This Life Is in Your Hands_ One Dream, Sixty Acres, and a Family Undone - Melissa Coleman [45]
“The reality of this way of life is that you have got to keep at it even when you don’t feel like it,” Mama wrote in her journal to ease her mind while Papa was outside. “Otherwise you won’t make it. It’s no life for dabblers. You’ve got to dig it wholeheartedly, for if you don’t, you just simply won’t be happy nor successful at what you do.”
The trials of the colder months were forgotten as the cape exploded in flowers. Lupine came at the tail end of May, their fronds of purple-blue pea shapes rising from the concentric-leaved clumps covering hillsides along the roads. Yellow dandelions exploded into seeded tufts that floated on the breeze and gave way to the taller but sparser cover of yellow buttercups. Our rose-hip bushes, planted the spring I was born, blossomed with pink heart-shaped petals, bumblebees dipping into the pollen-filled centers. On walks in the woods, Mama always kept an eye out for the rare pink lady’s slipper among the white bunchberry dogwood, wild lily of the valley, and starflowers carpeting the forest floor. The delicate pouch hung from a single stem and leaf, regal in its solitary beauty against the tangle of the forest.
“It looks like a scrotum,” a visitor said once, and Mama blushed as if she’d been caught looking at his.
There were other flowers showing up, too, “flower children,” Mama joked. The Nearings’ farm was overrun with students attending a seminar on how to homestead. They came in one-week shifts, and stayed in rental houses four miles down the single-lane road in the town of Harborside. Scott taught them to transplant lettuce and make compost, and then put them right to work doing whatever he needed done.
“It’s paid labor of the best kind because the laborers are the ones paying $100 a week,” Papa noted in amusement.
Whenever I saw Scott’s hunched and lined figure, often pushing a wheelbarrow, my young imagination was reminded of the A. A. Milne poem “Jonathan Jo,” which Mama often read to me.
Jonathan Jo
Has a mouth like an “O”
And a wheelbarrow full of surprises.
Every Monday night, people gathered after dinner on the lawn in front of the Nearings’ house to listen to Scott talk about social, political, and agrarian issues. These gatherings became known as Monday Night Meetings and were open to all. Monday nights also meant potential young friends; even though the guests were mostly grown-ups, there was always the chance that a child or two might be brought along. After work we’d throw buckets of water from the well over our heads to wash up before Papa carried me down the path on his shoulders. Apprentices and visitors hung around on the back patio, talking and playing music. From my shoulder perch, I scanned the crowd for small persons, and if there were any, we’d chase each other around the wide lawn until it was time to “pay attention.” We all sat in a circle around Scott holding court in his chair as he talked in his low melodious voice, the vowels bumping and rolling over each other like stones in a riverbed. Popcorn was served in large wooden bowls, and the question-and-answer period evolved into lengthy discussions into the summer evening.
Once, when Helen interrupted Scott during a particularly long ramble, he cut her off by saying, “Quiet, woman.” The younger onlookers were scandalized, but it didn’t faze Helen. Though they were progressive in their teachings, the Nearings’ marriage was rooted in an earlier era.
While Monday night was Scott’s domain, Sunday night was Helen’s music night, when