Sweatergirl and the Field of Dreams

Out here in Michigan, New Jersey gets a bad rap as being a string of strip malls separated by subdivisions and landfills. But there are definitely farms in NJ, fewer and fewer each year. My Grandpa lived on one of them, what some would call a "hobby" farm, but it sure looked like a lot of work and a lot of time to take care of those few acres.

Every Sunday, my dad would drive us three kids over to Grandpa's house. Grandpa raised strawberries, concord grapes, sweet corn, cabbage, lettuce, carrots, rhubarb, kohlrabi, peas, green beans, tomatoes, peppers, and just about anything else that he could. He raised them from seeds planted in peat pots that covered nearly every inch in his living room. Summer Sundays, we kids would mind the farm stand from the front porch swing, or help Dad barbecue zsiros keny�r (more on this page), pick vegetables, or just entertain ourselves. I know I spent hours surrounded by the sugary humidity of the sheltering corn field, exploring the woods and stream on rope swings and fallen-log bridges, and squashing potato beetles at a penny a piece.

Today, as I tromped through the umpteenth potato field taking measurements for work, I dared to take off my shoes to feel the hot loamy sand. I missed my Grandpa, I missed the farm, and I missed my childhood as I was instantly transported back in time. It may be true that you can't go home again, but sometimes. if you close your eyes, you can come real close...