Control Freaks
Who decided that the length of winter would be determined by an obnoxious little rodent that digs holes in my hay fields and pisses off the farmer next door who makes the hay with his big equipment? I realized years ago that if I left the groundhogs’ warrens intact my neighbor would not set his cutting blades so low that they scalped the field—their way of doing things no matter how many times I asked for a four-inch stubble. After all, they knew better. Never did I realize that my prognosticators could become my ally when it came to wanting control.
The groundhog has taken on multibillion-dollar satellite systems orbiting the planet shooting back data to multibillion-dollar data centers which attempt to predict our weather. Compared to the weather industry, Phil’s paltry earnings only return millions for his hometown of Punxsutawney where the annual pilgrimage on February 2 entices people from around the world to banquets, festivals, tours, and parades--all so Phil can stay in charge of spring’s arrival.
Why does this stubby control freak continue his charade when we all know that the planet is warming at an alarming rate due to our dependency on petroleum? Maybe because we all realize we have absolutely no control over these things on a grand scale and it’s easier to lay blame on a secret society’s pet than ourselves for the wild fluctuations in our climate. It’s kind of hard to talk about record heat and drought right now when we’re in the grips of snow storms with a polar vortex chaser.
With the ongoing sub-freezing daily temperatures and the cancellation of markets two weeks in a row (maybe three), my rifle is locked and loaded and ready for that furry f***er to poke his little brown face out of a hole in the field, although at this point, I would just like strangle him with my bare hands. Certainly, that act of aggression would mean spring magically jumps back earlier by six weeks. Shouldn’t it?
I’ve already gone full Samuel L. Jackson with people texting/emailing/phoning to ask if I am staying warm while they’re sequestered in a house with the thermostat cranked to a temperature more befitting a tropical island while ordering DoorDash. Thanks to the tenacity and talent of my fellow farmers, I still have plenty of fresh fruits and vegetables to carry me through until I can next see them at market.
Am I cold? Absolutely! But like the groundhog, I too am a control freak with my inherent need to ensure the livestock have plenty of food and fresh water as well as serving customers. No AI or automation for me either when it comes to keeping customers informed of market status when there’s impending inclement weather on the horizon. Unlike Phil, I can’t predict the future—be it the weather or decision of the Montgomery County School District.
As I write this, the market is open, although with abbreviated hours 10 AM to 1 PM. This is a fair warning for you, dear customers, to let go of your own control issues, especially that of produce perfection. If farmers have to bring their fresh produce out in sub-zero temperatures, you better believe it’s going to get nipped even if you arrive with an insulated bag. Apples and cucumbers won’t stay crisp, greens will wilt, onions will turn glassine, mushrooms will get mushy, and none of us have any control over any of this.