For a few days now, I and two old pals have been working at Summit Springs Farm in Maine, owned by my nephew and his wife. Picking beans, weeding parsnips, beans, and eggplant, picking tomatoes, and moving a chicken coop, afflicted with too-small tires, and filled with over 100 pounds of hen.
( There are 48 laying ladies on the farm.)
And today we finished tending the strawberry bed, yanking weeds, plucking out runners and tossing them in buckets for planting tomorrow, possibly.
After days of rain the fields are dense with moisture---the sweet dirt quickly becomes embedded in our fingers, as well as our clothes, and earthy warpaint blotches our faces.
Glorious! Between rounds, we stretch out on the grass, sucking on water bottles filled with the finest spring water, straight from the tap. We enjoy superlative meals from veggies that need never know a fridge, and eggs warm from the straw. ( Plus fried clams with fat bellies, from a local joint nearby.)
Shouldn't these young farmers turn this place into a retreat, a spa, a B&B, a farm holiday destination???