Dressed in tights, tutus and wind-pants, my friends and I carpooled home after dance lessons. Even as children, we talked about farming and food.
While LJ’s mom piloted us home, LJ and I would discuss the merits of different commercial milk companies in Maine, their ad campaigns, and elaborate on the best breeds of cows and our favorite types of cheese. When we weren’t sure about commercial milk pricing, or the gamut of economics, LJ’s mom would weigh in with a balance of depth, breadth and simplicity that 5-year-olds could comprehend.
In passing decades, many teachable moments, stored as everyday memories, eventually revealed their invaluable life lessons. As it did back then, and does now, the lessons are often rooted in my connection to farming and food.
One teachable moment connected to food and farming occurred at the start of fifth grade when it turned out the new girl in my class was on my bus route home. I knew New Girl wasn’t in an envious place, moving to a town where many of the teachers had taught parents and siblings of pupils and even grew up in the community. I felt compassion.
Plus, New Girl had crunchy carrot sticks — a wise snack choice by my standards — and an open seat next to her. I asked if the seat was taken. She offered me a carrot stick. I listened to her talk about her family. She listened to me talk about food and farming. A lifelong friendship began.
Another recollection stems from adolescence when my friends spent time on our farm — in our fields and our kitchen. We ran along cow paths as part of early spring training; some friends helped throw hay; and once — while preparing for prom pictures — we coaxed a group of curious heifers back onto the correct side of the fence.
Frequently we concocted recipes and “catered” our slumber parties, featuring our own homemade food, sharing delicious meals before the invention of Instagram.
One summer night we attempted to slumber in tents next to the pasture, while the cows took advantage of their own feast of grass. Their sighs and snorts conjured images of the bogeyman and the gargoyles our friends swore came to life in the towns just west of ours.
It was months before the suspicion subsided. I attempted to allay friends’ fears, joking that that the snorts of contented cows sounded nothing like gargoyles.
I added that contented cows can’t be tipped. In fact, they are more apt to be startled by a group of pre-teen girls: “Look at the cows eyes. They’re on the sides of their head. They aren’t predators like the coyote [with its eyes looking straight forward] I chased in the pasture last summer…”
Years after moments of sharing food and farm facts and life with friends, I found myself using these topics to introduce myself to strangers when I was far away from home: “I’m from Maine. I grew up on a farm. I like cooking.” I’m still grateful there were folks who were at least curious about one of the topics, if not all three, to begin a friendship.
Today, the lesson appears daily in the open ears and gratitude of lifelong friends, new friends and more: The people who honk while driving past our farm as we complete spring fencing, so our Angus and Guernseys have pasture to graze; the customers who bring their friends to our farmstand and farmers’ markets, beaming while they share how they include our cheese, yogurt or meat as part of their family meal; and the fellow farmers and Mainers who support us with encouragement, necessary resources and a belief in the value of keeping all Maine farms working farms.
As the lesson reappears, the connections continue — rooted in farming and food — and yield reciprocity and relationships.
Like many life lessons, the point — the answer — simply appeared after years of teachable moments in life. I came upon the answer when, prior to my last semester in college I was asked, “So, Anne, what have you learned [to most help you in life]?”
“I guess,” I paused, a mix of gratitude and embarrassment by my awareness that I’d received the bulk of instructions long before college, “All you need to know in life is how to make friends and count. If you can’t count, make sure you have a friend who can, and always make sure you have friends you can count on.”
Anne Trenholm operates Wholesome Holmstead Farm with her family in Winthrop.
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