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An excerpt from the book I am reading “Farm City: The Education of an Urban Farmer” by Novella Carpenter.

After feeding the backyard hens and checking (again) on the baby chicks in their brooders I sat down to read the paper. After a few minutes I looked up and noticed a man entering the garden, wearing a black skullcap and a leather jacket. He wandered over to one of the beds and tugged on the green top of a carrot. An orange root appeared, streaked with dirt. The carrot I could see, was small but edible. Throwing my paper down, I rushed to the garden.


I pushed open the gate and called out a hello to the carrot picker. He waved holding the carrots in his hand. I know about the pleasure of pulling up root vegetables. They are solvable mysteries.  I once pulled up a carrot unlike any I had seen before. It was a deep purple variety called Dragon and it had wound itself around a regular orange carrot, so they looked like a gaudy strand of DNA.

Just as I was about to tell the carrot picker that he should come back to harvest the carrots when they were bigger, he said, “This place reminds me of my grandma.” His eyes filled with tears. “Everything’s so growing,” he said (23).