Waxing Poetic (farm blog)
The characters in the Tumbling Shoals Farm choose your own adventure
Do you remember those “choose your own adventure” books from when you were a kid? You know, where you turn to page such and such with this choice, or flip the book over and turn to page such and such for this choice. I adored them as a kid, without ever contemplating the crazy complexity it must have taken to create such an adventure. As an adult, I can’t even fathom how the authors and editors kept it all together and making sense.
Lately, I’ve felt a bit like one of those authors: trying to plan out all the possible outcomes of decisions that we need to make in order to choose the best adventure, while managing potential weather situation, employee health situations, etc. I feel like I’m writing the upside down version sometimes. Wait, how did I get here? Who are the characters on the farm today? How are they going to get to the desired outcome?
We dug this year’s first potatoes today. Nothing brings you back to the fundamentals of organic farming as sifting through soil for those little nuggets of treasure that are potatoes. I mean, people often ask me “what is organic farming?” It’s a complicated answer, for sure, but on the most basic fundamental level, it’s growing dirt.
I love dirt. Maybe it’s true that everything I needed to know I learned before I even began school. I learned to love dirt. It’s so much more than the stuff we stand on, and the stuff we try to wash out of our clothes. It’s a whole world of living organisms down there, most of which we can’t even see.
As organic farmers, we depend on these invisible creatures for our sustenance and our livelihood. We are tasked with caring for critters we’re only half aware exist. Without them, our crops couldn’t even access the nutrients we provide for them. It’s a bit nerve wracking—depending so entirely on things you cannot see. But they’re precisely why I love dirt so much.
At its best, dirt is full of mystery and promise. It stands sentry to our whims, at the ready with the answer to our perpetual question, “what’s for dinner?”
Every time my parents visit, someone inevitably asks me what kind of car they drive. I never know. “A grey old people car” I say (sorry Mom and Dad, but it’s true). This past weekend, when I flew to Michigan to participate in the celebration of their 50th wedding anniversary (!!!), I found myself driving that same car.
I was running errands and came out of the grocery store to find that their little remote unlocking mechanism wasn’t working. I kept pushing the button, waving the thing around in the air trying to find the “sweet spot.” Alas, it was to no avail. Its battery must be dead. No sweat, I’ve got the key.
But there’s no obvious key hole! There’s a little black button on the handle, which I press a bunch of times, and something that looks like a plastic cover with a picture of a key on it. I’m confident the key hole is behind that plastic cover thing. I’m on all fours in the parking lot, groceries all but forgotten, fiddling with the thing, trying to figure out how to pop it open so I can insert the key. I even try the handle several more times in case, you know, it might have magically unlocked while I was fiddling the gadget.
I just can’t figure it out. I’m close to calling my parents at their anniversary party to ask if there are any tricks, but I’m determined to solve this problem alone. That darn car is not smarter than me! In frustration, I press a bunch of buttons on the remote un-locking gadget while I stand up to think.
While standing, my eyes focus on the inside of the car. Which, of course, is completely unfamiliar. I glance to my right, where there’s a grey old people car with its trunk open and lights blinking. Oh. I grab my groceries and slink over to the next row of cars and slide with humiliating ease into the correct car.
This happened while running errands in town today: saved by pink camo duct tape
These last few weeks are our busiest time of the season. It’s all about endurance. We continually think, plan and move, working toward maximum efficiency. Over the years, we’ve found that we can manage more and more as we develop our farm systems and obtain the correct tools for the multitude of tasks we do here on the farm.
Sometimes though, that endurance breaks down. It usually happens at the least convenient of times. One of which was last Sunday. Jason got hit hard with some respiratory illness. So I kicked into gear and began moving our to-do list as efficiently as possible. Suddenly flying solo, I figured I’d better tackle my Monday office list in addition to our usual Sunday planning (and house cleaning! It’s amazing how dirty a farm house can get in a week). Seeing the state Jason was in, I assumed I’d be flying solo Monday too. I even planned a meal for me to cook!
Come Monday though, Jason just couldn’t stay in bed while the farm kept moving. So he was banned from touching any of the produce, but still got other jobs done. Normally on a Monday evening, Jason cooks dinner while I tackle the week’s office pile of bills and receipts, get the records entered, check orders and plan a harvest list for Tuesday.
Since I figured I’d be cooking that Monday dinner, I did most of that stuff on Sunday. Jason felt good enough to cook dinner so suddenly I found myself without a pile of stuff to do. My wheels were spinning. I was a body in motion. I might even have paced a few times thinking, “I know there’s something I should be doing”. Flabbergasted, I ended up looking up a slow cooker carnitas recipe and prepared taco Tuesday’s pork since we work until 7 on Tuesdays.
Another sign of summer: Butterflies (Aphrodite Fritillary) on native asclepias tuberosa. I guess that's why they call it butterfly weed.
Well, it’s happened: June has arrived. The temperatures look to be rising and the rains come with such a dramatic flair that I find myself sitting in my office with my trembling pets at my side. These are the signs of summer. When all the rest of the country is off to graduation parties and summer beach vacations.
This, alone, would not necessarily indicate a change in seasons for me. My changes of seasons are strictly dictated by which vegetables are in season. Our website has a calendar of what’s in season when here at the farm and it actually emails me to tell me what’s going out and what’s coming in. It’s rather amusing.
I find myself comparing what’s happening in reality to what that calendar says should be happening. I feel quite the sense of pride when something comes into season before it “should”. Despite the fact that I set that calendar up in the first place, I find myself racing it to see if we can do better. Will it come earlier? Can we have a longer season?
This is our busiest time of the year. The 75 hours a week season. I thought I had built up to it with relaxation and anticipation all winter long. We’ve been powering through, keeping our heads above water, working SO hard to manage it all and manage it well. This was it; this was the year of Tumbling Shoals Farm. We were in the middle of the montage.
But wait, scratch across the record and the music fades awkwardly. There’s the one thing. There’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back. And this year, it’s deer. They’ve found us. Cue the little girl from “Poltergeist” and her creepy little “they’re back!” Because things just got personal.
It was the most beautiful and weed free lettuce/squash field we’ve ever had. We had stayed on top of cultivation and weed prevention; we were moving through the lettuce at a steady pace right on schedule. It was a thing to behold! I was so proud!
And then the deer came. A night ambush that took out an entire planting. An entire planting! Why are they so selfish? Why can’t they just eat a few heads in their entirety rather than take bites out of EVERY head in the entire planting? I would share. I would! But a whole planting?
I shake me fists at the sky in indignation, cry a little, yell at inanimate objects. And then we march. The fence is weed-wacked and baited, the deer netting placed around the lettuce field and the rifle is loaded. Cue the epic score; this is a different montage. The battle has begun.
Our version of hamburgers and hot dogs today: irons in the fire (we're honoring veterans by working hard today)
The clouds were innocent today: white wisps against the bright blue sky. I felt like I was in an idyllic painting, or one of those inspirational greeting cards. We were planting our 24,850th transplant, our bodies folded over themselves in some farm tweaked version of a yoga pose, discussing our work as identity. You know, the lighter stuff.
I recall taking some psychological “test” where the only question was to complete the sentence “I am…” any number of times as they came to your mind. Ostensibly, it is interesting to see what order you put the things that make up your identity; the first thing being the most important factor of your identity to you, etc.
If I took that test today, well, I’d probably cheat since I know how it works, but I imagine that even if I didn’t, the word “farmer” would appear somewhere very near the top. When you’re passionate about something, it sort of takes over your whole identity.
Thinking along those lines, I wonder if my second answer would be “eater.” Because you just can’t work so closely and extensively with veggies without dreaming of dinner. I spend hours doing it. And then I spend more time scouring our cookbook stash, pile of cooking magazines, or the internet for new recipes using those veggies. Eating is one of the major reasons we got into farming. Eating…the gateway drug.
And now, here we are, planting our 24,850th transplant, our bodies folded over themselves in some farm tweaked version of a yoga pose, admitting our addiction to farming as if it were the first step. Hi, my name is Shiloh, and I love to grow food.
Me driving "Harrison Ford"
Did you ever notice that motorcyclists wave to each other as they pass on the road? It’s not something we are taught; it’s just something that we do without really pondering why. It’s acknowledgement that we’re both part of some club. It’s a club that doesn’t really exist, at least not with meeting and dues and all those things that make a club a club, but a group of people with at least this one overt thing in common.
I sold my motorcycle a few years back. Now I drive a creepy white cargo van. But the instinct to belong is still quite ingrained in me. The other day I was at a stoplight and another white cargo van pulled up beside me and that instinct took over. I waved.
As well I should have. There should be a creepy white cargo van club. We’ve seen parents pull their children closer when we approach or cross to the other side of the street we are parked on to avoid getting too close. I even got pulled over once just because I was driving a creepy white van. They told me they were pulling over all the creepy white vans.
So even though I sold my motorcycle and lost all my cool points, I still get to belong to a club. And I’m still going to wave at all the other club members I see out there on the road.
Where your food is grown
I heard this article on NPR the other day about Atlantic City implementing a new gambling game: a free-throw shoot out. Seriously. It was kind of amazing. The old L.A. Lakers shooting coach, the one that improved Shaq's free throw shooting percentage from 38% to 69% in one year (the biggest improvement in history, according to him) was there. His free throw shooting percentage is 99.3%.
So you would think that he and others like him would be the only people to show up for such a gambling event. But there were hundreds of people! The reporters asked most of them how many shots they thought they were going to make. They all said something like "all of them". Overconfidence. It's no different than all the casino games that are based purely on chance. Everyone thinks, "I'm going to be the lucky one". Overconfidence keeps the casinos in business.
I have been to Las Vegas many times. I have never gambled (unless you count the time my friends forced me to put a nickle in a slot machine because they didn't think I should go to Vegas without gambling). Overconfidence is not one of my afflictions.
Replacing our burned out well pump last Friday
(that was exciting)
Aromas of cooking waft into my office. Jason is in the kitchen downstairs singing “Ape Man” along with the radio at the top of his lungs, creating this evening’s cuisine while I push the pile of paperwork that awaits me every Monday. It’s amazing how easily we fall back into our seasonal routines.
Each year, Merlefest signals the onslaught of the busy season here at the farm, and we respond almost robotically. We didn’t discuss this division of labor. It just is the division of labor throughout the season. A comfortable settling in that occurs without us even really noticing it beginning. We mail back those Netflix DVDs that have been sitting there for a month and cancel our account; we cut back on meetings; we hone our focus in to the farm.