We delight in the lovely Fall weather. On Sunday, I sat down in the midst of my work of clearing the cabbage patch, a rare enough event this past season (not that the work part has been rare but, rather, the sitting part.) I'm sure you remember the day as well as I do: bands of clouds moving north and a cool breeze stirring up the dry leaves, no more bite to the sun.

How rare it has been to sit and admire this place. A mere five acres in cultivation, and yet there are days when I find it to be a challenge just to get over to the south field to check on the progress of the peppers and tomatoes, let alone stop and really look at where I am.

It's an unlikely marriage, this place and I - against incalculable odds. It was hard to buy, and it has been hard to keep. It has been hard to build and it has been hard to maintain. But it has never been hard to love. I inhale this farm, my body is browned like its loam, I wear its soil in the cracks of my fingers, I feel its weight and pitch through the endless walking across its surface day after day after day. The land has tamed some of my ambitions, chastened me when I'm overeager, and given rise to new, more suitable aspirations. And it has begun the process of transforming me, amending my body with the work of the place. Call me a farmer, a steward, a custodian (or a fool,) they all fit.

After eight years, I'm still getting to know this farm. It has been a long and drawn out conversation that has been frequently interrupted, a bit like trying to have a deep conversation with someone while their toddler is in the room. Life has a way of imposing its own conditions, whatever one's intentions may be.

The land also imposes its own conditions on the relationship. I'm beginning to learn some patience, modesty, and hope, all good virtues to be cultivated, however rare it is to achieve them. A seed cannot be rushed to grow, a day cannot be made longer just to get more done, and a body can only do so much. On these twenty acres, there are many places best left alone. Abandon notions that require superhuman effort; they're bound to do harm to both me and the land. Work steadily, that's good enough.

Then, there's hope. Sometimes it's blind hope, which is a fool's hope, for sure, but necessary to get one muddled through when the rational mind would certainly call it quits. Informed hope that comes from experience and practice, some planning and some knowledge, keeps me where I need to be for the long haul of getting it all done and trusting in some reasonable, predictable outcomes.

Recently, it has become apparent to our customers that Fall has arrived. Our subscription boxes are heavy and there's talk of soup and stews instead of light salads with cucumbers, tomatoes and fresh basil. Along with their regrets that the farm season is coming to an end and they'll have to go back to buying their produce at the grocery store, our customers have asked if we'll do it again next year.

What else could I do? We're a restless bunch of people, and I've moved about enough for more than one life's travels. I've thought often this past season about whether farming like this is viable, physically, emotionally, and financially. Those are hard questions, and none of those three measures lend themselves to easy answers. I think it's fair to say that blind hope keeps a fair number of us farmers, me included, moving forward. It's impossible not to say that next year I'll do it a little differently and that the results will be better.

Still, the question of continuing may be less about my own ambitions and abilities than it is about other, more important issues. We need small farms all across this gorgeous country to provide locally grown food to their communities. We need places where children can pick strawberries and run down flower-lined paths. We need a place where children like Mia and Cameron can show their fathers and mothers which are the best tomatoes and peppers for this week's box, and where they can come to know a landscape that is beautiful and useful.

And then, there's Greta, worthy of special note. She's a spry, kindly eighty-one year old who for the past two months has shown up three times a week to volunteer. She cleans garlic, bags potatoes, picks tomatoes, pulls beans off the vines, and even cleans up after herself. While I rush about checking on the progress of the day, I find myself drawn back to our farmstand just for the pleasure of having a moment in her company. I think it's fair to say that Greta likes it here, too.

Jo and I have been really impressed, both last season and this, with the kindness and good humor of the people we have come to depend on as our subscribers. We load 120 boxes each week here at the farm, bringing us into contact with at least 200 people a week. Not one unkind word or impatient comment. Not one greedy person wanting to take more than their share. Not even one person habitually late, keeping us on our feet longer than a twelve-hour day can bear.

Those are rare statistics in a crowded, rushed world. We believe that people are fundamentally good, and that some places need to exist where those qualities are more readily apparent. Farms are not like other places. We need farms to care for our working landscapes and to maintain a kindly relationship to the earth and to one other. It is, after all, about hope. Hope is necessarily about the future, and we will always need some reminding that it is good to hope. If a farm can achieve that, let it be.

Alan Haight farms with his wife, Jo McProud, at Riverhill Farm near Nevada City. For more information about Riverhill Farm, go to riverhillfarm.com. For more information about Nevada County agriculture, go to localfoodcoalition.org.



Tomato basil soup

3 tbsp. butter

1 lg. carrot, peeled & grated

4 to 6 ripe tomatoes, seeded and chopped

1/2 c. slightly packed chopped fresh basil

1 lg. onion, sliced

3/4 tsp. sugar

1/8 tsp. ground white pepper

1 3/4 c. chicken broth

In a large saucepan, melt butter over medium heat.

Add onion and carrot and cook until onion is transparent, stirring frequently.

Stir in tomatoes, basil, sugar and pepper.

Heat to boiling, stirring constantly.

Reduce heat and simmer, uncovered for 20 minutes.

Cool slightly.

Pour into food processor or blender and puree until smooth.

Return to pan and stir in broth and salt (if you want a creamy version, you can substitute cream for broth here.)

Heat until steaming.

Ladle into individual bowls and float a basil leaf in each bowl.

Serve with grated parmesan cheese.