Epitaph for a Peach Read Free Page A

He needs to think of complexity and diversity.”
    My friend further explained that adding a cover crop helps soils regain organic matter. It also provides habitat for insect life. But like those of the proud farmer, my first cover crops also lacked diversity. I still grew them the same way I farmed the rest of my fields: one crop, one method, one goal. My farm lacked the chaos of diverse plant life. It was easy to see; my fields lacked blooming flowers.
    Our farm changed a decade ago, with lousy prices and a realization that if the land wasn’t going to make money, I might as well try to enjoy not making money. At the same time I better make life pleasing to those who are earning an income.
    Once, out of desperation, Marcy bought some flowers from Kmart and stuck them on the grapevine berms. Without daily watering, they began to wilt until I began to hand water each one. For a few weeks they continued blooming and I cursed each time I had to carry a coffee can of water for them. There had to be a better way to grow flowers in the fields.
    Soon afterward a friend gave me some wildflower seeds and I tossed in a handful with my cover crops. In California we’ve experienced periods—sometimes several years—of prolonged drought, and with the lack of consistent winter rains, my cover crops did not grow well, but the wildflowers bloomed magnificently. Marcy and I watched their sequence of bloom, the poppies first, then lupine, bachelor buttons, and daisies. She was happy, I was content, and the farm began to look better.
    Now each year I scatter new seeds, the wildflowers reseed, and we watch the fields repaint themselves. The wildflowers have little to do with better prices for grapes, raisins, or peaches, but they start each year with beauty.
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    T HE WILDFLOWERS ARE always the first plants to bloom. I sense a race for survival as they germinate and flower quickly, sprinting to procreate before the harsh, desertlike valley conditions doom a family of poppies or lupines. They also are the first to attract insects.
    â€œFlowers open up a new world of life,” said my biologist friend. “Anything blooming attracts life from miles and miles. The pollens and nectar act like huge welcome signs.”
    My wildflowers are early-season welcome mats for insects riding air currents, journeying into the valley from their winter homes, often in the nearby foothills. My farm sits along their tradewinds, a beckoning landfall in the barren, lifeless desert landscape. I imagine these insects to be like explorers, setting forth and sailing into the sea of vineyards and orchards. My wildflowers are sirens luring these sailors to safe and friendly islands.
    After years of drought everyone has finally become concerned over the use of water. At last we’re treating water as a limited resource. Nothing knows this better than the wildflowers.
    Wildflowers like the California poppy continue an ancient struggle to maintain a niche in the arid ecology of the San Joaquin Valley. I’ve talked with allergy specialists who claim that some plants actually create extra pollen in drought years. With a lack of rain, germination, pollination, and seed production must take place within a limited window of opportunity, and I have noticed that my wildflowers seem to produce more pollens with cycles of drought.
    How does this fit with my farming? I’m not sure. I water my farm artificially, so I don’t think my vines or trees really feel the drought. But in the last few years, there hasn’t been a bumper crop of grapes, and old-timers claim it’s the vines reacting to a reduction of irrigation water.
    Which brings me to the realization that my vines and trees and irrigation practices are abnormal to the region. There are no natural survival mechanisms triggered on my farm. Everything I do is manipulation. I can’t expect a miraculous, truly natural farming system to automatically replace my old system.