-Alisa Hixson
The email this morning read “ The Crop Mob must go on. ” Noting the weather forecast of rain and possible thunder, we set out to take part in Asheville’s first “Crop Mob.” The notion and community effort of a “Crop Mob” are not new — just the catchy moniker. For the uninitiated, a “Crop Mob” is an amorphous group of volunteers with varying skill levels who share a common goal of keeping local farms alive. They work hard, learn or share their knowledge, enjoy the community of others and have some fun.
Mobbers descend on a chosen farm and, side by side, crank out some key tasks that need doing. A meal is shared after the work has stopped and perhaps some live music. Collaboration, camaraderie, and completion of tasks that many farmers will admit they’d be unable to accomplish even over a few months time. Think barn raising fast forwarded by the internet. A continuation of a long tradition of “Do unto others….”
The first Asheville Crop Mob takes place on a Sunday at Hickory Nut Gap farms, one of the area’s most popular farms and one about which a family member wrote a book “We Plow God’s Fields,” tracing its ancestors’ social engagement as founders of the “Farmers Federation.” View the Crop Mob Portfolio
We have been told, my son and me, to bring an extra set of dry clothes and I soon understand why. The hillside we are to plant has just been cleared, is somewhat steep and very muddy. It is also raining. We wait a few minutes for other crop mobbers to arrive and, once gathered, are told that today’s work has been called off due to the weather. I joke with our team driver Jamie Ager, whose family owns the farm, that we might become an angry mob if we don’t get to crop mob. We are ready, motivated and of common mind. We press on in spite of the weather.
We cross a small stream which, at the end of the day, will serve as our makeshift sink (where later we attempt to wash off the thick clay mud that sticks to our bodies) .We march up the hill under drizzling skies and survey our project, whose location provides a misty but magnificent view across a furry, green valley.
Many hands appear and after a few minutes the work gets organized. The longest tape measure I have ever seen is used to mark a planting spot every four feet. A tiny dayglo orange flag then marks each hole to be dug. We dig a hole about 8 inches deep at each spot and begin planting blueberry bushes. Several varieties.
The fruit is native to North America and North Carolina is one of the largest producers of highbush blueberries. Seven Year Blueberry Cobbler Recipe.
Charles, the master planner (a local U-pick Blueberry farm owner) is at hand and he begins calling out the order in which we must plant. The bushes have each been labeled with a brightly colored tape, a presumably idiot proof system that helps assure we keep things in the proper order, as they require cross pollination, we are told, and the orderly planting keeps like-ripening fruit clustered in the same vicinity. The wisdom of this ripening strategy strikes me immediately. I pause and reflect on the hefty body of practical knowledge owned by and guiding people who live closest to the earth.
The soil is heavy. Being unprepared for rain this morning, ( read novice crop mobber) I borrow boots a few sizes too big and with mud clumping underfoot feel less than agile. Unaccustomed to digging, I feel the need to jump on the shovel each time to assure penetration into the thick, root full dirt. Sweat is soon dripping from my face, enough so one of the other mobbers asks me if it is sweat or rain. He seems to be doing this almost effortlessly. I later learn he works there.
I toil alongside many different people over the next 3 hours. Our works begins silently but by the end of the afternoon there are many exchanges. Though today’s work was completed in one afternoon, the benefits of today’s labor will take a few more years before the resulting berries can be popped into a ready mouth. Blueberry bushes need to mature before harvesting the first crop. A few years worth and apparently can take up to six years before they reach full productivity. So this seemingly straightforward job today is just one piece of a several year project. This realization will help soften the sticker shock I may feel when my son is clamoring for those out of season organic blueberries.
The blank soil canvas we worked today first had to be cleared from its inhospitable, bramble thick and stump-laden state. The highly acidic nature of the soil at first challenged the Agers as they pondered what to plant. Primarily a purveyor of meats, Hickory Nut Gap farm does not grow a lot of fruits and vegetables, but mostly apples. Then it came to them. Blueberries thrive in this kind of soil.
An impish red haired three year old arrives near me just when I am ready for a break. I see that that rain has stopped and can feel the sun behind the clouds. I kneel down and tell him I am hoping for a rainbow. He says “A rainbow comes when rain and sun are smashed together.” I am impressed and tell him that his phrase is poetry, he then asks me what poetry is. I regret not being able to answer his question with equal simplicity and beauty. Leave it to a child to make you think deeply.
The crowd assembled is a mix: farm owners, other farm professionals, one meteorologist, a chef, a carpenter, a small business owner, a student or two. A fair number are new to Asheville. In addition to the Blueberry farmer directing our planting, two other local farm owners are present helping out –Immaldris Farms and Green Hill Urban. Their skill and direction are very beneficial throughout the day. I meet several people who speak other languages and even carry on a conversation in French for some time. This is no motley crew. There is a near equal balance of men and women and folks of ages between 3 and 63.
We seem to work well together. Moments of singular effort punctuated with shared experience. At midpoint, energy seems to lag and I wonder if we will finish this today. We press on, digging holes for and eventually planting more than 500 blueberry bushes. We finish “ahead of time” and collectively survey our joint accomplishment. It feels good. My 10 year old son is literally covered with mud from cap to boots. I am not far behind. I notice that the farm “professionals” don’t seem to be nearly as muddy as we are. They must know things we don’t. But we are learning.
We change clothes in our car and head to the historic Ager farm house, a former inn and stopping point on the Drover’s Trail, where we are invited to savor a supper together. We find Jamie’s angelic looking wife Amy busy firing up steaks for the mob. She had been out on the hill too, with her infant son slung across her back, but returned to prep the mob meal. Jamie leads us on a tour of the historic property, but soon we are feasting in the dining room that feels like a page out of a history book. We toast our hosts and break bread (cornbread, of course a North Carolina fixture).
For the first time in the day, we take turns introducing ourselves. Some take a moment to explain why they have come and just how they got there. Different paths to a shared destination. We talk a bit about which farm will harness the next Crop Mob’s people power next month. Though it might be tempting to sum things up saying the farm has been the primary beneficiary of our presence, I know our day here was mutually symbiotic. I can hear it, during dinner, around the table. This is a full-bellied, happy mob. I feel confident that today’s eager hands will reappear at future crop mobs. Mine too, count me in.
-Alisa Hixson
