by Ruth Ozeki
Of course, it’s a personal thing—Charmey was really into nature, and I prefer asphalt—but suddenly I understood why I’m doing all these political actions. It’s because I gotta make sure there’s still some nature around for you when you grow up, in case you decide you dig it, too. Geek took a picture of the lake, and I promise one of these days I’ll take you back there so you can see for yourself, and we’ll camp on the bank and look at all that sparkly water together.
For now, I’m just stoked to be back in the city, cruising around. The shit is going down in Seattle for real. I’m sending you a badass picture of me that was taken yesterday, on the first day of the Revolution. I hope you like it. And that’s the report from the front. It’s a class war, Tibet, and we’re fighting for the planet, and your daddy’s gotta go kick some ass. I’ll write more later. Sayonara, baby. I love you.
Frank
Cass folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. Frankie’s daughter was lying on a blanket in the middle of the floor, playing with her toes and watching Cass intently.
“You like it when I read his letters, don’t you?” Cass said.
In the envelope were two photographs. Cass took them out. One was a snapshot of a glacial lake, azure and sparkling, set high up in the mountains. The other was a picture of Frankie in Seattle. He was standing on his skateboard, dressed all in black and carrying a placard. The lower part of his face was hidden by a gas mask, but from his eyes you could tell he was smiling. Looking more closely, Cass could read the slogan, drawn in black spray paint on the sign:
RESISTANCE IS FERTILE!
She held the picture up in front of the baby’s face. “Look, Betty,” she said. “It’s Daddy Frank.”
Betty flailed her arms and legs. Her tiny fist closed around the edge of the photo, and she waved it back and forth for a while, then she put a corner into her mouth.
“That’s right,” Cass said, gently prying the picture away from her and replacing it with a pacifier. “Daddy’s going to save the world.”
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank the potato farmers, the potato breeders, the plant pathologists, the seed savers, the wild potato collectors, the newspaper-men, the molecular biologists, the agricultural extension agents and the environmental activists who took time to answer my amateur’s questions. I am grateful for the wealth of information these kind people so generously provided, and assert that if mistakes were made in this book, they are entirely my own.
Many thanks to Dan Jason, Jack Kloppenburg, Sascha Scatter, Sara and Jane Schultz, and John Stauber for their wise advice and wonderful stories.
I am especially indebted to J. L. Hudson, Seedsman, whose annual ethnobotanical catalogue sows a wealth of inspiration, as well as to Michael Pollan, whose article “Playing God in the Garden” in the New York Times planted the particular idea that germinated into these pages.
Thanks to Molly Friedrich for her sustaining faith in the seed of this book. Thanks to Susan Petersen Kennedy for casting her light upon it and causing it to grow. Thanks to Karen Murphy for her careful weeding and pruning. And special, heartfelt thanks to Carole DeSanti. A few words at the back of a book can never express how deeply I appreciate her skill as an editor, her insight as a colleague, and her generosity as a friend. Without her, there would be far less joy in these acts of cultivation.
Thanks to all my friends who read early drafts and offered invaluable critique, and in particular to Marina Zurkow for being near and dear. Thanks to my parents for loving and supporting me and for being in every way different from the parents I invented for this story. And finally, thanks to Oliver Kellhammer for exemplifying the extreme patience and love required of a gardener and a husband.
Thanks to all who save and plant. May your gardens grow.
