RD March Letters 2021
/Honest Maritime pride
RD: I always enjoy Rural Delivery for the innovative ways in which people express themselves through what they do. There is honest pride, which shows in the pictures of the people and their product or means of production. So for me, the magazine glows with a kind of Maritime sense of victory, with land that is not always kind to farms and to farming. The article in the January-February issue which sent chills down my spine was on page 6: “Should the one-percenters control agriculture?” Looking back over 92 years, I am aware of the slow disappearance of people from the small towns and the land, to an urbanization which leaves mega-agriculture producing the food we eat, and tilling the land we have left to corporations willing to use hired hands to do the work involved. The control of seed through genetic engineering and the sale of this sterile one-crop seed around the world creates a dependency that destroys innovation and makes small farmers dependent on sources that look not to product, but to profit. It is like a huge Monopoly game where all the land is finally owned by people and companies from away, and pride in accomplishment disappears under the weight of having to survive as the vassal of a faceless, impersonal, dictatorial owner. I can offer no solution, but it seems that technology of diversion has seduced two generations away from living their lives, and given them the dubious pleasure of watching their lives happen on a screen. It is heartbreaking. And that is why I enjoy Rural Delivery. It shows me people who live their lives through work, and their pleasure shows on their faces.
John Morgan, MA MD.
Halifax, N.S.
Propagating cabbage and young gardeners
RD: FYI, the December RD story about propagating Tancook Island cabbage (“Propagating cabbage, preserving heritage,” page 20) reminded me of how a chunk of cabbage root I chucked outdoors last fall soon sprouted. I brought it inside, potted it, and by December it thanked me with fresh greens for more than one toasted cheese sandwich since – and keeps growing! What a neat way to introduce kids to gardening. Keep up the good work!
Gary Saunders
Clifton, N.S.
A green(house) thumbs up
RD: We just received and read the January-February issue of Rural Delivery. What a good issue! Interesting ideas and inspiring for the would-be greenhouse person. We’ve had a greenhouse for years (two, really) but we have never used them to the max, and we could certainly do better, and this issue is full of ideas. Also, I was impressed by your introductory editorial on the importance of citizen agriculture. For some reason we had let our subscription lapse for a couple of years, but I’m really glad we renewed.
Tony Phillips
Debert, N.S.
The Maples
by Dorothy Diamond
The wind has lost its freezing touch
Though still it races through the field.
The sun begins a higher climb
To draw the sap the maples yield.
Snowshoes I wear to venture forth,
And pack, with auger, spile, and can.
To test the first of spring’s return
To maple woods on my own land.
But this my solitary chore
Becomes a sweet communion rite.
The maples sway their ancient arms
As turning auger makes its bite.
Soft damp pulp spills on the snow
As moisture fills the woody lip.
My face upturned to catch a drop,
A tree’s life-blood I sip.
While spiles are sunk and buckets hung,
A Downy woodpecker tries his drum,
In unison with many drips
The rhythm beats a steady hum.
A tiny flame I feed and shelter
Until a roaring blaze leaps up.
A huge black cauldron charred as coal:
The witches’ pot, where witches sup.
Later in the evening shadows
Forty buckets, filled brim-to,
Face half burned and hands half blackened,
I stir the roiling foaming brew.
With streaming eyes, I taste the potion,
Eager, lest the magic pass
Beyond the point of sweet perfection,
To be transformed to hardened glass.
Hovering ’round the glowing embers
I’ve distilled the thickening sap.
Half a bucket is my treasure
Carefully carried homeward back.
Dark in the woods the trees must wonder
At my assault, and tiresome work.
What foolish human figure craving
Nothing less than what they make.