I was headed down Quenames Road in Chilmark, where neon pastures peak through a forest of scraggly oak and pine for a visit to Milkweed Farm, the little sandy fiefdom where Mallory Watts has recently begun to reap a yearly harvest.
The present always holds a little something of the past, but nothing stays the same.
Autumn and winter wipe away summer’s harvest as the year’s crops bear their fruit then wither. New calves are born and grown steer slaughtered.
It feels a bit wrong, in the sultry September days that have so far graced the Island, to write about the changing of the seasons.
In this time of summer hustle, as the harvest of high-season gardens abound, I find my mind often turning to the subject of manure.
On our summer-centric, tourism fueled Island, we have lost a little something of the traditional, agrarian rhythms of New England.
It is tough to imagine the mindset of the first farmers, those pioneers of biological engineering who, consciously or not, began bending wild flora and fauna to human ends.