Stray Kernels

Merriam-Webster.com describes hope as a verb: “to cherish a desire with anticipation; to want something to happen or be true,” and as a noun: “desire accompanied by expectation of or belief in fulfillment.” Hope can be something you do—“I hope we have a better growing season in 2020,” or something you have—“The successful surgery gives me hope.” As a verb,

“Empathy is getting down on your knees and looking someone else in the eye, and realizing that you could be them, and that all that separates you is luck.” ~Dennis Lehane, American writer It’s a judgy world out there. I’m constantly aware of the discourse around food and farming. The divide between farmers and non-farmers is vast. I see and

I once stood on the shore of a Philippine island and gaped with dismay at hundreds of plastic bags washed ashore and bobbing gently in the waves. I remember that as I ponder the movement to ban single-use plastics. Grocery bags. Water bottles. Straws. If you pay attention for even a day, you’d be shocked at the number of items

The graduate course syllabus for the Summer Ag Institute includes the following phrases within its Student Learning Objectives: “Recognize the importance of agriculture in our society…” “Collect relevant materials…” “Develop lesson opportunities…” “…integrate agriscience into existing curriculum.” The full objectives are comprised of many more words (86, to be exact), written in what I think of as “syllabus-speak.” It’s all

When you receive a greeting card or note from a friend or relative, what do you do with it? Are you the kind of person who reads it, thanks the giver for the sentiment, and then discretely places it in the recycling bin within a day or so? Or are you the sort of person who reads and saves almost

Earlier this year, my husband traveled out of state for several days for a family emergency. This complicated my already-shaky morning routine. We usually split the tasks of taking care of two dogs and making sure our kindergartner is ready for the school bus. So the first morning he was gone, I said, “Naya, I need your help. Will you

When I was a teenager, my grandmother told me the story of how her brother got hurt on the farm as a boy. I don’t remember the details, but I know it wasn’t an injury that should have been life-threatening. I remember hearing the words “lockjaw” and “tetanus” and that he died, painfully. I remember sensing the pain of his

I’ve been discouraged by the unrelenting dull chill of winter. In these dark months, it seems like day after sunless day is raw and barren. The trees are gray and stiff. Shriveled brown stems lie limply in pots and flowerbeds that danced with color a few months ago. Fields that were filled with waving green corn are lifeless expanses of

I was 18 and working a summer job at an agricultural research facility. Bouncing down a grass alleyway between test plots in a pickup with the field station’s assistant manager, I remarked that I hoped to marry a farmer. I can still hear Rick’s voice clearly in my mind. “You don’t want to marry a farmer,” he chortled. “It’s too