—by Naomi Jackson, HPC Staff

—by Emma Onawa, HPC member

Poetry Column by Jeffrey Shotts, HPC Member

At this time of the year, as the summer is ripe and so are the fields, and the fruits of those fields are brought in, where does that bounty come from? Who or what is responsible for that sustenance, that harvest?

The answer is: bees.

Here is a poem by Nick Flynn from his terrific sequence about bees — often in the voice of the bees themselves — in his book titled Blind Huber:


Net suit & smoking cup, you reek fear.
If we fight back, or if there isn’t

enough, you seek me out with gloved fingers
to crush my head. When we sting

—by Naomi Jackson, Membership Coordinator

I repeat this every year, because every year it is true. Our volunteers seem to disappear around mid-August and not show up again until mid-September. This creates a labor shortage at the co-op (just in time for Labor Day!). If you have a few hours to spare, in between going to the State Fair and getting ready for the school year, sign up and give us a hand during those weeks. You will be appreciated even more than usual.

College students, this is for you. We need to clarify what happens to your share when you graduate or move out of the area. You have two options. You can sell your share back to the co-op and get your investment of $30 back. Or, you can leave the $30 with the co-op as a donation.

—by Heidi Goar, HPC member


often think people are using selective memory when they start a sentence with “When I was young, we did things right…” or “In the olden days, when we weren’t morons...” (I guess today people say “Back in the day,” but I’m not that hip). But this time, it’s true. When I was young, no one carried around bottles of water. No one. Ever. In fact, I don’t remember even considering water one way or the other. We didn’t carry around bottles of anything, unless you lived in Wisconsin, where you might have carried around a bottle of beer.

By 2003, just 138 people — directors of 10 multinational food and beverage companies — controlled half of the 30,000 items in a typical supermarket. Read more...

Poetry Column by Jeffrey Shotts, HPC Member

A small anthology of farm poems— about first fruits, an immigrant worker, and a contemporary field song.

The Broken Ground

by Wendell Berry

The opening out and out,
body yielding body:
the breaking
through which the new
comes, perching
above its shadow
on the piling up
darkened broken old
husks of itself:
bud opening to flower
opening to fruit opening
to the sweet marrow
of the seed —
from what was, from
what could have been.
What is left
is what is.

The Right Hand of a Mexican Farmworker in Somerset County, Maryland

by Martín Espada

—by Emma Onawa, HPC member

—by Ellen Sushak, HPC member and Registered Dietitian

—by Naomi Jackson, Membership Coordinator