Home Away From Home

On a steamy overcast morning in Southeastern Ohio when it seems the hazy, cloud studded gray skies could open up at any moment, a farm stand is a welcome sight. Thunder was looming in the distance, striking other country roads and soaking the peaks of hills we could see from miles and miles away. A morning storm is not a rarity in a place where hot describes the moonlight hours and sweltering is more appropriate for brunch, and finally unbearable by the time supper is ready. From the ridge top road we found ourselves traveling along we could see many other ridge tops, gentle peaks and sloping valleys all careening their way through the landscape of Washington County, each bending gently leading the trickling rain waters to the Muskingum, and finally the mighty Ohio just up over that highest crest. Green is the color of the season in the Ohio River Valley. The trees are bursting with it in summer’s climactic glory, and the rows and rows of corn are lined with shades of fuzzy yellow and hearty amber. On the other side of the road perhaps you’ll find a soy field, with petite emerald leaves that shine as the wind blows them over and back and back and over. It is a place of beauty, not just in the landscape, but in the people, and experiences you’ll surely enjoy there.

This particular morning we managed to outrun the beating rain and rumbling thunder to the shelter of an old wooden farm stand perched on a ridge top amid the hilly terrain of peach trees, blueberry bushes, and centuries old apple orchards. In Layman, Ohio, hospitality is ever present. Our car grumbled over the rocky driveway and up in front of Wagner’s Fruit Farm, where on a wooden bench, a tiny white and gray cat lay flipping its tail about at the sight of visitors. It got up and nuzzled our ankles, desperate for a chin scratch, and greeted us with a few tiny meows. As the storms approached, we pushed open the creaky door, swollen with the humidity, to a cool storage room chock full of basket after basket of rotund early peaches. Inside, loading a palette with the fruit farm’s signature rectangular wooden baskets was a familiar face I was so happy to see. I met him several years ago when I was a student at Ohio University and made regular trips to the farmer’s market, where he and the other farm workers could never keep their tables full of fruit as people quickly snatched up what is surely the best produce in Washington County. He was glad to see me too, and soon we were swapping brief stories to catch each other up on the months of time between our fleeting market meetings.

Only seconds after we began debating which peaches we should buy to bring home for the rest of the family did my friend hurry back in the store room and reappear with an old worn pocket knife, which he assured us only ever cut peaches. He walked over to the bushels of peaches that had been picked that morning, reached his hand in, and eventually came out with what he believed to be the best specimen to share with us. First a white peach that was free stone and hefty, bright fuchsia near the skin and pale antique white near the stone was held out in the palm of his hand and sliced so that a delightful chunk of fuzzy peach skin landed in my fingertips. The juice was beading up and running off the knife onto the old patterned vinyl table cloth that surely made other similar spilling of fruit juice more manageable. The peach exploded with juice when I sunk my teeth into it, and tasted like what I always imagine the perfectly manicured piles of peach slices on the cover of Martha Stewart Living ought to taste like, only better because I was really eating them and the consumer-driven world of Martha Stewart’s minions who will only ever longingly adore those photos can eat their hearts out. There is nothing in the world like the sensory experience of going to a farm stand.

We left with almost thirty dollars worth of fruit, white peaches, early red havens, donut peaches and some cherry plums which I could eat like candy. I wish everyone could have an experience like this one, or perhaps more appropriately, I wish everyone could appreciate an experience like this one. The pride that exudes from people who put their hearts, souls, hands, backs, and brows into planting and reaping food for us cannot be measured. Before I carried the last load of the Wagner’s mid-summer offerings to the car, I told my friend that if things went well for me that day, I’d be seeing him more often. He told me to come anytime, and that I ought to pick some blackberries because they’re exceptionally good this year. Well, as it turns out, I’ll be going back for another round of his incredible peaches sooner than later. My trip to Southeast Ohio was fruitful, if you will, in more ways than one. About a month ago I applied for three positions with Americorps, a domestic version of the Peace Corps. One position was in Zanesville, one in Marietta and one was in McConnelsville. After what I thought was a fantastic interview, I was offered and accepted the position in McConnelsville. I’m going to be helping people apply to college, and anyone who knows me knows how I feel about access to knowledge. I can’t wait to start, and I won’t have to because my first day is August 2nd. I’m going back to Southeast Ohio, to the hills, the people, the food and the music. I love it there, and I know if you took the time to visit and explore it, you would too. Don’t look for touristy hot spots, there aren’t any. Look for Ohio’s rich history, its charming back roads, its bustling farm stands, and its multitude of sensory, spiritual experiences. Just make sure that when you go, you stop at Wagner’s Fruit Farm at 2505 Brownrigg Rd, Waterford, OH 45786, just West of Marietta, I hear the blackberries are great this year.