Community

Dear Linden,
A stranger bought your toast at Enid’s this morning. While you smeared butter on your face—and I spilled soup on my lap—they slipped Karl a fifty. Then they walked out the door, unknown to us.

Mom and I moved here two years ago because we needed to be unknown. We ached from the death of your unborn sister. We ran away from jobs and school and friends.

We dreamt of a house away from town where you could run and play if ever you were born. Where you could do the childlike things your sister can’t. One farmhouse was too wet, another too cold. One too large and another too small. Our agent asked if we would look at a place in Wellington. We conceded.

The street was ordinary. Every house had a basketball net, but there were no children outside. There was no running and no playing. Then we turned the corner.

All the children played at one basketball net. They played together. We didn’t need to look inside the house, everything we wanted was outside. Suddenly, you felt possible.

The community we’ve found here extends beyond our street. There’s the person who bought your toast, the pizza joint that throws an appreciation party, and a group of farmers I call friends.

I went to my first Grape Study Meeting after we moved. It’s a meeting you won’t find in other wine regions. During the growing season, County grape growers gather every two weeks. There are small farms and large farms; professionals and hobbyists. Margaret welcomes each new grower and invites them into the fold. I was nervous at my first meeting. I was quiet, drank too much coffee, and hid behind Kimball. I had a similar strategy at my second meeting, but added brownie eating.

I was blind to the beauty of the study group. I thought it was about pruning and spraying— but it’s not. It’s about community. It’s about eating together. It’s about laughing and sharing stories.

These are the friends that help me be a better farmer. They guided me through a drought and a flood. They lend me equipment, share advice, and balance my (many) faults. They have taught me the greatest lesson: strength is found in community. It’s a lesson farmers have always known. It’s woven in our soils.

We have our first gathering of 2018 this week. We haven’t met as a group since harvest. Initially we’ll gripe about how wet last year was. Then we’ll dream out loud about the year to come.

I’ll see friends around the table. I’ll think of children playing basketball across the street and the person who bought your toast this morning. I’ll whisper a prayer of thanksgiving for this community that healed me.

I don’t know if you’ll be a farmer or not. Maybe you’ll be a physicist like Uncle Eric or artist like Auntie Ro. Maybe you’ll focus on being a better father than I am.

Whatever you do, please do this: find your community like I’ve found mine.