NAPLES, New York — A major organic seed company has surprised its supporters by announcing it will end sales and give hundreds of varieties away, declaring “we can no longer commodify our beloved kin, these seeds, or ourselves.”
The Cocozelle zucchini, now $14.25 per 100 seeds? No charge. Catnip, kale, the rampant mint? All free.
Petra Page-Mann and Matthew Goldfarb, the couple who run Fruition Seeds in upstate New York, said they’re letting go workers, stopping sales on Aug. 27 and relying on public goodwill — donations of money, talent and effort — to grow and distribute seeds on a $76,000 budget.
That’s a dramatic shift for a company that had a budget of over $1 million in 2022 and a profile high enough that it’s among a handful of seed companies featured in the New York Botanical Garden’s shop.
“The call is simple enough: Seeds are gifts. Gifts are shared,” the couple said in a long and searching announcement weeks ago. They’ve thought about barriers to access and what they call the indignity of the dollar. Burnout, too, played a role. “We’re weaving a new fabric together, Friends.”
As ripe apples plunked into the grass at their farm in the hilly Finger Lakes region, and workers pounded together a bunkhouse for the volunteers who’ll now be crucial, Page-Mann and Goldfarb were open about not having all the answers.
Their parents are “terrified,” said Goldfarb, 48. “I’m concerned you’re freeloading, I’m concerned you’re gonna become a liability to this community,” he recalled friends and family saying. “And I think the potentially hard thing for people to hear is, yes, that’s actually how this is gonna work.” In a way.
Next year, instead of shipping seed packets, they plan to give away seeds by hosting events and visiting cities around the Northeast. It’s a radical extension of their work with seed libraries, seed swaps and community harvests.
The move has inspired some and bewildered others in their green village of Naples, where cyclists zip past produce stands and Black Lives Matter signs. Elsewhere, some customers have said they’re too far away to get Fruition’s seeds without shipping and will look to other sources.
The announcement noted Fruition’s decision during the COVID-19 pandemic to face painful economic losses and make their online growing courses, featuring the exuberant Page-Mann, 40, free for all. There was joy in giving.
Now they hope others feel the same. They have begun listing their own needs, from financial donations and legal expertise to items like printer paper and Mason jars. “I trust, like air, what is present – though not yet visible – will carry us all,” Page-Mann wrote.
The Fruition founders said they were inspired in part by friend and mentor Adam Wilson, who runs a farm in Keeseville, New York, that he describes as an “experiment in neighborly farming and feeding,” with all food and events offered as gifts.
“And he’s still alive,” Goldfarb said.
But Fruition has been a much larger endeavor, partnering with nearby Cornell University and a number of growers in the region and as far away as Oregon and Idaho.
“They embark on an agri/cultural experiment many times the scale of the work here,” Wilson wrote after the announcement. “I am shaking with excitement, but also a tinge of responsibility.”
Already, Cornell has told Fruition that some of the seed varieties they had agreements for must be returned to Cornell or destroyed, Goldfarb told supporters last month. Conversations with the university continue.
Goldfarb and Page-Mann aren’t saying others should stop selling seeds. They’re looking into forming a nonprofit. They admire the collective work of the not-too-far-away Amish and Mennonite communities. But there is no definite plan.
“We’ll have different answers tomorrow. I hope,” Goldfarb said.
About 40% of the seeds that Fruition has sold have been produced by partners. One of them, Daniel Brisebois with Tourne-Sol farm in Canada, said he was excited to see what would happen now. Others didn’t respond.
Page-Mann and Goldfarb said the most excruciating part of their decision was taking it without the collective consent of their 12 employees.
“Simultaneously they were very gracious, like, ‘This makes sense for you and your lives,’ and also, ‘This sucks,’” Page-Mann said.
One worker told the AP that while they respect where Fruition’s founders are coming from, “so far this transition feels like a big missed opportunity to learn how to minimize harm in the process of trying to transform systems, especially harm toward workers.” The worker, who is looking for new work, spoke on condition of anonymity.
At the bunkhouse under construction on the Fruition farm, local mushroom producer David Colle, 49, said the thinking behind the transformation — a purpose bigger than the individual — drew him to help build.
Some in the community have said, “I won’t do business with these people anymore,” Colle said, but “you have to have people willing to explore the edges to learn what’s possible.” He’s as curious about Fruition’s future as anyone. He’s given away mushrooms but doesn’t see how to do it full time and still pay the bills.
And he wasn’t completely volunteering his time. “I need money,” he said, sweating in the afternoon heat, and acknowledged: “We’re all walking paradoxes.”
