What I Learned From the Land
Farmers and Seafarers...Calendar
Image of Essence: Bridgehampton Loam and the Atlantic
I Am A Female Biped
Ah, La Femme Sage!
Review of "Windows on Wise Women" Exhibit
Not everyone in the autumn of her 40th year chooses to drive a truck for the potato harvest. I need to connect with that thing deep inside that must be near what is natural to it. It's a magnet without time reaching for past memory. It needs the dirt and to watch pheasants run into hedgerows. It's an eidetic memory of standing on the dune between the soil and the sea. It's battling the gulls for a blue fish that has escaped from the haulseiners on the Sag Beach. It's picking potatoes from the field next door to earn the money to go to the movies in the afternoon. They once were picked by hand and dumped into half-bushel baskets twice to fill a bushel sack. You get into the dirt that way and part of you never forgets, or maybe, you are in the dirt because some ancestor wanted to be there again. My mother used to say, "there's clean dirt and there's dirty dirt."
-Mary Ellen Rooney