Monday, March 13, 2017
Seeds bind us to place: panel at the 2017 Appalachian Studies Conference audio file
Click this link to listen to/download an audio file of the 1.5 hour panel discussion about seed libraries. Speakers include Dave Walker, Cody Miller, William Ritter, and me, Karen Lemke.
Sunday, March 5, 2017
Seed Swap
I and a group of grad students from Appalachian State's Appalachian Studies program as well as the Sustainable Development program attended the High Country Seed Swap on Saturday March 4th, 2017 to collect stories of attendees.
At the beginning of the event, we were figuring out how to best approach participants to ask them for their stories. This wasn't a university sponsored research project--we had no IRB approval--but I wanted to represent, describe and interpret my 'subjects' narratives as best I could, practicing my qualitative research skills in preparation for writing my dissertation. I noticed folks were walking right past the sign-in desk, where the ag extension officer had placed clipboards and pens intending to catch names as data he could present to his supervisors to substantiate the impact of community events/outreach. I offered to be the welcome wagon, smiling and calling out good morning to seed swappers, directing them to sign in and asking if they'd be willing to share any stories they had about seed saving with me and my colleagues. Some started pulling out seed packets right away, happy to be able to tell their seeds' stories. Others were in a hurry to attend one of the workshops on gardening and grafting but looked like they may stop back later when there wasn't such a crowd.
I collected stories about pink and yellow stripy tomatoes from an 81-year-old woman who struggled to tell me more about them saying "I can't speak the way I want to anymore." Another told me about pie pumpkin seeds she brought and kindly didn't roll her eyes at me when I asked what she cooked with the pumpkins. I heard stories of grandparents who were sharecroppers, of how these very varieties helped their ancestors survive the Civil War. Did you know that grits and hominy came into being because the Union soldiers commandeered all the food and people were forced to mill next season's seed corn into grits? Combined with reconstituted dried corn (hominy) their ancestors survived 2 1/2 years on these rations. That variety of corn was called, gruesomely, Bloody Butcher, for its red color I assume, and I found some of it in small packets nearby. Other survival foods included caffeine-y chicory root in place of coffee, a plant which likes salty soil so can be found along our modern roadways with the residue from ice abatement salting--just keep your eyes open for the blue flowers.
I heard stories of love and devotion, of making medicinal tinctures from plants who can feel the energy of their gardener, of a couple who dug up their 800 dahlias EVERY YEAR to store indoors before replanting again in the spring. Older folks told stories of collecting herbs in the woods with their elders who are long gone but felt present again in these stories their kin were eager to share.
I explained a few times the difference between a seed library and a seed bank, why librarians don't worry as much about temperature control and germination efficiency when they're just hoping to get a few more patrons to keep locally suited varieties in the soil and in the bellies of community members. Building resiliency in our food system and connections among us, growing food builds the kind of world I want for the future.
My mom's cousin was his cousin, so we're probably related
Western North Carolina is perhaps the most genetically diverse plant region in North America. Because the ice age didn't completely freeze this part of the world, we have some really old adaptations in these plants and lots and lots of different versions. So while I was surrounded by so much genetic diversity in the plants, I also was struck by the consanguinity of the participants: many in the room had family histories in this particular region for many generations, and some swappers were in fact related to each other.
I developed my own seed fever near the end of the event, realizing that all this earthy sexyspring pleasure might be available to me too. I'm not just a data collector. I recognize I have some baggage, egoic attachments, about being childless and being good at gardening, as if silent voices ask with incredulity: really? You couldn't even get pregnant and you expect to raise a tomato plant? Nevertheless, I persisted, and in frenzied optimistic moments like this seed swap I throw this nonsense aside and gather seeds to plant as if they were gifts to others: indigo flowers for my artist friend so she might make natural dyes, Rose of Sharon in honor of my mother Sherrie, Black-eyed Susan in honor of my other mother--heck all the flowers for all the moms and non-moms. I left with a collection of flowers, ornamental climbing okra which makes loofah sponges, pink-tip beans and medicinal plants, which I hope will survive my neglect. And even the survivors, ("we happy few" they may recite), they shall have the genes to survive neglect; perhaps they will figure out how to water and weed themselves.
I collected stories about pink and yellow stripy tomatoes from an 81-year-old woman who struggled to tell me more about them saying "I can't speak the way I want to anymore." Another told me about pie pumpkin seeds she brought and kindly didn't roll her eyes at me when I asked what she cooked with the pumpkins. I heard stories of grandparents who were sharecroppers, of how these very varieties helped their ancestors survive the Civil War. Did you know that grits and hominy came into being because the Union soldiers commandeered all the food and people were forced to mill next season's seed corn into grits? Combined with reconstituted dried corn (hominy) their ancestors survived 2 1/2 years on these rations. That variety of corn was called, gruesomely, Bloody Butcher, for its red color I assume, and I found some of it in small packets nearby. Other survival foods included caffeine-y chicory root in place of coffee, a plant which likes salty soil so can be found along our modern roadways with the residue from ice abatement salting--just keep your eyes open for the blue flowers.
I heard stories of love and devotion, of making medicinal tinctures from plants who can feel the energy of their gardener, of a couple who dug up their 800 dahlias EVERY YEAR to store indoors before replanting again in the spring. Older folks told stories of collecting herbs in the woods with their elders who are long gone but felt present again in these stories their kin were eager to share.
I explained a few times the difference between a seed library and a seed bank, why librarians don't worry as much about temperature control and germination efficiency when they're just hoping to get a few more patrons to keep locally suited varieties in the soil and in the bellies of community members. Building resiliency in our food system and connections among us, growing food builds the kind of world I want for the future.
My mom's cousin was his cousin, so we're probably related
Western North Carolina is perhaps the most genetically diverse plant region in North America. Because the ice age didn't completely freeze this part of the world, we have some really old adaptations in these plants and lots and lots of different versions. So while I was surrounded by so much genetic diversity in the plants, I also was struck by the consanguinity of the participants: many in the room had family histories in this particular region for many generations, and some swappers were in fact related to each other.
I developed my own seed fever near the end of the event, realizing that all this earthy sexyspring pleasure might be available to me too. I'm not just a data collector. I recognize I have some baggage, egoic attachments, about being childless and being good at gardening, as if silent voices ask with incredulity: really? You couldn't even get pregnant and you expect to raise a tomato plant? Nevertheless, I persisted, and in frenzied optimistic moments like this seed swap I throw this nonsense aside and gather seeds to plant as if they were gifts to others: indigo flowers for my artist friend so she might make natural dyes, Rose of Sharon in honor of my mother Sherrie, Black-eyed Susan in honor of my other mother--heck all the flowers for all the moms and non-moms. I left with a collection of flowers, ornamental climbing okra which makes loofah sponges, pink-tip beans and medicinal plants, which I hope will survive my neglect. And even the survivors, ("we happy few" they may recite), they shall have the genes to survive neglect; perhaps they will figure out how to water and weed themselves.
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