Harvesting our Heirloom History
(Page 2 of 5)
August/September 2008
By William Woys Weaver
The pepper collection stood out, in part because many of the seeds were still viable. Most of those seeds had come from a local folk artist by the name of Horace Pippin. Mr. Pippin was a good friend of my grandfather, always bringing little gifts when he came to visit. Pippin had injuries from World War I that gave him “miseries” as he called them, so he would visit my grandfather to get stung by his bees, an old-time remedy for arthritis, bursitis and similar ailments.
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After my graduation from the University of Virginia, I went to work for a New York publisher. Because I had studied architecture, I planned to edit books on that topic. But I ended up editing all kinds of things. I took a special interest in garden books, old herbal guides, and books about flowers and ferns. I seemed to know more about them than anyone else in the office, owing to the basic training I had as a child.
One Thing Led to Another
I decided to combine that editorial experience with my practical hands-on gardening. I took the whole seed collection out of storage. In 1968, I replanted my grandfather’s kitchen garden and traveled back to Pennsylvania every weekend to plant, weed, water and harvest.
Either some seeds were already dead (they had remained in frozen limbo for 15 years or more), or in my clumsy efforts to revive them I lost more than I should have. The peppers came through better than most things. A few tomatoes made it, as did several other things. But most of the collection was lost. If I could do it again today, the endeavor might be more successful.
Long before farmers markets regained popularity in New York (this was the 1970s), I was hauling my own fresh produce back to Manhattan and very much enjoying it.
Finally, it became obvious that working in New York was costing a lot more than it was worth. So I left my job, moved back to Pennsylvania, and offered my services as a consultant to various museums and historic sites. My architectural training gave me a good basis in historical restoration, and my practical knowledge from the garden brought a unique perspective to my work. Furthermore, many of the vegetables in my grandfather’s collection were the kind known today as heirlooms, and this is exactly what many historic sites were looking for.
In 1977, I was invited to present a research paper on historical foodways at a conference in Wales. This forced me to make a decision: Should I devote myself to culinary history full time? This was an entirely new field, one that could be invented as I went, because no one knew how to define it. I had the garden. I had the heirloom vegetables — the real stuff of culinary history — and I had a nice collection of old cookbooks and garden books that I had garnered at local flea markets and farm sales. The subject of income looked bleak, but my grandmother always said, “Live above money; put your heart in front of you and follow it,” echoing the old Quaker saying, “do the duty nearest thee.” So I followed the spirit that beckoned me. Thirty-one years and 14 books later, her advice has stood me well. I am not a rich man, but when it comes to the things that matter most, I have absolutely no regrets. And no one could ever buy the experience my garden has given me.
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