Sage, Alyssa, and Kyle planting our beneficial insect habitat
In a previous life I worked in social services. It’s a field of quick burn-out/high turnover rates. By definition, I’m one of those statistics. Henry David Thoreau said “It takes a special constitution to do good.” At some point, I realized that, perhaps, I didn’t quite have that constitution.
Not that organic farming doesn’t have a bit of “do-good” involved in it. It does. It’s just not quite as selfless as social service work. Because, quite literally, I get to reap what I sow. Plus, there’s all the benefits of working outside in this beautiful valley (how many social service workers can say that about their office?).
Sometimes though, we do things on this farm just for the pure “do-good” of it, and I get to bask in the glow of it. Last week, for example, we planted a little plot of flowering perennials just to provide habitat for beneficial insects and pollinators. I was totally geeking out. Don’t get me wrong, we do benefit from the work those good bugs do once they settle in at the farm, but it just felt so do-goody. Like suddenly, we were real organic farmers. Just hippy-dippy enough to fit into the old 70s idea of organic: a little less production-oriented, a little more getting friendly with the bugs. I almost dug out the ole’ bell bottoms.
Blackberries: after! (photo courtesy of Kyle)
My workplace is very beautiful. Even sitting here in the office/closet on a rainy day catching up on paperwork that piled up during the last weeks of lovely weather, I look out the window (yes, there’s a window in the closet!) at all the hues of rebirth washed clean by the rains. I can’t help but love spring. Even though she can be a cruel creature, I find myself sanguine in her embrace.
After all, spring brings back the farmily and a sense of relief as we suddenly go from two to six people and “to-do” lists disappear like magic. It is spring when we actually get around to our “winter” projects list. I have to admit to a certain amount of blackberry pessimism after we failed to dig them out of the weeds and trellis them this winter. But spring came and the farmily rescued us again and now I look with pride and promise of the juicy sweetness to come.
The farm under blankets for the cold cold night (spoiler alert: everything survived!)
Last Thursday night I literally ate chips for supper. I know it sounds absurd: the organic farmer ate an “I refuse to read the ingredients” processed food (ish) product for her entire supper. I confess, it happened, but I swear I have a good excuse.
You see, as we age and become more of an established farm, we have developed this goal to have at least a tiny bit of a life outside the farm. I admit it’s a struggle. Our choice of career, like most small businesses, tends to absorb all of our time and energy. That’s okay—we adore our job—but some small part of ourselves wishes to have some aspect of life outside the farm. Without it, we find ourselves at a loss when it comes to conversation.
I mean, when you are wholly absorbed into one thing, it becomes difficult to view the world through any other lens. Literally, ALL we can think to talk about is farming and related topics. In a word, we’re boring.
As part of our effort to expand our horizons, so to speak, (to become less boring) we are taking a Spanish class. Which brings us back to the chips for supper. You see, the class begins a half hour away at 6 and we currently call it a day at 5, so there’s only time to get cleaned up a bit and scamper off to class, which runs until 9p.m. which is our normal bed time. So, no time for cooking supper, or even scarfing down some leftovers. This, my friends, is my “good excuse”.
Signs of spring
Wow, spring. With the cold weather delay, spring is in acceleration mode here at the farm. Everything is happening all at once. The trees are budding out, the early and mid season daffodils are blooming together, the peepers are peeping. And the wind is blowing.
Spring winds are a fact of life here in the Tumbling Shoals Valley, and usually we appreciate their soil-drying effect that helps us be able to get into the fields to prepare them for planting. But like spring, we’ve been delayed, and everything is happening all at once for us as well. We just don’t have the luxury of waiting for that somewhat calm day to lay down the 90 foot lengths of landscape fabric or the 100 by 10 foot giant sails of row cover. Ha!
As the gust of wind actually pulls me 3 or so feet on my belly across the field (I refuse to let go!!!), I find myself looking the gift horse of wind hard in the mouth. I even scowl at it. Roll my eyes, sigh, beg, curse. But still, it does not relent. By the end of the day (the wind still blowing), I feel like I’ve been body surfing in a really rough sea. My entire upper body is sore down to my fingers just from holding on. I’m coated in a film of dirt like I’ve been sand blasted, which, I suppose I have. Alas, like Barbara Kingsolver wrote in Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, “This is what’s cruel about springtime: no matter how it treats you, you can’t stop loving it.”
Since the beginning of the year I’ve felt like a Loony Tunes character bouncing around in a scramble to beat back the ever encroaching “to-do” list. We took desperate measures to be ready to seed and plant on time, packed our greenhouse full, planned out our days in order to be able to accomplish all the things that needed to be done. And lo and behold, we caught up to where we should be this time of year, ready and willing to plant out in the fields and then this “slow-your-roll” weather struck.
The snow descended on the valley with a muffling arrest. All activity stayed, aside from the smoke tendrils weaving their way out of chimneys and a few robins ruffling their feathers in protest.
I have to admit, it’s a pleasant reprieve. It’s as if we’ve been running hard just to get to the starting line and now we’re forced to catch our breath. The race has been delayed. I’m sure I’ll be worried come time for these crops to be harvested and they’re behind schedule, but I’m going to live in the moment for a minute. Take a break. Enjoy winter’s beauty without question or quarrel. Maybe even have a little fun with it. And breathe. After all, there isn’t a thing in the world I can do about it. Snow is snow and there it is-beautifully blockading my schedule; slowing my roll. I might as well embrace the peace.
Hey it’s February! Did anyone notice that it was 65 degrees yesterday? Ha! We’ve been filling up the greenhouse, but really struggling to get into the wet and frozen fields. It’s a struggle we’ve been getting used to over the past few years. And we’re making concessions that I never dreamed of in my conception of my life as a farmer. I know I never conceived of hauling around bags of gravel to hold down plastic to keep the rain off from the fields.
Actually it’s hard to remember back to my dreams of reality. The days of the moral certitude of youth. Big ideas and inspiration of farmer as super hero, standing proud with the wind through my cape, one foot propped on the ubiquitous pitchfork. Who uses pitchforks anyway and why are they such a symbol of farming?
The romantic idealism of farm philosophy, now jilted by the practical reality of plastic and bags of gravel. Even this hint at desperation is fraught with hope though. Because it just might work. It just might keep the rain off and heat the soil so we can get in there earlier to plant. I guess that’s our farmer mundane super power: our capacity for hope.
Sooooo….it’s hiring season here at Tumbling Shoals Farm! If you or someone you know might be interested, please contact us. Check out working at Tumbling Shoals Farm for more information.
Also, it’s harvest share enrollment time. It appears that this is going to be a year where we quickly fill our capacity, so get your payments or deposits in as soon as possible. Everyone is hungry for fresh veggies!!! For more information about the harvest share program, check out our website and contact us if you have any questions.
I was just reading an old blog entry from this time of year which spoke of too much office time resulting in us being way ahead of schedule with taxes, season planning and seed orders, office cleaning and organizing, etc. I cannot fathom how that happened. We have been scrambling all fall and winter long to keep our heads above the “to-do” list water.
We’ve been traveling around cramming our brains full of technical information (not to mention cramming others’ brains full of information with our enhanced teaching schedule this year), attending hours and hours of meetings, and generally ignoring our own “to-do” list. Today was a long awaited catch up day in the office (thank you cold miserable weather!), but I’m sacrificing some greenhouse seeding time in here avoiding the cold wet outside in order to push around my giant pile of papers. But finally, my desk is clean (ish) and I can once again turn my focus toward the actual growing of things.
Part of the reason we’re so behind in our natural flow of winter work is because we have attended two farm conferences this year on near opposite ends of the country: one in cold New York and one in balmy Mobile, Alabama. Conferences are about learning, networking, and inspiration. We come back jazzed about new things to implement on our farm this season.
Jason washing radishes on a cold November day
When I was in college, I went over to some friends’ house after class one evening, but the door was locked and they were deep into very loud band practice. Just that day in my astronomy class, I learned the only thing I still remember from astronomy class: that shooting stars are actually extremely common. And that if you stare at the night sky for any few minutes, you’re very likely to see one.
So I lay in the hammock on the porch and stared up at the night sky. Of course, I witnessed the biggest, brightest shooting star I’ve ever seen.
Until tonight. When I stepped outside to go get the laundry in the bathhouse and remembered that lesson from all those years ago. I just stopped for a moment to stare up at the night sky for a spectacular reward. Just before I headed back into the fire and warmth of our little cozy house.