"The trouble with this country," said an old farmer to
me recently, "Is that hardly anybody grows flax anymore."
I asked him to elaborate and he was only too happy to
oblige. "It's as if we've lost our imaginations. All you see
out in the country these days is corn and beans, corn and
beans! Why can't folks plant flax and pretty things up some?"
I couldn't disagree. I have always had a soft spot for
flax, one of the prettiest and oldest crops known to man.
It's a bit unsettling when you first catch sight of a
field of blooming flax. A patch of ground that was a carpet
of emerald green a few days earlier is now a glorious sky-
blue. It's as if a lake had somehow suddenly formed out in
the middle of nowhere, a body of water that, incredibly, runs
right up over the hilltops.
The spring when I was fourteen, Dad proposed a deal: in
exchange for my labor during that coming summer, I could have
a small piece of land to farm.
I jumped at the offer. When asked what I planned to
plant, I answered in an instant. Flax.
I would like to say that this decision came about after
a diligent and comprehensive study of market conditions. I
would like to say I made an intelligent choice based on a
cold and calculated analysis.
I would like to say those things, but they wouldn't be
true. Flax was selected simply because I thought it looked
really pretty in full bloom.
Part of our deal was that I had to pay for some of the
expenses, such as seed. When the time to plant flax arrived,
I drove to our local grain elevator and purchased eight
bushels of seed flax, enough to plant my eight acre patch. As
I recall, the seed set me back seven bucks a bushel.
As I loaded the seed, the elevator manager offered me an
opportunity to lock in a harvest delivery price of $4.35 per
bushel. I would like to say that after considering all
possible market contingencies I told him that I would take my
chances, but that wouldn't be true. I simply didn't like the
term "lock in", and besides, I was too busy imagining how
pretty my field of flax would be.
When my flax had grown to about ankle high I noticed
that it was infested with various weeds. These would no doubt
mar my flax's prettiness and also reduce its yield.
I consulted the elevator manager, who advised me to
apply a herbicide. After purchasing eight acres' worth of the
recommended weed spray, I made the application, following the
label directions to the letter.
Or at least I thought I had. When I went to check on my
flax the next day, it was dying! Every flax plant was curled
over into a freakish and unnatural posture, mirroring that of
the targeted weeds.
My first farming venture was a total bust! I couldn't
bring myself to look at the field for several days. I finally
did, thinking perhaps I could tear it up and sow some fast-
maturing crop and salvage something from the summer.
But, wait! A field of flax stretched out before me like
a luxurious emerald-green carpet! I would have hugged it if
it were possible to get my arms around those eight acres.
A few weeks later I nearly broke my face grinning as I
strolled through an eight-acre lake that ran up over the
hill, a lake comprised of millions of tiny sky-blue flowers.
As I recall, my flax yielded fifteen bushels to the
acre. I very clearly recall that by harvest the price had
rocketed to $7.10 per bushel. I would like to say in all
truthfulness that this was due to nothing but pure dumb luck.
It took only about an acres' worth of flax to cover my
expenses. But even more profit lay out in the field in the
form of flax straw.
We baled the flax straw and sold it at our local
elevator. It was hard to believe that this scratchy, dusty,
dull-brown, stick-like substance would eventually become fine
linen, that flax can be made into very comfortable slacks.
The popularity of flax could be seen at the elevator's
straw stack, which was wider than our barn and just as high
and stretched for a full quarter of a mile.
That summer was quite profitable for me; I certainly
made more than Dad would have paid in wages.
And that was too bad. Because I got the impression that
farming was like having a license to print money and spent
the next 30 years trying to duplicate that summer, chasing
profits that were as illusory as a sky-blue lake that appears
to run right up over the hilltops.
