ON A RECENT MTO-SEPlTiMBER MORNING I AROSE FARiy and headed out in my puddle jumper from suburban Crystal Lake, Illinois, to the shrinking boonies of Marengo. Crystal Lake was in the boonies when I settled here thirty years ago, but over time the creeping megalopolitan jungle of Chicago has engulfed most proximate small towns and spread its tentacles of bumper-to-bumper cars and trucks from center city Chicago to fifty miles out and beyond. While acre upon acre of top-notch familand has been surfacedwith tamiac, a few agriculture-loving families are able to sustain the love of their lives: homestead fanning and selling their own freshly-picked produce at farmers markets. One such family is that of Lloyd Nichols, and my hood omament is pointed toward their fami as I watch the sprawl of suburbia dwindle in my rearview mirror. Motoring along state route 176 into Marengo and veering off on a few side roads, I am soon surrounded by a pastoral palette of farm fields. Golden and green hues, waving cornstalks, various crops and wildflowers beckon. In my head I can hear Leonard Bernstein's rendition of Canon in D byjohann Pachelbel and I picture the plants moving in unison vidth the music. I am more relaxed now, ready to touch and view long, colorful rowsof sunlit vegetables. There is something very spiritual about seeing so many vegetables in a row; if the good earth can be equated v;dth a church, perhaps this is it. In this state of mind I arrived at a conclusion: Lloyd Nichols and his family could beseen by some as merely fanners, but they are not. They are long-range planners and doers with a dream. They embody steadfast detemiination against many odds, lliey confront the rigors of farming because they love it, and pull together as afamily in pursuit of their dream. To me, these folks epitomize good, wholesome living.
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