We all live in nature, but some live in it more intimately. Small-family farmers make their mark on the land, and the land provides nourishment and income for their families. They are the backbone of American agriculture, but earning a living wage is difficult, and finding hired help is nearly impossible. Operating expenses are rising, weather extremes are causing erratic crop yields, and farmers are aging out. For many, this way of life is vanishing.
I've been coming to Willard Farm in Still River, Massachusetts for almost three decades to buy sunflowers, corn, tomatoes, and pumpkins. For nearly 350 years, nine generations of Willards have lived and farmed here, rooted in the same soil as their ancestors going back to the Nashaway people. But several years ago, I noticed fewer offerings at the farm stand. The primary farmer, Paul Willard, is in his 80s and moves more slowly now. He shares the family farmhouse with his brother Wendell, a cabinetmaker, and Wendell's wife, Elizabeth, a poet. The title of this project is from one of her poems.
For the last 20 years, I’ve photographed the farm, interested not only in the legacy of this land but also in the details of farm life. During the pandemic, when just about everything shut down, farmers still planted crops, and farm stands remained open. Willard Farm became my refuge and my muse. I witnessed the beauty of nature's cycles repeating and the overwhelming toll this ceaseless work takes on the farmers.
When I asked Paul what his plans were for the future, he said, “I don’t have any real plans. I think I’m just going to wind down. Keep doing what I’m doing, but less of it, and slower. And someday, slow will be indeterminable from still. And then we’ll be done.” That was in the summer of 2020. Today, the fields are fallow except for a small kitchen garden. In the spring, Paul and Wendell sell small tomato and basil plants grown in their greenhouse, but their farm stand is closed the rest of the year. No one, not even Paul Willard, imagined the end was so near.
