16. SAM
CHAPTER 16
SAM
After a two-day CCE sustainability mini-conference in Ithaca, I return to Fork Lick just in time for a Bedd Fellows Farm meeting. We’ve never had one before, as far as I know. I have no idea what things were like when my parents were alive, but ever since I can remember, Eugene Bedd made all the decisions and Ethan did what our grandfather told him to.
But tonight, Ethan has invited all the stakeholders—Gran and each of us siblings, including Jackson, who will be joining virtually—as well as Lia, who is still serving as our liaison with the lienholder. Diane is hanging out with Molly over at Alex’s place for the evening, which makes me a little grumpy because I already missed two nights with her this week and I’m moving out Sunday. Still, I am bursting with ideas from the conference, so the minute Jackson logs on and Ethan calls the meeting to order, I’m literally bouncing in my seat.
Lia presents the financials from the past two months of berry picking. Since much of the outlay for the new crops was covered by grants, the net income continues to cover our mo nthly payments. But we still need to find ways to pay back some of the principal. When Ethan starts talking about his plans after this year’s soybean harvest, I can’t keep my mouth shut any longer.
“I know Grandad hated the idea of a whole other round of planting, but the cycles of rain and drought we’ve had over the past decade, in addition to higher fuel, fertilizer and labor costs, mean that planting a legume cover crop is a no-brainer. Studies are showing that it not only infuses the soil with nitrogen but if you combine that with reduced tillage, you save on energy costs and improve the soil’s water-stable aggregates.”
Alex places a hand on my arm, and it’s only then that I notice Ethan’s face turning purple. Even though I haven’t even gotten into new ideas from the sustainability conference, I stop talking.
Ethan clears his throat, but instead of just returning to the prepared speech he’d been reading, he says, “It’s hard for me to concentrate when you interrupt me, Samuel.”
Carlos’ voice echoes in my head. As an outsider, you can never know all the variables. Even on your own family farm, if you’re not there on a day-to-day basis.
Right. I’m an outsider, and I always have been. But instead of that making me mad, I try to accept it as a simple reality. Even though I’ve been sleeping on the farm for the past two weeks, I’m not the one walking the fields, planting the crops, or putting food on the table.
“I’m sorry, Ethan.”
Alex points at a piece of paper sitting on the table. “There’s actually a line item on the agenda for new proposals. So maybe hold your horses until then?”
It’s not easy, but I do it, clamping my jaw shut, breath ing through my nose and listening. I tamp down the frustrations that my brothers have obviously welcomed ideas from their girlfriends and do my best to stay open to the details of the outcomes to date. When Colleen shares what she learned from her conversation with FarmNet, I don’t jump up and claim the idea as my own. When Ethan opens the floor for questions, I find that most of mine have been answered. Collectively, he and my sister and Lia and Gran are doing a damn good job of salvaging the farm.
Just when that they-don’t-need-me, outsider feeling raises its ugly head again, Gran turns to me. “I have something I’d like your input on, Samuel.”
She describes her planned kitchen garden expansion for the following spring and the issues with growing food near the soybean fields, where Ethan needs to spray pesticides to protect the crop. “I’m not going to even try to get organic certification, that’s too expensive, but I do want the food I grow to be safe and healthy. I’d appreciate any ideas you have for alternatives.”
Instead of mouthing off about the pesticides or jumping in with half-thought-through ideas for alternative uses of the land near the new garden, I nod slowly. “Let me think on it, and if it’s okay, I’ll come back to the next meeting with some proposals.” I look up at Ethan. “If there is a next meeting, that is.”
“This has been very helpful for me, and I hope it has been for all of you, so yes. I think we’ll make this a monthly occurrence, if that’s okay with you all,” Ethan says. When he gets a resounding round of “Ayes,” he brings the meeting to a close.
“You get a massage or something? Take up meditation?” Carlos asks the next morning on the way to our second appointment of the day. “You seem more relaxed than usual.”
“What? No. Do you get massages and meditate?” I shoot back, not sure if he’s making fun of me.
“On occasion. Have to find healthy ways to de-stress in this crazy world.”
Carlos is the least-stressed person I’ve ever met, so maybe he’s got a point. But I have a feeling that having had athletic, adventurous and probably addictive sex for the past week has something to do with my positive frame of mind. Even though I know this thing with Diane has an expiration date—or maybe because I know that—I’m savoring every sip of her.
Gomer nudges my shoulder, reminding me to focus on what my boss is saying. It doesn’t take long to realize that he’s talking about the farm we’re heading to. He tends to think out loud, and for the first time since we’ve been working together, it dawns on me that while I may know a heck of a lot about soil science, Carlos knows people.
Also for the first time, I don’t say a damn word as we walk the fields with farmer Don Reynolds. Every time my mental chatter starts up– they’ll never listen to me, their ideas are old school, they’re too stubborn to change– I remind myself that even if I’m right about the science, I might not be right about the situation.
When the inner monologue gives up and drops away, I notice a few things. Like I’m wearing comfortable work boots instead of dress shoes that pinch. I’m working under blue skies instead of fluorescent lights that flicker annoyingly. When I take a deep breath, I take in the scents of loam, autumn leaves, and drying hay, instead of burnt coffee and whatever’s rotting in the breakroom fridge.
Best of all, nobody’s breathing down my neck expecting me to help sell more products like I’m more of a drug dealer than a scientist.
By the time we get back to the truck, I’m not only smiling, I’ve had an epiphany. As I clip Gomer in, I ask my boss, “Why didn’t you tell me you have a formula?”
He grunts as he settles into the passenger seat. “Formula? For what?”
“For working with clients. I just realized it. You do the same damn thing every time.”
After I fasten my seat belt, I look up, but he’s just staring at me, shaking his head. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
“You have a formula. I can’t believe I haven’t noticed it before.” I punch in the address for our next stop, eager to get to the next operation so I can try it out myself. Putting the truck in gear, I pull out onto the road. “First, you listen. Next, you answer all of the client’s questions. Next, you point out two things they’re doing that are working—always two—and your voice has this distinct tone of admiration. Then, you show them the results of the tests we’ve run, and you give them three recommendations. No more, no less.”
I glance over at him at a stop sign, but he’s just looking straight ahead, brows furrowed, stroking his beard, so I add, “The thing that I’m curious about? You put the one they r eally need to act on third on the list. Not first. And you don’t tell them there’s a hierarchy. Why is that?”
Carlos continues to stare out the window, his weathered skin creased in thought. Finally, he barks out a laugh. “You know, you’re right. I had no idea I do that.”
“Could’ve saved us a couple weeks of riding around like this,” I can’t help but grumble as I pull through the intersection.
“Yeah, but then I would’ve missed out on really getting to know you.” I can’t quite tell if he’s joking, so I glance over, only to find him staring out the window again. “You know, being neurodivergent can be tricky, but I personally think the strengths outweigh the challenges.”
Not quite following the non sequitur, I ask, “Are you neurodivergent?” Feeling his gaze on me, I glance over again.
“I’m not, but my nephew is. He’s just a few years younger than you and wasn’t diagnosed until a couple of years ago. When I was coming up, there was a lot of stigma around anything that was different, so being labeled with a developmental disorder could be really damaging.”
The sudden roar in my ears makes it difficult to concentrate. Still, I need to hear his words like I need to take my next breath.
“From what I see in my nephew,” Carlos is saying, “understanding more about how his brain works has been freeing for him. Empowering even.”
A car honks behind me, and I realize that I’ve been sitting at another intersection, my hands gripping the steering wheel like it’s a horse that’s going to run away with m e. Gomer’s muzzle lands on my shoulder, and I take a deep breath.
My heart still hammering behind my sternum, I look both ways before pressing on the accelerator. And then I make myself ask, “Are you talking about me?”
“Might be something to research,” Carlos says like it’s no big deal.
Like he hasn’t just given the kids who called me a freak, the women who broke up with me because I was difficult, and the grandfather who rejected me justification for their actions. It’s not just that I don’t fit in here in Fork Lick or with my family.
I don’t fit in anywhere.