MR. YOUNG'S TURNIPS

Saturday, 15 December, 2007: I drove the back road to Live Oak: a black, tornado-like sky all the way. Stopped at WalMart, then going into the city I passed a covered stand filled
with beautiful turnip greens. On the way back, I asked Mr. Quincey Young, whose stand it was, if I could take pictures. He said I’m the first person to do that, and, yes, so I did. Got pictures of Mr. Young, an older man working with him, and several shots of his admirable produce. Told him I was too lazy to cook turnips, but I sure admired his, that I document connections to the land in this area. What else does he grow, I asked.

“Okra,” he said, and asked if I had a business card.

I furnished the card and asked if he makes his living, farming.

“No! This is not about money,” he answered. “No, I drive a truck.”

On the back of my card he saw the picture of Southern Comforts: Rooted in a Florida Place, me on the front cover perched on what’s left of my father’s corral at the old farm that now belongs to someone else.

“This you?” he asked.

“Yes, I’ve been interviewing the great grandchildren of African slaves and the descendants of white pioneers, digging at an archaeological dig . . . .” I gave him the rundown.

“How long you been doing this,” he asked.

“Did my first interviews in 1960 for the High Springs Herald.”

Quincey Young laughed. “That was before I was born.” You know, he said, “You might want to talk to my wife’s grandfather. He’s 88, remembers the Depression.”

“Yes, I might.” I got Mr. Young’s phone number. Now, to cook those greens.