highest and most refined form: grown, dried, roasted, ground, and brewed, with any number of trans-continental shipments in between those steps. It comes served as a liquid in a tiny cup in a refined atmosphere in the artsy part of town, while compost fills wheelbarrows and is spread by sunburned men and women on an acre lot amidst Section 8 housing, across the street from an auto body shop.

But compost, too, is a refined form, its temperature is taken throughout the process. It is turned multiple times, mixed, and cared for. The sifting process and the process of pulling a shot have a similar number of steps. And the espresso grounds, the little puck that falls out of the filter between drinks, can, in the best of circumstances, make its way to compost pile, continuing the be refined.

Paraprosdokian

Thanks to Heather, who sent me an email featuring some paraprosdokians. To quote the wikipedia entry, a paraprosdokian is "a figure of speech in which the latter part of a sentence or phrase is surprising or unexpected in a way that causes the reader or listener to reframe or reinterpret the first part. It is frequently used for humorous or dramatic effect, sometimes producing an anticlimax."

If you didn't click on that link to wikipedia above, click on it now, and read an amusing list of paraprosdokians from such luminaries as Mitch Hedberg and Jack Handey.

P.S. Writing Mitch Hedberg's name reminded me of this. Not necessarily a paraprosdokian, but definitely useful to remember while apartment hunting: "I bought a house. It's a two-bedroom house, but I think it's up to me how many bedrooms there are, don't you? Fuck you real estate lady, this bedroom has a oven in it. This bedroom has a lot of people sittin' around watchin' TV. This bedroom's over in that guy's house. Sir, you got one of my bedrooms, are you aware? Don't decorate it." 

P.P.S. The above is quoted from "Mitch All Together." Here is a clip of him doing the same bit, but the delivery is inferior to the CD. Start at 3:46.

Fruits of My (and others') Labor

The Joshua Farm, where I'm spending my mornings, is about 1 acre, 1/2 under cultivation. They run a twice-weekly farm stand, a CSA, and in the summers, they work with high school kids.

Mondays and Thursdays are farm stand days, and thus harvest days. I spent this morning cutting okra, peppers, and green beans. It turns out that 1) okra leaves make you itchy, and 2) that itching is relieved by rubbing dirt on the itchy areas. Who knew?


I got to bring home some green beans, garlic, and peppers home, and so I made some lunch, including green beans sauteed in garlic and butter. Chili, made with the peppers (sweet and chili) is next up...

The Scholar, my place of gainful employment

To the left, see the main floor at the Midtown Scholar bookstore. I'm shooting from the balcony, where the film studies, poetry, and music books are. Immediately below and the right of the bottom right corner of this picture is the coffee bar where I work.

There it is. Note my bosses, Kinsey and Beth conferring behind the counter. When it's slow in the coffee bar, we have espresso time trials and informal tea tastings. My caffeine tolerances have yet to catch up with the amounts I am consuming.

There's Grandma in the bookstore, reading an appropriate book.

Just Sayin'

"And even though dolphins curse their human-like intelligence when they hear us say it, this is NPR."

-Car Talk

No Last Call

In the course of poking around Craigslist, looking for (more) employment, I stumbled upon an ad for a street band. This ad, in particular. "Are you looking for a really fun, low-pressure outlet for your musical talents and are you 25 or older?"


Well, yes to all, except that age thing. So I sent them an email mentioning my tenure in Swarthmore's Balkan Brass Band, and detailing my love of street bands, in particular, Providence, RI's What Cheer? Brigade (recent sleeper hit at the Newport Folk Festival).

Turns out 1) this band is the band mentioned to me a few weeks ago by the pastor of Derry Presbyterian, and 2) they were inspired to form the band when they saw the What Cheer? Brigade play.

So, despite missing the only rehearsal between my acceptance into the band and their next gig, I was invited to play. I packed a tambourine, goat-hoof bracelet shaker, sticks, and snare drum into my backpack and  down rode Front Street, boom-ba protruding over the handlebars like a jouster's lance.

We played a pretty standard roster of pep band tunes, but the crowds in town for this weekend's Kipona Festival loved it. Now, to get my hands on the old charts from the Balkan Band...

Updates

We're in town. We have a place. We both (Nate and I) have jobs, though I need more hours to make more dollars.

But we're here, in the place that will be home for a year (or more...?), and now it's time for a report on the Burg.

I. Work
I work at the Midtown Scholar Bookstore, a hub of the arts and academic scene here in Midtown, and in Harrisburg in general. This makes it a wonderful place to work, though my hours are less than desirable--I work through dinner and right into the night. I remind myself that, although I won't be out in the community making the connections that Nate and I came here to make, I will be behind the counter when plenty of people are making their way through the store. I am learning to be a barista.

II. Farm
I've just begun volunteering my mornings at the Joshua Farm, in Allison Hill (a nearby neighborhood that has been identified as a food desert). They are a working CSA, and also support an after-school program for kids from the community. It's only my second day there, and they're already giving me vegetables. Today was harvest day, so that probably has something to do with it.

III. Music
I'm always looking for more ways to indulge my favorite hobby, and while having a record player and decent speakers in the apartment is great, I need to do more. So I've been playing my banjo on the riverfront, looking at the paddle-wheel "Pride of the Susquehanna." I've also sent around videos of the Balkan Band to convince people that I am part of an awesome band, and that they really need me to be in their band. That might be working out; more details to follow.

IV. Other (aka Media)
I've just finished reading Suzanne Collin's YA "Hunger Games" trilogy. I have my thoughts, but I don't want to spoil it for anyone, so if you've read it, let me know, and we can chat. I've been listening to NPR's coverage of the Newport Folk Festival, and the online preview of Ray LaMontagne's newest album, "God Willin' and the Creek Don't Rise." I recently watched Stanley Kubrick's noir/heist film "The Killing" and the recent release "Winter's Bone" (playing at the local arthouse which is showing "Get Low" next week!). Check any or all of them out if you get the chance.

V. Conclusion
As I ride my (awesome, fast, green) road bike (thanks mom!) between the urban farm/CSA, the coffeeshop/bookstore, and my apartment in the artsy neighborhood where my record player and banjo await, and I cannot help but worry that I have, officially, become a hipster. Those of you who are the praying type, please pray that my pants do not get tighter; that I continue to enjoy bands' second and third albums, and that I refuse to ever consume PBR.