Earth Colors by Sarah Andrews Page A

quarter- to a half-inch. It was through these little stones that she had met Fred Petridge. She had asked to speak with a mineral specialist, and he had held the little cubes in his hand and told her, “Pyrite is iron sulfide, a shiny, metallic-looking mineral. Its molecules organize into cubes as it crystallizes. Limonite pseudomorphs form when iron sulfide is altered into iron oxide, changing the internal structure of the crystal but preserving the external form. Where precisely did you get these?”
    “On a farm in Manheim Township. They come up in the fields when the farmer plows in the spring.”
    “Ah, yes. Weathering out of the soils. You’ll see them in the old bricks in the historic part of downtown Lancaster. They’re neat.”
    “Are they rare?” she had asked. “Endangered?”
    The geologist had given her a conspiratorial smile. “Are you trying to find an excuse to prevent development, perchance?”
    Jennifer had lowered her eyelids slyly and smiled.
    Petridge had shaken his head. “They’re uncommon these days, but not what you could call rare or endangered, like some kind of bird or trout. Sadly, minerals don’t enjoy protected status in the same sense that plants and animals do. I say sadly because when it comes to trying to save the farmlands, you’re preaching to the choir. I’ll take a view across open fields any day over a whole row of two-story houses with expensive cars sitting out front. I don’t know how you can tolerate working on that problem day after day.”

    Jennifer had said, “I feel better sticking with it than walking away. People always ask me, ‘What can one woman do?’ but I tell them: ‘Plenty.’”
    “One woman? I thought you were with a foundation.”
    “I am. Pennsylvania Open Space Heritage Foundation is really just me, but calling myself a foundation gets me more respect. I team up with other groups as needed. Why don’t you come to a meeting sometime? We can have some laughs and lick envelopes. It’s a good crew. We could use your help.” She had tipped her head in a welcoming angle and given him a wink, and that had been all it took. His specialty in mineralogy was a great help, and it turned out that with a little coaxing, she had been able to get him interested in the Big Savage Railroad Tunnel, too, because it seemed he had a thing about railroads.
    Jennifer now heaved a quick sigh, a habit she allowed herself more to fill her tissues with oxygen than to express any concern that she might not prevail in her tasks. She liked the limonite project because she liked Fred. This little respite of looking at the lovely pictures had helped to restore her vital juices, but it was time to get back to work on the farmlands issue.
    She closed the red limonite file and opened another green one she had marked KREHBEIL FARM. On the inside left face of the folder she had clipped a phone-contact log listing every contact she had made to the Krehbeil family in her attempts to help them preserve their farm. She noted again that there had been an ominous slacking-off of contacts coming her way from them. Mr. Krehbeil had died, and his wife was ailing, but the daughter who lived with them seemed to share their interest in preservation.
    She rechecked her phone log. The daughter’s name was Deirdre. Had Deirdre given up? Did she need money for doctors’ bills so badly that she was going for the final crop? Or was it that Mrs. Krehbeil had gotten so sick that Deirdre had no time even to think about the encroachment of developments around their farm?
    Jennifer turned now to a photocopy of an aerial photo of the farm and its immediate environs. Only last week she had had to draw red diagonal lines across a farm less than a quarter-mile away, her symbol for another battle lost.
    In working to preserve farm heritage, it was important to understand the dynamics of the families involved. Some followed religious principles, some played politics, and others just went after the money,