Waxing Poetic (farm blog)
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.
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.”