by Meagan O'Brien, Production Roaster

"I come here every year to renew my hope," said one man who stopped by our fragrant, burlap draped booth to sample some Ethiopian coffee. I smiled broadly because I knew exactly what he meant. Although this was my first trip to LaCrosse's Midwest Organic and Sustainable Agriculture Conference (known as MOSES), I have been involved in the sustainable agriculture movement for a few years now.

It all started so innocently, one bright and blistering summer day as I lingered in the produce department's frigid air conditioning. I was gazing absently-mindly at a display of brilliant watermelon slices, all dewy and delicious-looking in their individual, cellophane packages resting neatly on crushed ice. But then, from nowhere tangible, my world nearly split open when I realized I had no idea where those watermelons came from. Did they grow in a tree? Underwater? Shoot up like pineapples from the heart of a spiny plant? I was in my early 20s and I couldn't tell you where this summer delicacy grows, this wondrous and refreshing fruit that I have eaten every summer of my entire life. Mostly, I was a city girl and I knew apples came from mythical apple trees. But, generally speaking, all food simply came from the grocery store. And like Newton's wonder at how the apple fell, I was suddenly consumed by a need to know where, how, why my food came from where it did. So, ravenous with want, I dropped the rest of my life and applied to be an intern at a local, organic produce farm. I knew the only way to learn what I needed to know was to live it.

And the rest is history. I spent two back-strengthening seasons planting, hoeing, picking, eating and sun burning myself into a produce-engulfed stupor. At the beginning the farmers warned that this farming thing, it will get in your blood and consume you. But it was too late; the bug bit me long ago, standing in front of the watermelon display on that hot, hot day.

I don't live on a farm anymore, but I spend most Saturdays getting as close as I can, winding my way through at least two or three farmer's markets, asking curious questions about varieties and weather. I have a community garden plot, and I nurse the spindly basil plants in my window sills. In the fall I buy so much squash I feel like I'm living in a storage warehouse. And this year I was able to go to MOSES and rub elbows with the entire Midwest sustainable agriculture community. Seeing all the research, all the innovations, all the thoughtful and creative work going on in agriculture, I was filled with a full and promising hope on those barren, short February days. In a world where there is so much to fear, so much going wrong, MOSES reminds me that with all the creative and dedicated minds and bodies, we might just be okay, after all.

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