Book No. 76 of 2020
What a lovely, meditative, lyrical book; although this account of a farmer’s year is occasionally upsetting in its own right (never have I been so emotionally invested in raisins or upset at rain), it was a very soothing oasis away from the complete dumpster fire of current events.
Masumoto writes with a simple grace, drawing you into his observations of farming. From meditations on wildflowers, animals, and trees to wry commentary on fruit brokers and the economics of farming (including his failed attempt to pay higher wages for farm workers), there is something charming and direct and appealing about his approach. Masumoto returns again and again to the conclusion that for all our science and regimented expectations, we really are at the mercy of nature, and farmers are with their manipulation merely borrowing from the earth.
While not the main focus of the book, Masumoto does write eloquently about his Japanese heritage, about his generational connection to the land, and about the shadow of the internment camps, drawing a connection from the injustices of modern American history to the hopes and dreams of the American immigrant family.
I also learned a lot about farming and where our food comes from; reading this book, I felt very guilty both of not always consuming my produce before it goes bad and having to throw it out, and also of not supporting my favorite local farmers for the past couple of months (tbf, the pandemic has disincentivized farmers market jaunts). I also felt more appreciative of all the love and hope and effort that goes into the growing of food—every piece of fruit seems more special to me now.
Finally, I looked up Masumoto’s farm, and how to get these glorious Sun Crest peaches, and was ecstatic to find that he supplies some retail markets in LA; sinking my teeth into a Sun Crest peach is now on my bucket list.
Similar Reads
While it’s very different in subject, this book reminded me of Shaun Bythell’s Diary of a Bookseller, for the way it teaches you about the day-to-day workings of an industry you likely take for granted.
The passages about the disruption to and loss of Japanese-American family farms because of the internment camps reminded me of Julie Otsuka’s haunting book The Buddha in the Attic.