For me, farming is a blood knowledge. Diluted as it is, under my skin I carry a knowing; a pulse rippling through me sent from generations before. The pulse is partnered by images collected over my life from time spent in farm country of southwestern Ohio. I have witnessed soil filled cracks on wide, muscular hands, brilliant eyes set in deep creases and broad smiles despite fatigue. I’ve watched the frail, ninety-year old body of my great grandmother bent over tending her 20’ x 20’ garden. I’ve witnessed my father lose his 88 acre patch of family held soil, his dream piece of tradition. I’ve been warmly welcomed to huge mid-day feasts, an unexpected guest, and hugged close, smothered in the breasts of hard-edged, full-bodied women upon my arrival.