The sun warms my back as I lean over the fresh tilled earth. It’s 9 a.m. on this spring day, and already the heat of the sun is as distinct on my skin as a handprint.
I am transplanting today, moving try after tray of baby vegetable and flower plants out of the greenhouse and into the field. I pull a young plant out of its growing cell, its mass of roots holding the square block of potting mix together. Each is as soft and vulnerable as any newborn, just a hint at the adult they will become.
I start into a flat of lettuces. There will be four varieties of lettuce in this 400-square foot bed — red and green leaf lettuce, butterhead and oakleaf. The plugs slip easily out of the trays and in a single motion with my right hand I press them gently but firmly into the loose, expectant earth.
On larger farms, tractors and implements and teams of laborers do this work. But I farm a 3-acre plot, and I do all my planting by hand. Some days I have a crew to help, but this morning, it’s just me. Across the field I see multiple beds of soft dark soil — empty uniform rectangles, soon to be filled with hundreds of tender bright green starts.
