Free The Wisdom of the Radish by Lynda Browning Page A

long-term wish list: a pickup truck.)
    Back at the farm, we threaded a length of PVC pipe through the cardboard center. We jammed one end into the ground; Emmett held the other end while I ran the length of the field. The lightweight white row cover unspooled behind me like a giant roll of toilet paper, rising and falling in the breeze. When I reached the end, Emmett cut the row cover; we sidestepped over the brassica row and laid the white cloth down. I jogged back to Emmett, grabbed a handful of hooked j-stakes. Walking on either side of the row cover, we pierced the fabric and pressed the metal stakes into the ground, sealing the plants within—and, we hoped, the pests without.
    Through retreat, we won. And confirmation of our victory came not from thousands of little beetles waving tiny white flags—although that would have been deeply, deeply
satisfying—but from piles of whole, hole-free greens. Approximately one month after our first day hawking holey greens behind a tiny card table, we pulled into our market parking space with heads held high.
    First things first: we murmured thanks to the goddess of knots and ropes, which had once again miraculously kept our makeshift table safely affixed to the roof of the station wagon through the curvy, pothole-pocked country roads. Then we pulled the combination of daisy chain knots (Emmett) and bowlines (me) free, set up our little stand, and made ready to present our produce.
    Out of the harvest bins and onto the table came big, radiant bunches of Bright Lights Swiss chard; deep green stacks of Lacinato kale; bags full of crisp, clean bok choy and tender young arugula. All clean, hole-free, shining examples of local sustainable agriculture. In the final few minutes before market time, we ran down a mental checklist: labels out, starting cash accounted for, misting bottle handy. We were ready to sell.
    As the morning wore on, we were heaped with praise for our young, tender chard—even Grumpy Man tried some, totally raw—but the crowning compliment of the day came from a customer about four feet tall, still in the Velcro shoe stage of life.
    The kid was tugging on his dad’s leg and ogling our basket of pristine baby bok choy. “Can we get some bok choy?” he asked.
    â€œWe can get big bok choy at the supermarket,” the dad replied, eying the six dollars per pound price tag and trying to move his son onward.
    But the boy would not be moved. “Pleeease,” he begged, yanking harder. “I love bok choy!”

    The dad looked half-embarrassed, half-proud as he retrieved his wallet. Emmett and I looked at each other without even a hint of embarrassment. The little bulbs of bok choy palely glistened. The Lacinato kale gleamed a deep shade of blue-green, unblemished and primordial.
    Our greens were growing up, and somehow our shortlived farm had already gained a sense of history, or what history should be—one generation learning from the previous generation’s mistakes.

Chapter 3:
    DARLING DODOS
    Pre-Eggs
    Â 
    Â 
    Â 
    Â 
    Â 
    At 7:35 a.m. on our one-day “weekend”—a shovel-free Thursday that I’d demanded from Emmett after several weeks of nonstop work—I rolled out of bed and snapped open my cell phone mid-ring. Restricted number.
    â€œHello.”
    â€œLynda?” a woman’s voice inquired.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œYour birds are here. You can come around back.”
    â€œGreat! Thanks so much!”
    I was so excited that not only did my words come out as a rather embarrassing girlish squeak, but I also hung up the phone right then and there without entirely intending to. Damn—restricted number; couldn’t call back.
    â€œThey’re here,” I informed Emmett. “Let’s go.”
    â€œHere where?” he asked. “Which post office?”
    â€œThere’s more than one?” He nodded. “Crap.”
    That appropriate four-letter word was, perhaps,