There was a lot to laugh at. After all, making fun of young adults is a legitimate sport that offers plenty of excellent targets. And long after they left, we continued to find humor in their manner of leaving. Still, perhaps I should offer some mild applause for their determination, albeit short-lived, to give farming a try.
But before I recount their story, let us roll back the clock to the beginning of last week, when we reached out to a farm volunteer from NYC who was due to arrive this past Wednesday for a weeklong stint. The young biochemistry major had contacted us some time ago through WWOOF (World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms) and had seemed enthused about our host profile and posted expectations.
Come last Sunday, I emailed him a detailed list of projects he would either assist with or complete himself. (Setting down tasks is what I do; it helps me map out the best use of my time and that of the volunteer.) No reply. I texted him, still nothing. Wednesday came and went and no volunteer. We’d been ghosted.
This turned out to be a good thing. Thursday afternoon Cindy received an email from a young couple from Chicago: “We’ve had a problem with our car and will not arrive until around 10 p.m. tonight.” Who? What? WTF! A quick check of the WWOOF site showed a detailed chain of emails from a couple of months back with this same couple. The chain clearly spelled out that they were to arrive on the 5th for a 10-day stay, and that we had agreed to the dates. Thank goodness WWOOFer No. 1 had ghosted us — the tiny apartment we offer to volunteers and other guests would have been a little too cozy for three.
We sprang into action. I hustled to clean the apartment while Cindy laundered the linens. Within a couple of hours, we were ready for WWOOFers No. 2. The apartment itself is in a separate building. It consists of one room and a bath, with no kitchen. The walls are painted; the concrete floor is not. It is equipped with a double bed and dresser, a window AC, and an overhead fan. The place is not rustic (many hosts simply offer space for a tent or a loft in the haybarn in the way of accommodations), but neither is it plush. Everyone who has stayed in it has done so without complaint. Satisfied guests even include the volunteer who, while sitting on the toilet, watched as a black rat snake poked its head out under the vanity doors. (He mentioned it casually, much later, as if he had spotted a beloved pet on the loose.)
Around 10:30 Thursday night the couple from Chicago arrived on the farm. I was outside, waiting by the beehives, to meet and greet. Once I had them situated in their home-away-from-home, having told them I’d see them at breakfast in the morning, I left them to get settled in.
The young man was typical in both build and appearance, dressed casually in T-shirt and jeans. The young woman, on the other hand, had an impossibly neat coif and was smartly dressed. Walking back to the house, I already had misgivings. Ten days of trying to give directions to this city gal was going to be a challenge. Time would tell, I thought. I didn’t yet know just how little time would be needed for their story to unfold.
Friday morning I arose around 5:30 and walked down the driveway to close the gates before letting the dogs out. You know how you can drive by a house and sense that it’s unoccupied, how a vacant house has a vibe different than one where people reside? The apartment had that feel. It was a good hundred yards away, and I could hear the AC still running. In the early morning darkness, I could not see if the car was parked in front of the door. Yet I could sense a change.
Back at the house, coffee in hand, I checked email before sitting down to read a book. A middle of the night missive from the young couple as they began their long trek back to Chicago was in my inbox:
“The accommodations just weren’t what we were expecting. We probably seem like stuck up city dwellers, but we just couldn’t handle the spiders, the slug outside the door, and the cave cricket in the bathroom. The farm is gorgeous, and we regret to inform you of our early departure, but after killing everything, we still just felt too uncomfortable there. Thank you again for considering us for the opportunity. We apologize for the inconveniences we’ve caused. We wish y’all well.”
I can’t help but wonder what they’d have done if they had seen “Reggie” the black rat snake!
Sometimes things do turn out for the best. Ten days of asking the squeamish to squish potato bugs and check for freeloading ticks before sitting down to breakfast, beat back fencerows of briars to earn the right to a lovely dinner, shovel barnfuls of manure before settling in for a good night’s rest — none of it was meant to be if they couldn’t first deal with a cave cricket.
Farming is not for sissies, and we work the volunteers hard. But if one is so disengaged from the natural world as to fear a slug, a spider, and a cave cricket, then best to retreat to the cloistered urban tower. While doing so, though, offer up some prayers that the economy always stays strong, growth is eternal, and others will do the necessary work of interacting for you with the world outside, putting food on your table while you dine in your bug-free condo.
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Reading this week: The Seven Ranges (W. Hoyt) and The Coldest Case (M. Walker). The latter is a weak addition to the Bruno mystery series.
