Garlic harvest at Annie’s Herb Farm.
An Extraordinary Season Thoughts on growing in the pandemic. Story and photos by Carmen Taylor
This spring, when the pandemic shifted my universe into the blurry parallel of a previous life, I was struck by how little the seasons cared. The natural world persisted in its slow turnover from frosty nights to thawing ground, from bare, ghosted tree limbs to succulent leaf buds. In the farming community of northern New Mexico, we had little choice but to keep pace with this turning over, even as societal life ground to a halt. My partner planted potatoes and onions like any other year and we covered future promises of a bodacious summer garden with soil in seed trays. The plants, if nothing else, assured our future, as their seed heads sprouted small, delicate greens. In my privilege to rest closer to the rhythms of early spring, it became clear that this season would be extraordinary, would change not only my personal relationships but also the relationships we have to one another as societal beings. Unlike the constant transition toward summer, however, I couldn’t tell which changes would stick. Early in the pandemic, one of my closest friends, Annie Krahl, started what she called “The Crisis Collective.” In an effort to bring farmers together and create a different way of distributing their crops, Annie organized a CSA designed to cut out middlemen. She gathered producers within thirty miles of Española to contribute a product to the weekly share that she would then deliver to Santa Fe.
I was surprised to see a cluster of farmers hanging in the shade. They had dropped off their eggs, arugula, and radishes, but lingered for conversation, one that meandered with no particular thread except, perhaps, the desire to be in proximity to one another, to take a deep sip of company after weeks of quarantine.
One afternoon, when I went to Annie’s farm to help her pack the produce bags, I was surprised to see a cluster of farmers hanging in the shade. They had dropped off their eggs, arugula, and radishes, but lingered for conversation, one that meandered with no particular thread except, perhaps, the desire to be in proximity to one another, to take a deep sip of company after weeks of quarantine. We talked about failed tomato starts, struggling relationships, ice cream cravings, the lines of cars in Sonic’s drive-thru. When Annie and I finally shooed away the last farmer, wanting to catch up alone, I was struck by the amount of time Annie volunteered in order to make the collective work. She wasn’t paying herself anything, ensuring that farmers could charge full price and the CSA bags would remain affordable for customers. I should add here that she was also pregnant, her belly threatening to grow big enough to keep her from bending over to harvest her greens. When I asked Annie, Why did you start this? she offered answers about being of service, of getting food to the people, of stepping up in hard times. I knew that her intentions were genuine, but I also couldn’t help but wonder where else her superhuman energy came from, her seemingly tireless dedication on days when I felt that I could barely keep myself together. So I also asked her, How do you think being pregnant has shaped the decisions you’re making? As she answered, it occurred to me that while I had the space to fall apart, Annie didn’t have a choice. “I want my baby to grow up in a beautiful, cooperative world,” Annie admitted, almost pleading with me to agree that this was a realistic request. Her hard work wasn’t just for the farmers, it was for the future, a visceral future for her, one she carried around as she bunched 14
