on dirt

A fifth-grade class from the Cambridge Friends School paid a visit to the farm yesterday. We greeted them in the driveway, next to the barn, where they were introduced to the farmer. As he explained a bit about the farm, he peppered them with questions : Who knows what 'organic' means? Do carrots grow on trees? What is genetically modified seed? Several dislocated their shoulders as they shot their arms into the air, hoping to be called on to rant against GMOs. They grow them wicked smaht in Cambridge.

I took a group out to harvest leeks. No one knew what a leek was, and when I explained that they're like onions, the level of satisfaction sank. I demonstrated how to harvest one: Step one: grab firmly. Step two: pull. When I got to step three (shake off excess dirt), a petit girl in a pink track suit and black leather boots shrieked and recoiled at the flying dirt. I thought we were sunk for sure.

Eventually, though, she found jobs she could manage: Telling everyone else how many they needed to pull and directing the leek-stacking system. She didn't notice the dirt as much, although she did complain to me about the slime on the leeks--something I can't disagree with.

When we had wrapped up the leek harvest, it was time to dig potatoes, an activity that brings out the child in adults and small children alike. They ran. Screamed. Grabbed. Made up songs. Threw. ("WE DON'T THROW POTATOES," the farmed screamed back.) In essence, they had a blast. By the end of it, pink tracksuit girl had stripped off her hoodie, spread it on the soft, moist soil, and used it as a potato-collecting device. And she was having the time of her 10-year-old life, dirt and all.