Yesterday Karisse and I visited two Mexican men who farm just under eight acres west of town. They are good at what they do—so good, in fact, that they work the land in their off-hours from their day jobs and still produce enough that they give their extras to the Food Bank. When you walk up to them in the field, they wipe dirty hands on dirty jeans to shake yours—grinning and pulling up carrots, breaking off rainbow chard and kale, and filling your grocery bags with bounty. If you don’t bring a bag, they will fish one out of their old van for you. The Skagit River Valley in northwestern Washington is notorious for its rich farmland, and they give visible, tasty witness to it. They are like the earth itself—quietly wise to the ways of nature and unrepentantly, indiscriminately generous. They are earthy men.
Another farmer told me recently that in October, the schools in the area book field trips with them. Their operation is larger, but their generosity is no less. They give hay rides. They have animals for the kids to pet, and they teach kids where carrots and bacon really come from. At the end of the day each child takes home the pumpkin they want—as long as they can carry it! These are quietly wise, unrepentantly, indiscriminately generous people. They are earthy people.
May there always be a place where the skin of my feet and the good earth can meet, where I can learn the quiet wisdom of unrepentant, indiscriminate generosity.