I gather my things and stumble back to the general seating of the hearing room, wondering how long I have to stick around. Just as I drop into my seat, a familiar voice echoes through the room.
“On behalf of the Hudson Valley Seed Alliance, I thank the chair and committee for inviting me to testify today with my concerns regarding State Bill 345.”
What the actual fuck? The woman who, just hours ago, called out my name in passion is now speaking into the microphone. Just when I hope I’m hallucinating, Diane finds my face in the crowd and sends me a look that guts me. I may not be great at reading people, but that lip curl combined with a slow shake of the head clearly communicates what I deserve: her disgust.
I drop into the nearest seat, heart in my throat, and watch as she turns back to the assembly, straightens the stack of notes in front of her, and then testifies without even glancing at them, as ardent on the stand as she was in my bed. “The only entities seed libraries threaten are conglomerates like those who make up the Seed Trade Association. Farmers and gardeners saving and sharing seeds, doing the work to preserve local varieties, protects our food systems by making us more resilient.”
She continues with a series of well-thought-out arguments regarding the value of seed libraries, all of which I personally agree with—how they can be a center to a rural community, helping those in need to grow their own food and generally contributing to self-sufficiency.
Unfortunately, a few of the representatives won’t stop badgering her about the dangers I brought up.
“I just don’t understand why you’d be against testing and regulating seeds. What are you trying to hide?”
“It’s not a matter of hiding anything,” she replies, an impatient edge sharpening her voice. “It’s a matter of scale. A library or bank is never going to collect enough seeds in a given year to amass the sample size sufficient for proper testing. Not to mention the fact that even if there were a contaminant present, twenty seeds shared from one farmer to another wouldn’t have the impact that ten thousand contaminated seeds sold by a corporation would.”
“So you’re admitting that some sort of infiltration of infected seeds by an agroterrorist is possible?” the representative asks.
Diane’s pale cheeks redden, and her entire torso tenses up. “The vertical integration that the conglomerates running the Seed Trade Association have achieved gives them dangerous control over our nation’s food production.” As her voice rises, the microphone shrieks, making people flinch.
“Please control yourself, miss,” the chairman drones, making me wonder why he calls her miss while he called me Mr. Lansdowne.
She clears her throat and takes a sip of water before continuing. “Laws like the one being proposed would actually make us more vulnerable to the rapid shifts wrought by climate change, whereas seed saving allows us to conserve local and disappearing plant varieties, not be forced to buy them year over year from”—she breaks off to shoot me another lethal glare—“from corporations primarily focused on shareholder profits.”
The chair gives the floor to a different assembly member, who circles back to ask again why Diane’s group is so against regulation. “Don’t you realize that every state in the country requires seed companies to be licensed and to test and label all their products?”
“Of course, I realize that.” At her words, the mic makes the awful sound again, and she shifts to speak around it. “But in many states, those laws only apply if you’re selling seed, not trading or sharing them.”
“Well, who’s to say what selling is? Bartering is an exchange, after all. Just because money isn’t involved… I think it’s a legal gray area.”
Before Diane can rebut this idea, the chair dismisses her. After she thanks them, she uses the walk back to her seat to find my face in the crowd. I begin to stand, but she stops me with a slow shake of her head, like she can’t believe she let me touch her, let alone have sex with her. Like I’m something she just wants to scrape off the bottom of her shoe.
Kind of how I’m feeling about myself right now. I went to Cornell’s ag school because I wanted to learn how to save family farms. I may be making enough money to help support my family farm, but the work I’m doing destroys small farms.
And I just don’t think I can do it anymore. Thinking that I might be able to explain all this to Diane, I scan the room for her face. When I don’t find it, I head for the exit, but she’s not in the hall either. Before I can look further, my phone vibrates. My boss’s name flashes on the screen. Even though I’m not sure what I’ll say, I answer.
“Great job, Sam. You didn’t look nervous at all, while that girl—you really rattled her. She was practically hysterical.”
“She had valid points, Ron.”
“Trust me, it’ll be that sound bite about agroterrorism and her red face that make the news.”
“Like we really need to be squashing seed libraries.”
“Goliath got taken down by David, don’t forget. Meaning: We squash the opposition whenever and however we can.”
David and Goliath. Whose side am I really on? The conglomerate’s or the farmer’s?
“They’re coming for your job, you know,” Ron continues.
“You know what? They can have it. I quit.”
I hang up before I can second-guess myself. My gut tightens, remembering how proud Grandad was when I got the offer from Congento. From his perspective, they're what makes his soybean farm successful.
It’s been nice to have a company car and a big expense budget so I can take clients out to fancy restaurants where I explain Congento’s innovations in layman's terms, innovations that are impressive from a purely scientific standpoint. But Diane articulated the essential truths. Congento is about making money for its shareholders, not about farmers. Or even food.
Determined to find her and ask forgiveness, I search up and down the hallway. I even return to the hearing room and scan every seat, but there’s no sign of her. Back outside, I stare at my phone like it might cough up her number, but I didn’t have a chance to get it.
But I do have Trivia Crush. Opening the app, I search for user Cortland1898. In the past, every time I’ve invited her to play, I’d get a zing of anticipation. Now, there’s a whole new level of excitement. But instead of a message that she’s either ready to play or offline, there’s a big red slash across her avatar.
She’s blocked me.
Getting dumped by women is kind of my thing. I mean, I don’t blame them. I’m a workaholic, I get tunnel vision, I forget dates, I’m boring. Friends and family call me a player because I cycle through relationships so fast, but ninety-nine point nine percent of the time, I’m the one who got left dangling in the wind.
But even though I’ve known this woman for less than twenty-four hours, the connection I felt with her was different. Deeper.
The disgust and dismay in her eyes were the final nail in the coffin for this job. I need to be a better man, even if it’s too late for her to see it.
Quit your job, lose the girl, what else could go wrong?
Then I remember. It’s almost Thanksgiving. I’ve promised to visit my grandparents’ farm for the holiday. I won’t be able to hide this news if I’m there in person. I’ll have to tell my grandfather.
Diane isn’t the only one who’ll be disappointed in me.
CHAPTER 3DIANE
Seven Months Later
When I turn off the county road and onto the tree-lined driveway of Bedd Fellows Farm, my tires crunching on the gravel, the sun peeks out between the clouds, and I’m tempted to pull over and start shooting B-roll. The property owners have already signed releases online, and the perfectly aligned rows of bright green soybean plants covering the rolling hills on either side of me glisten from recent showers like they’re preening for the camera.
If I stop, I’ll be late, so I make myself continue up the drive. Over the final rise, I’m rewarded with the sight of a picture-perfect gabled farmhouse. Slowing my approach, I tuck away the combination of nerves and anticipation that’s been buzzing through me all morning. I’m finally starting to get comfortable with my equipment, but this video business is all still pretty new. I love meeting new people and talking to them, but it’s nice to have a personal connection at Bedd Fellows. You never know what you’re going to find when you roll up to meet a new interview subject.
Like the old guy who was, unfortunately, as stinky as he was knowledgeable about heirloom peas. Or the woman who aimed a shotgun at me until she remembered that she’d invited me to her property. Mostly, though, I’m heartily welcomed by people eager to share their stories.
Colleen Bedd and I were both members of Vassar SEED—Students for Equitable Environmental Decisions—though she was a few years behind me. When we reconnected at an alum event a few weeks ago and she heard about my new project, she invited me to visit, thinking I might like to interview her grandmother.
Lost in thought, I have to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting a sheep that’s appeared in the middle of the driveway. I’m practically at the house, and the sheep doesn’t look like it’s going anywhere, so I just put my car in park and get out.
“Hi there… sheepie,” I say, looking around for a dog. I’m almost always greeted or warned off by a farm dog, but maybe the sheep is this home’s guard animal?
I don’t know if sheep can be aggressive, so I take the long way around the car, grabbing my smaller equipment bag in case Mrs. Bedd wants to jump right in on the interview. Since I started my YouTube channel “Seeds of Change,” I’ve learned that people usually share the most interesting tidbits before things get official.
The front steps creak as I mount them, but it’s a gorgeous old place. Classic white clapboard with black trim, it’s got a wide, wraparound porch, welcoming rocking chairs, and a swing nestled between planters. But it’s the building next to the house that catches my attention. Curious, I drift past the picture window to check it out. Is it a playhouse? A fancy tool shed?
“It’s quite the spectacle, huh?” Colleen asks from behind me.
“Oh!” Whipping around, I just manage to save my equipment from spilling out of my bag.
