Waxing Poetic (farm blog)
Nathan and Kyle planting ginger on a lovely afternoon in June
June. Named after Juno, the Roman goddess of childbirth and fertility. The weeds that escaped our hoes in April and early May have all grown up and are having children of their own now. Usually, June rolls in on a saucy heat wave, announcing her presence like a child demanding your attention, stamping her feet and screaming “Look at me! Look at me! Look at me!” But Juno must be otherwise distracted at the moment, because June just sort of slid into the raucous party through an already open door and sat down. I hardly even recognized her. Sweatshirts in the mornings and evenings, no desperate Popsicle breaks, even the squash seems to be confused and isn’t growing so fast. A subtle June will have us all complacent and unprepared for that blast of July that is sure to come, but since there’s nothing we can do about that, let’s just enjoy the sweatshirts while we wait.
Lizzy, Kyle and Nathan putting up tomato trellis
I remember in the Peace Corps how we would always be trying to “out-suffer” each other. As if points were awarded to those of us in the most remote, difficult to travel to and from places with the least amenities available. I had cold beer in my town. I never won these one-up (down?) contests. It seems I’m still in the ferry of tortured souls that makes it ashore. Because I keep hearing references to 16-hour days.
I started thinking about it after (what felt like) a particularly long and grueling day. 16 hours really? Said day, I quit working around 7:30 utterly exhausted. I mean I was spent. But I got to thinking about it, and realized that I would have had to keep working until 11:30 p.m. to call it a 16-hour day! I had “only” worked 12!
Jason and I don’t usually punch the clock until 7:30 on our normal non-market work days. We get up at 5:30 but that doesn’t count right? I mean, normal 9 to 5 workers don’t “punch the clock” when they get out of bed. If I don’t want to commit crimes against humanity, I need to get some sleep. The only way for me to work a 16-hour day would be to begin work as soon as I got out of bed at 5:30 and keep working right up until 9:30 (which is already a half hour past my bed time). I’m only awake for 16 hours (hopefully)!
I can only imagine that, with a few weird outliers, most people aren’t working actual 16 hour days. Not that they’re not working a lot, too much, whatever, but (in my humble opinion) 12 hours is enough. If points are, in fact, awarded to the most suffering, 12 hour work days are enough to rack some up. It is definitely not my goal to rack up those points though. In fact, as soon as we make it through all the current “firefighting” over the next few weeks, I plan on losing a lot more of those one-up contests.
The beautiful valley (an old picture, but you get the point)
The whippoorwill, which gets a lot of grief around here (for being a late night partier so to speak), is actually kind of pleasant on a warm (suddenly) summer evening at twilight while azalea perfume dances on the breeze. I’ve made it a point to sit on the porch for five minutes this night. Every night, we’ve been working until past dark. When this sort of situation arises, as it inevitably does during the farm season, one has to make a point of relaxation. Even if it’s just five minutes. It sounds counter-intuitive to force recreation, but sometimes that’s just the trick.
We live and work in this beautiful valley teeming with a diversity of life we can’t even name. When you’re going hard with your head down, you can inadvertently miss the good stuff like the mysterious call of the whippoorwill and the perfume of the azalea at twilight on a warm summery evening.
I know this is a terrible picture (I refused to get off the tractor to take it), but here is a plant blooming in the creek bank!
Do you ever wonder just what “management” means? Me too. I find myself waxing poetic about managing the whole farm system organically, but sometimes management just seems like a buzz word for scrambling around like a desperate herd of prey in the heat of the predator’s chase. For the last couple of years I have vowed to “be more present” as a manager. With 50 different crop types and 170 different varieties of those crops, being “more present” sometimes seems like a buzz word for not sleeping. But sometimes it pays off. Like this year.
I was mowing this past Sunday and I noticed a plant blooming in the creek bank that I’m sure is one of the 170 native wetland plants we planted there a couple of years ago. Perhaps providentially because my neighbor recently informed us that he lost all of his honeybee hives this past winter. So our native pollinators can take over because we’ve been working on providing them habitat and food as part of the whole farm system organic management. Yea!
I’m not saying that if you ask me in the moment what “management” means that I’ll give you a sane answer. But there are times when I get a chance to see more concrete examples of said management. And those times reaffirm my commitment to organic management.
Planting tomatoes and peppers in a couple of days (3360 plants!) requires a lot of stretching in the evenings
I love community colleges. They’re so practical. Or maybe I have a soft spot for education. As if the learning curve on farm as diverse as ours wasn’t steep enough. I have to go and learn stuff at an institution too. Or, at least it seemed like a good idea at the time. “The time” being when the continuing education class catalog arrived in the mail in late December or early January and I was sitting around with my feet up in front of the wood stove ogling seed catalogs. The excitement of discovering a class in just the thing I’m interested in learning is akin to a child’s view of Christmas morning. So I register and bounce on in to my first class in early March before we’ve hit the crisis line on our “to-do” lists.
But that was then. Ask me how I feel about continuing my education about 7:30 last night when I’m caught in a yawning frenzy, sneaking in butt stretches in my chair in the computer lab. Ask me how I feel about extra-agricultural learning when I’m stuffing a packet of Lance artificial flavored cheese food crackers down my gullet on our 10-minute break (and don’t even mention the yoga stretches in the hallway during that same 10-minute break). Or you could ask me today when I applied something I learned last night to our farm management database and solved a problem we’ve been living with for years. Yeah. That would be a better time to ask.
Sometimes work looks a lot like play. Especially from the outside. Today was one of those days. We could be seen traipsing through the puddles with our pick and shovel, creating little rivers of drainage like we were kids with a garden hose. Boy would my mom would get mad! But you know, we were just learning about hydrology in preparation for days like today.
With nearly three inches of rain under our belts, and water attempting to break the dams of our freshly tilled beds (ready for planting tomatoes and peppers!), playing in the mud became a necessity. All we need were those little green army men and some paper boats and we could have had a complete story.
Jason tilling in a failed carrot crop
In an effort (perhaps a misguided one) to create consistency, we eliminated direct seeding from tasks that employees other than ourselves do. These are crops that don’t do well transplanted or would consume too much greenhouse space. Things like salad mix, arugula, radishes, beets and carrots. We just figured that if we did it the same way every time, we would get the same results As it turns out though, we figured wrongly. Consistency isn’t always consistent. This became clear this past weekend as we attacked our “to-do” list and had to “rock, paper, scissors” the direct seeding task. And it was the loser who had to do the direct seeding. Somehow, it is easier to blame the cosmic forces when the other’s hand held the seeder. In this light, then, perhaps we should return direct seeding to the employee task list? Isn’t part of their job description to do the jobs that neither of us wish to do?
I’ve been accused of being a pack-rat before. I come by it honestly. But I’ll swear up and down that it’s dead useful. Sure enough, just as soon as you get rid of an object, you find a use for it and mourn its loss. I’m all about avoiding those regrets. Sure, we sometimes end up with piles of junk hanging around in the various corners of the farm, but you just never know! This week, my tendencies proved providential. Yep. Twice.
We’ve had this old push lawn mower hanging about for years now. It quit working so long ago I can’t even remember what the problems were. But on a whim, I toted it along with me to my small engine repair class last night and returned with a working mower! Indeed! Now the farmily who live here can mow their own grounds! That is why we farmers never throw anything away!
Then today, we put our brand new plastic on the tomato high tunnel and it was a few feet short!!!! After a bit of grumbling about the company (who has since righted the wrong with a refund), we scrambled and dug out the nasty, stinky, ratty old plastic that we had so diligently folded up and placed in a random corner of the farm last year. Voila! We now have a complete side wall! That is why we farmers never throw anything away!
Tully enjoys the coolness of the residual snow on a 70 degree day: typical spring
This is what’s cruel about springtime: no matter how it treats you, you can’t stop loving it.
-Barbara Kingsolver in Animal, Vegetable, Miracle
It’s a never ending cycle. Folks have been counseling against it for ages, yet, we farmers just keep coming back for more. It’s a terrible addiction; we know we deserve more than this cruel lover gives us. But there’s this terrible hunger for fresh vegetables. Let’s face it, we’re never going to give up spring. As much as we moan and complain about battling the wind and row covers, about pushing the unexpected snow off from the hoop houses, about frozen fingers and frantic desperation to protect little baby plants, about 50 degree temperature swings all in one day, about wind burn and sun burn and sore muscle burn, the truth is, we still adore springtime. The first push of green from those tiny seeds in the greenhouse, the excited and relieved surprise of finding new life when peeking under a row cover in the field, the saturated azure of the clear day, even the confusing wardrobe decisions. These things keep us falling back into the arms of this cruel lover year after year in spite of our own exasperated sighs.
Farm fashion: I think I pretty much nailed it, don't you?
I remember reading an article once about second career farmers. All the folks the reporter interviewed had just left other jobs to farm. They all more or less cited a move toward and quieter and simpler life as their motivation. I suppose I’ve been doing this too long to remember if I ever held a romantic view of the farm life. No, who am I kidding. Of course I once held a romantic view of organic farming. One that likely involved more sitting on the porch and far less aching backs. One that involved more lemonade in the shade and far less sweat and grime in the summer; more L.L. Bean sweaters and hot tea and far fewer mismatched layers and wind-burned faces in the winter. But here I sit, firmly entrenched in the dirty, sweaty, achy, mismatched and wind-burned reality, counting my blessings anyway that, thanks to you, I get to do this every day.