It’s not every day I have a roadside conversation with a
barefoot farmer. But yesterday was not just another summer Saturday. Here’s what happened:
My wife and I were driving along back roads through the
heart of Pennsylvania’s Amish counties when we saw a compact white wooden stand
with some vegetables in quart paper containers. Given that we were a four-hour
drive from home, I didn’t think purchasing anything was a good idea. But I was
kidding myself: the red peppers and corn looked tempting. My wife knew I was
fretting about passing them up.
“Why don’t you go back and get
something?”
I couldn’t say no. I
admired Amish
farming techniques from my first visit to the area three decades ago. They
have embraced organic farming. Their use of horse-drawn equipment echoes
methods little changed since the Roman Empire rose and fell. Amish
farms remain strikingly fertile and productive. I have often they were
doing something right, at least when it came to agriculture.
So yes, I would purchase something. Back I went and pulled
up aside the stand.
However, before reaching for my wallet, I felt a presence
near me, as if a spirit had materialized.
Turning toward the farm house, I saw
a real flesh-and-blood woman wearing a simple, long dress and a white prayer
cap. We were nearly the same height, so she could look me in the eye through
her thin glasses. But I had the sense she was seeing me in ways I could not
conceal.
We talked red peppers. They were grown in her garden,
something the woman communicated to me with something as close to pride as
Amish religious practice probably permitted.
I had to suppress my curiosity about her: She was Amish,
an exotic species, living apart from contemporary ambitions. Her community was
defined by centuries-old practices that defied what Americans often call
“progress.”
It was when I paid that I noticed her large, seemingly
misshapen feet. They weren’t dirty -- rather, the farm’s dark soil seemed a part
of her tanned skin, like an inherited genetic trait. The dark threads and
patches appeared to continue along her legs, suggesting her relationship to the
earth, her labor, and a strict, spiritually-driven way of being. What I perceived as that life’s rigor and
contentment was something I took with me, along with the quart of peppers.
When I returned to the car, my wife asked me if I were glad to
have returned. I said yes, and then I checked my feet. They had a little bit of
the farm’s soil on them. That’s something that doesn’t happen every Saturday
for me.
