March,
2005. When I was 5, I wanted to be an archaeologist
and a hairdresser. I thank my mother for encouraging me to
follow these lofty, if not likely career goals, at least for
a few years or so. (I can recall a certain pro-feminist bedtime
story we used to read together, starring the likes of Margaret
Thatcher and a high-ranking female diplomat in India. My mother
is an attorney.) Truth be told, I never made it past the French
braid, and I didn’t even take any anthropology classes
in college; however, I still hold my first idea of being a
“real person” with a “real job” in
the “real world” close at heart. It is this dissonant
merging of the artistic and the practical that still guides
me at 23.
For all readers hoping for the next installment of life on
the farm, please forgive this momentary tangent. I’m
just finishing up a luxurious two-and-a-half weeks of vacation.
As introspective as I may be while hand-weeding and bleaching
compost buckets on the farm, there is something about physical
distance that seems to nurture self-reflection. I tucked myself
into airplanes and trains—even the passenger seat of
my friend Molly’s Civic hybrid—to shuttle further
from the land of ice and snow and closer to a little warmth
and clarity. And during the moments of lounging on the beach
and driving through Pennsylvania farmland that comprised my
spring break, I managed to string together a few thoughts
on my experience in Lake Placid so far.
I now know how to drive in “winter conditions.”
I’ve navigated Cascade Pass (elevation: 2,200 ft.) more
than 180 times in my station wagon—often straight through
waves of white powder and streams of sleet and hail—squealing
the antilock brakes to avoid clipping a statue-like buck staring
down my headlights. I’m comfortable removing the organs
from a freshly-slaughtered rooster. I can explain why sap
flows in spring, and what “Adirondack” means.
I look forward to barn chores. I wake up at 6 a.m., even on
my days off, and have trouble dressing myself in anything
other than the stained, shredded work pants I’ve owned
since high school. But for all the progress and the growth
I’ve experienced since mid-August, I am, without a doubt,
still figuring things out. For further illustration, here
is a recent conversation I had with my boss, John:
(Scene: A station
wagon, heading south on I-87 towards Albany, approximately
8 .a.m. Laura flips between radio stations, intent on catching
the end of All Things Considered. John and Laura speak about
higher education.)
Laura: …So I just don’t know
where I’m headed. Some days I’m certain I want
to enroll in an agriculture program. Others, I’m sure
I’m cut out for law school…
John: Looking back, do you think you could
have learned what you did in the past 16+ years of schooling
in a shorter amount of time?
Laura: Hmmmm. I don’t know. I guess
there are a handful of core skills I gained in the past
several years.
John: Such as…?
Laura: Well, I would say that I know how
to listen, and to communicate my thoughts and opinions to
others….in writing and in speech. And I’ve learned
how to be successful in school and how to advance to more
school…if that could be considered a skill.
John: Interesting. Take this exit.
This internship, so far, has been an interesting and satisfying
mix of practical knowledge and artistry. My tasks—and
roles—at North Country School run the gamut, so that
one day I’m peering up at the belly of a tractor learning
about wheel adjustments in the morning, and drafting a grant
proposal in the afternoon. The moments as humbling as scrubbing
200 pounds of potatoes have slipped in line beside the sometimes
revolutionary fervor my job inspires in me. (Case in point:
During the November elections, I told the headmaster here
that I felt I was making a statement against the political
status quo just by coming to work.) I spent hours scouring
over the Johnny’s catalog to find the right aesthetics
for our 435-foot-long flowerbed. Call me an idealist, or even
a perfectionist, but at least I like my job.
As I think forward to the next five months, I promise to
keep both my mother’s doting inspiration and John’s
probing questions in mind. These days, I wish a few of my
mother’s pep talks had taken place in my dad’s
workshop, as now I struggle with basic carpentry projects
and working with power tools. (I somehow grew up practicing
a plethora of competitive sports and playing the cello and
trumpet, but never once used a ratchet.) In my home in the
Connecticut River Valley, I dreamed about hairstyles and Egyptian
mummies, but knew very little about the tobacco farming right
outside my door.
I see now that being a farmer requires more than a fancy
degree, or even a family farm; the modern farmer has an artist’s
eye, a biologist’s understanding, an incredible work
ethic, a businessperson’s savvy, and boatload of practical
expertise. I hope the next five months will make these job
requirements seem (at least a little) less daunting.  |
