When we moved here nearly two years ago, I knew there would be some culture shock. After all, I'm New York City born and bred. Could I fit in in the most heavily agricultural county in Massachusetts? Where could I go to get pastrami on rye at midnight? Would anyone here know how to make a perfect egg cream? Would they even know that it has neither eggs nor cream in it?  But we had just returned to the states after spending seven years overseas. I had adjusted to life in a Soviet-style apartment with unreliable utilities and frequent visits from the KGB. I had adjusted to life in northern Uganda with no electricity and frequent visits from snakes. I figured I'd adjust to life in Franklin County just fine.  And hey, I already spoke the language.

But this spring has brought the biggest test of my adaptability thus far-- the real measure of my mettle as a New Englander.  For right about this time of year, all the locals squint their weather-weary brows at their "Janey-come-lately" neighbors and think, "Sure, they speak our language, but can they grow anything?"  It's good old New England planting pressure. I'd successfully managed to avoid planting pressure until now.  Last year folks nodded  approvingly when we said we couldn't plant just yet because we were having the old lead paint scraped off the house and the porch rebuilt. But we've no such excuses this year -- and the neighbors can practically smell it.

Planting pressure is so subtle and insidious that if you've lived here all your life, you may not even notice it. Oh, sure, it seem harmless enough at first. Well-meaning friends offer you clippings and friendly advice about what would grow well here or look wonderful there. Folks at church offer to share their perennials with you. My daughter comes home from a friend's house with a tray full of seedlings. The damn tree sapling they sent home from school on Earth Day! My god, a woman can only resist this kind of pressure for so long!

So this spring I gave in. "I'll plant," I thought. "How hard can it be?"  I was in the Peace Corps for goodness sake. I held a fellow volunteer's foot onto his ankle as we drove around Ecuador looking for a doctor who could sew it back on. I butchered my own guinea pigs.  (Yes, they taste just like chicken.)  I ate termites in Africa. What could be so hard about gardening?

Well, getting started for one thing. I have a half-acre of weeds bordered by poison ivy where my garden ought to be. Luckily, Milt came riding by on his very big and impressive looking tractor the other day. (Coincidence or planting pressure?  You decide.) The tractor had more bells and whistles than a marching band and Milt--with his calloused hands and work-worn overalls--looked oh-so-knowledgeable about all things farm-y.

"Milt," I said.  "I want to do something with that half-acre of weed that sits between my front porch and the road."

"What are you gonna do with it?" he asked curiously. Milt had been plowing portions of my land for 20 years and no one had ever asked him to roto-till over the septic tank before. 

"Oh, I thought I'd plant a garden," I answered.

"The whole thing?" he asked.  (I was sure this was a test)

"Yeah, the whole thing," I answered proudly, sure I had just passed the test.

"Lady, you got rocks in your head! " he said as if he already knew me. "How about I plow you up about halfway down and seven widths across. That ought to give you plenty to work with."

I'm thinking Milt is not fully getting my vision of the lovely rambling English garden I've got planned for my front yard. But I tell him to go ahead. I figure I can always start small and work my way up.

Milt and his beautiful tractor tear up about a quarter of my front yard and as I watch the destruction I begin to wonder what I had against all those nice weeds anyway. They were green and kind of pretty the way they danced in the wind. But in a few minutes it's too late for sentiment.  Milt's work is done and I'm staring at what looks like a miniature model of south Florida after hurricane Andrew.  Milt turns to leave, and in a panic I think "Oh Milt, don't leave me now!"

"So what do I do now?" I meekly ask Milt.

"Now you plant." Forget rocks in my head; Milt now thinks I'm an idiot.

"Just like that?" I ask hopefully.  "Just throw some seeds down?"

I think it finally dawns on Milt how truly clueless I am. He feels sorry for me and rains down his wisdom like candy on a cranky child.

"Well, first you're gonna wanna pick up those clumps of sod and clear out the rocks." He speaks slowly and over-enunciates, as if he's talking to a foreigner or a 4-year-old.

“I pick up the clumps and clear out the rocks. I pick up the clumps and clear out the rocks.”  I repeat these words over and over to myself  like a mantra. Armed with this knowledge, I feel strengthened and head out into my field. I am a gardening warrior. I will live in harmony with the earth. I will tend her and she will provide for me. I will be more grounded. I will finally have roots. I will maybe even get a barn coat and my wild ethnic hair will miraculously straighten or at least stay neatly clipped back. I will finally be a New Englander!

I step onto my newly plowed plot for the first time. I smell the earth. It smells good. I pick up a clump of sod. I look for a place to remove it to. I go to the shed for the wheelbarrow. I decide I will pick up all the clumps first and then clear out all the rocks. I pick up the clumps and put them in the wheelbarrow. I bend and pick up and feel one with the endless, marvelous cycle of nature. For about five minutes. And then I get very tired. I stand tall (as tall as a five foot tall woman can) and survey my plot. It is big. It is daunting. I am tired just thinking about it. I wonder how big, exactly, it is.  Surely I should know this. "I should measure it," I think. I pace it off. It is 16 paces wide by 32 paces long. I am pleased with this discovery. It is exactly twice as long as it is wide. "A perfect rectangle," I think. This bodes well for the crops, I'm sure.

Invigorated by this latest discovery of good farming fortune, I go back to my work. But picking the clods out by hand is painstakingly slow. And even though I am now an integral player in the miracle of nature, I am bored. I know: a rake. I'll use a rake to help me get the clumps and rocks. I get the rake from the shed. This turns out to be a good move. Yes, the rake makes a difference. I rake with meaning for ten minutes. I remove two wheelbarrows-full of sod clumps. I straighten up to see that I have cleared barely two square feet of my plot. I look wearily at the endless field of clumps and rocks before me. I realize that I have miles to rake before I pass out. My back is aching and I am exhausted. Not so much from the raking and clearing, I think. I'm just exhausted from carrying all those rocks in my head!

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