Organic farmer decides to give seeds for free

A major organic seed company surprised its followers by announcing that it would stop selling organic seeds and give away hundreds of varieties. The statement read: “We can no longer commodify our beloved relatives, these seeds, or ourselves.”

The Cocozelle zucchini is now $14.25 per 100 seeds? Free. Catnip, kale, the wild mint? All free.

Petra Page-Mann and Matthew Goldfarb, the husband-and-wife team who run Fruition Seeds, said they would lay off employees, stop sales on Aug. 27, and rely on public support — cash, talent and labor donations — to grow and distribute seeds on a $76,000 budget.

This is a dramatic shift for a company that has a budget of over a million dollars in 2022 and is so well known that it is one of the few seed companies represented in the New York Botanical Garden’s shop.

“The call is simple: seeds are a gift. Gifts are meant to be shared,” the couple said in a long and poignant announcement a few weeks ago. They have reflected on barriers to entry and what they call the humiliation of the dollar. Burnout also played a role. “We are weaving a new fabric together, friends.”

As ripe apples fell to the grass on their farm in the hilly Finger Lakes region and workers put together a dormitory for the volunteers who will now be critical, Page-Mann and Goldfarb openly admitted they don’t have all the answers to their questions.

Her parents were “terrified,” said Goldfarb, 48. “I’m afraid you’re going to be a freeloader, I’m afraid you’re going to be a burden on this community,” he recalls friends and family saying. “And I think the worst thing for people is that it’s actually going to happen.” In a way.

Next year, instead of sending seed packets, they plan to give away seeds by organizing events and visiting cities in the Northeast, a radical expansion of their work with seed libraries, seed swaps, and community harvests.

In their leafy village of Naples, where cyclists race past fruit and vegetable stands and Black Lives Matter signs, the move has inspired some but confused others. Elsewhere, some customers have said they are too far away to get Fruition’s seeds without shipping and will look for other sources.

The announcement noted Fruition’s decision during the COVID-19 pandemic to take painful economic losses and offer its online growing courses, which featured the ebullient 40-year-old Page-Mann, free to all. It was a joy to give.

Now they hope others feel the same. They have begun listing their own needs, from monetary donations and legal advice to things like printer paper and mason jars. “I trust that what is there – even if it is not yet visible – will carry us all like air,” Page-Mann wrote.

Fruition’s founders said they were inspired in part by their friend and mentor Adam Wilson, who runs a farm in Keeseville, New York, that he describes as an “experiment in neighborhood farming and food” where all food and events are given as gifts.

“And he’s still alive,” Goldfarb said.

But Fruition was a much larger undertaking, partnering with nearby Cornell University and a number of growers in the region and even in states as far away as Oregon and Idaho.

“You are embarking on an agricultural/cultural experiment whose scope far exceeds the work here,” Wilson wrote after the announcement. “I am trembling with excitement, but also with responsibility.”

Cornell has already told Fruition that some of the seed varieties for which it had agreements must be returned to Cornell or destroyed, Goldfarb told supporters last month. Talks with the university are ongoing.

Goldfarb and Page-Mann are not saying that others should stop selling seeds. They are considering starting a nonprofit organization. They admire the joint work of the nearby Amish and Mennonite communities. But there is no concrete plan.

“Tomorrow we will have different answers. I hope,” Goldfarb said.

About 40 percent of the seeds sold by Fruition were produced by partners. One of them, Daniel Brisebois of the Tourne-Sol farm in Canada, said he was curious to see what would happen next. Others did not respond.

Page-Mann and Goldfarb said the worst thing about their decision was that they made it without the collective consent of their 12 employees.

“They were simultaneously very accommodating and said, ‘This makes sense for you and your life,’ but also, ‘This is crap,'” Page-Mann said.

One employee said that while he respects the background of Fruition’s founders, “so far this transition feels like a huge missed opportunity to learn how to minimize harm in the process of system transformation, especially harm to workers.” The employee, who is looking for a new job, spoke on condition of anonymity.

Speaking from the dormitory under construction at Fruition Farm, 49-year-old local mushroom producer David Colle said the idea behind the transformation – a goal that goes beyond the individual – was what motivated him to help with the construction.

Some in the community have said, “I’m not going to do business with these people anymore,” Colle said, but “you need people who are willing to push the boundaries to learn what’s possible.” He’s as curious about Fruition’s future as anyone else. He’s been giving away mushrooms, but doesn’t know how he’s going to do it full-time and still pay his bills.

And he didn’t give his time entirely voluntarily. “I need money,” he said, sweating in the afternoon heat, and admitted, “We’re all walking paradoxes.”