November 21: Excerpt from Corn Tastes Better on the Honor System
By Robin Wall Kimmerer
I live in the lush green farm country of upstate New York, in a town that likely has more cows than people. Most everyone I know grows something: apples, hops, grapes, potatoes, berries, and lots of corn.
As I carry my seeds to the garden, I can hear the growl of my neighbor’s tractor and catch a whiff of the ammonia fertilizer that he is spraying on the fields. I saw his tractor headlights going back and forth late last night, getting ready. It’s an intense time of year, so much rests on preparation and timing. He’s oiled every gear and loaded the seed. We both know the rain is coming; it’s planting time. I’m getting ready too, preparing the ground with a whiff of a smudge, asking permission of Mother Earth to receive these seeds, and celebrating the life inside each kernel with a song.
My handful of Red Lake flint corn seeds were a gift from heritage seed savers, my friends at the Onondaga Nation farm, a few hills away. This variety is so old that it accompanied our Potawatomi people on the great migration from the East Coast to the Great Lakes. If you could carry only a single pouch of seeds, this would be the one to choose, with nutrition for physical health and teachings for spiritual health. Holding the seeds in the palm of my hand, I feel the memory of trust in the seed to care for the people, if we care for the seed. These kernels are a tangible link to history and identity and cultural continuity in the face of all the forces that sought to erase them. I sing to them before putting them into the soil and offer a prayer. The women who gave me these seeds make it a practice that every single seed in their care is touched by human hands. In harvesting, shelling, sorting, each one feels the tender regard of its partner, the human.
My neighbor bought his seeds from the distributor. They are a new GMO variety that he can’t save and replant but must buy every year. Unlike my seeds of many colors, his are uniform gold. They will be sown with the scent of diesel and the song of grinding gears. I suspect that those seeds have never been touched by a human, but only handled by machines. Nonetheless, when the seeds are in the ground and the gentle spring rain starts to fall, I suspect he looks up at the sky and prays. We both stand back and watch the miracle unfold.