([of most of our summer interns' stay-ed.])

HELLO! This is Mary Zheng, intern living in the RV for the summer.

If you’ve ever sat in a classroom, you know the drill: in the beginning, everyone sits on a first come, first serve basis, but by the third weed, the kid who wears his puke green high school graduation shirt 75% of the week sits to your right and the girl who starts every question with ‘I’ve got a question—actually, I’ve got three…’ sits to your left. This is carved in stone. But there’s always that one fateful day when you enter the classroom to see someone else in your seat. You begrudgingly sit in the closest empty seat, but you end up taking someone else’s seat, and now the whole feng shui of the room is ruined.

Not so at Mustard Seed. I’ve been here for ten weeks, and nobody has once taken my seat at the dinner table. It’s because nobody has a specific spot at the table—how could you when there’s a different number of people eating at each meal? There’s a constant flow of people coming and going, whether they be workshop attendees, workday volunteers, mysterious WOOFERs, or Franciscan nuns (but to be fair, that was only once).

Although our lack of permanent seating arrangements is in my opinion the mark of our strong community, somehow I feel like I’ve been a part of a (slightly dysfunctional but ever so loving) family. People talk about how Mustard Seed is a community farm—and it is—but the truth is, when you hang around here long enough, you become part of the family.

This summer, the family has consisted of Claire Boeke, who hates mushrooms and isn’t too good at this whole love thing; Clare Roberts, who requires seven sleep cycles to be well-rested and seven sneezes before she’s done; Abby Jeske, savior of all animals and master of the poop bucket; Elena Ingram, who can’t yell but also can’t whisper and, as a resident of Ames, is our reliable connection to civilization, and myself. These ladies have grown from strangers into my sisters, with Nate and Alice protecting us from pesticide air-raids, teaching us their scrupulous ways of weeding, and providing us with lots of work, Swiss chard, and love.

Maybe it’s because I’ve grown up as an only child, but this summer has been absolutely splendid, and it’s all because I’ve felt like I’ve been a part of a large family. I don’t know if it’s waking each other up on harvest mornings (because one of us inevitably presses snooze a one too many times), rejoicing together at the amount of sugar brought to us in dessert form at every potluck (bless your souls), or later regretting eating four servings of those brownies, but whatever it is about this farm has turned us into something much closer than mere co-workers.

Now that I’m at the end of my stay here, I’d love to say that nobody could take my place (at the table), but the nature of Mustard Seed has made it so that I never even had my own place. I was and always will be a part of something much larger than myself—something that I will both carry and share with others through my thoughts and actions, whether they be weeding the side of W Ave so the milkweeds grow taller, donating portions of my future garden to friends or strangers in need, or just sharing consolations and desolations with those around my table. I’ll see you again, Mustard Seed, and when I do, I’ll kick every one’s @$$ at futbol. GOL!!!!!!