To many Americans, farmers lack cachet. I come from a third-generation Irish immigrant family. Though I have never investigated the specifics of my Irish ancestors, I know that education and rising up the social ladder were the primary concerns of the family. Farmers appear as slightly embarrassing necessities -- who, thank god, live far away. The smells they generate are legion and repugnant. Cow manure. Pig wallows. Their own sweat. Farming activities produce an indelicate picture of too much exercise. Farmers are a little too earthy and a little too dirty for immigrant families intent on reaching beyond their farming roots.
Of course, confronted with this description, a Yankee farmer will grin and say, “eh, yup.” The rising note at the end of the phrase becomes both a polite non-commitment to that opinion and an indication there is another story that is complicated and would take much too long to share.
My friend Liesbeth comes from yet another agricultural heritage -- different from mine and different from our Yankee neighbors. Born in Holland just after Wold War II, Liesbeth says, “I am Dutch and I am a horticulturalist.” The statement is bold and unequivocal. Liesbeth embraces with pride the long, successful growing traditions and practices of her people. Before marrying an American, she studied at a horticultural school and supervised children’s gardens in Utrecht. Her home, her flower and food gardens reflect Liesbeth’s continuation of her Dutch agricultural legacy. There is not an iota of hesitation or embarrassment when she picks up a spade and heads to the garden.
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