Greenhorns Page 4
They all have someone with whom they can share at least some of the burden of farming. Some even provide an outside income. I feel the envy grow inside me. Why couldn’t I have found someone to share this adventure and this burden? I feel so alone sometimes. It’s overwhelming to have every decision weigh on me. Figuring out how to run a business itself is daunting, let alone learning to farm and run a business. How did I get myself into this? Why did I choose farming? I just wish I had some company. Frustrated and full of self-pity, I finish the lettuce with a huff. I grab a tray of scallions and plant them next to the lettuce.
As I work, my tantrum begins to subside. I remember that my mom came up yesterday and helped with planting and weeding. I think of how supportive she and my dad are. They’ve sweated and labored with me, and have given me a loan. I guess I can’t claim I’m alone in my farming endeavor. I realize I won’t be alone tomorrow either. A new employee and a volunteer are coming. In fact, just last Sunday, people in my church were asking if I needed help and how they could support me. If I honestly think about it, I’m not alone at all.
My tantrum is over now. Perhaps it will return another day, when I feel overwhelmed with responsibilities. But for now, with the reminders of friends and family offering real help and support, I have a sense of peace. While I focus on these calming thoughts, I hear the roar of a tractor. I look up and see Jeff driving into my fields. I look at my truck and see the unplanted kohlrabi still there. “Oh well,” I think to myself, “transplanting will be a good experience for the people who are coming to help tomorrow.”
I brush dirt from my knees and gather the empty seed trays and the markers and head over to Jeff. We talk for half an hour about different crops, the weather, farmers’ markets, and insects. Farmers can be a bit chatty. We make the switch, Jeff climbing into my truck as I climb onto the tractor. I watch Jeff drive off and think about the field walk this morning. I realize again that I’m not really on my own.
I never would’ve guessed that my life’s road would lead to farming. My journey learning to farm has been just as unpredictable. When I started, I didn’t know the Farm Business Development Program at Prairie Crossing Farm existed. I didn’t know of the mentors and friends I’d meet along the way. I took a chance and followed this newborn passion for farming. Though I don’t know where exactly I’ll end up or what my farm will someday look like, I do know that opportunities will arise.
Two Pigs and True Love
* * *
BY ANDREW FRENCH
After growing up in small farming communities in the Midwest and enjoying the many benefits of country living, Andrew French escaped to Minneapolis to become a chef and landscaper, only to learn that his real passions were farming and permaculture. He’s living the dream with his fiancée, raising ducks, goats, pigs, vegetables, and mayhem.
* * *
It was a wet spring afternoon, and Khaiti and I were hunkered in the snug little red barn on her farm, watching Metallika, the sweet, earless purebred La Mancha goat, with parental concern.
“It’s happening now!” Khaiti yelped. She got closer to the goat to help her if needed.
With groans of pain from deep within her throat, Metallika emitted a slimy creature into the fragrant hay. It was a beautiful buck that Khaiti promptly named Two Tone. I uttered a single word: “Wow.” I had thought I’d videotape the whole experience, but this thought evaporated as the next gooey goat baby squeezed out of Metallika’s hind end. It was a devastatingly cute female with dark coloring. Khaiti named her Trixie. We crouched there in an enthusiastic huddle near the afterbirth and goat poop, and chattered like our jaws were spring-loaded. I finally whipped out my camera and filmed a little snippet of the newly born and surprisingly energetic Trixie jabbing at her momma’s swollen teats to get her first taste of milk, the colostrum. Two Tone stood there in a stiff-legged daze and seemed amazed at this momentous change, being on the outside of his momma for the first time. My heart wobbled as he took his first shaky steps.
The forecast was for a downpour that night. I knew driving my old truck in the dark in the rain was dangerous, so I decided I’d better get home soon. I didn’t want to go, though. I felt like I was already home. I wanted to snuggle up with the newborn goats in the hay and go to sleep with the rain pounding on the metal roof. I was torn but decided to play it safe. I said my good-byes to Khaiti and the goats with a heavy heart. Sure enough, it started to pour. I was forced to drive at a snail’s pace all the way back, giving me time to reflect on all that I had seen and felt that evening.
To make some sort of sense out of all the emotions coursing through me, I decided to do something artistic. I was going to take that little snippet of video and play a little song as the soundtrack. I picked the song “Unravel,” by Bjork, because it was the most beautiful song I could think of to illustrate the intensity of the experience. I got out my electric guitar and hashed out a version of the song that I thought was satisfactory. It was late when I finished, and before plowing into bed for the evening I e-mailed Khaiti the little video. I thought she would really enjoy it.
A few days later, we were chatting online. There was a lull in the conversation, and then she asked me if she could tell me something crazy. She explained that she had a crush on me. Watching the video had been a pivotal point for her in how she felt toward me. I panicked and ended the chat abruptly. I went outside to smoke a cigarette and think things through. I was worried by this change in our relationship, and I didn’t want to lose an amazing friendship to a romantic interlude.
I told her in an e-mail that I didn’t think it was wise to pursue this; I didn’t want to wreck the relationship we had. She responded by asking if she could come visit me. I parried with it might be too weird. She said she was going to come over anyway. She did come over, and we laughed at the awkwardness. We talked it over and decided to give it a try. And so we began to farm-date.
On a farm, things don’t stay clean. “Getting dirty” takes on a different meaning when you’re farm-dating. When you have animals, you get manure on everything and everywhere, and if you’re not comfortable with that, then farm-dating is not for you. Farm-dating is when you lie in the grass with your beloved by the gardens and animal paddocks and let the smell of fresh earth and green things mingle with the stink of manure rotting in hay, and you consider that the best aphrodisiac on the planet. It’s when, instead of dinner and a movie, you both go out and put up more fencing for the goats. Instead of sending her flowers, I turned over the soil in her garden with a digging fork and took out some saplings.
Meanwhile, back on the home front, my small landscaping business was starting to take off. I had wrangled up some good clients and projects, and I felt that I was going to reach my financial goals for the year. But all this hard work was keeping me from Khaiti’s farm. For years I had dreamed of becoming a full-time farmer, and I hoped eventually to grow vegetables for a living. One of my goals for the year was to find some cheap land and build a house. I had saved up a little money to do this, but now I was faced with the unexpected possibility of sharing this dream with another.
* * *
“Getting dirty” takes on a different meaning when you’re farm-dating.
* * *
Khaiti’s two acres were full to the brim with activity. A friend had offered me a piece of land for a reasonable price. We took a trip to scope it out and became swept up in the romantic idea of a new life working side by side, so we decided to buy the land right away. But the negotiations with my friend were vague and took long enough to make us hesitate and then withdraw from the deal. Now we started to scour the real-estate listings all over the area. Everything seemed either way too expensive or way too crappy. I wasn’t even sure if we were really planning to buy land together or if we were just beginning to explore our options.
I took a day off to spend it with Khaiti, and we impulsively decided it was Pig Day, which meant we were going to go find a couple of good piglets and buy them that day, no matter
what obstacles lay in our way. It was a gorgeous, early-summer day, and every leaf sparkled. The sunlight gave everything the quality of a dream. We combed through the classifieds and found a few feeder piglets for sale, but they were all too expensive.
According to one hog farmer, all the 4-H kids were buying up the piglets, so the sought-after breeds were being sold at a premium. We finally found a couple of feeders at a decent price just twenty minutes north of Osceola. We drove fast, whizzing by old box elders sprinkled in the ditches.
We found the pig farm, a miserable ramshackle place. Huge piles of junk and machinery were everywhere. The farmer told us we couldn’t enter the facility because it was too dangerous for the pigs’ health. A dozen large pink hogs lay in a small muddy pit north of the barn, bored and lazy-looking. He asked us what kind of pigs we wanted. Other than healthy and cute piglets, we had nary a clue as to what breeds we were in the market for, so the pig farmer suggested a couple of types and we nodded dumbly and said, “That sounds great.” He ducked into his mysterious closed-off barn and emerged holding two squealing piglets by their back feet, tossed them roughly into the large dog carrier we had borrowed, and stowed the carrier in the back of the station wagon. Khaiti thrust a wad of bills at him and we jumped in the car and sped off.
There was a swine stink in the air and short squeals of piglet terror coming from the back of the car. We looked at each other with wide eyes. We were delighted, full of trepidation, and happily flustered. We would take good care of these pigs. We would give them a great life, and they in turn would provide us with a lot of enjoyment and, ultimately, food.
“I think that guy was crazy,” I said, “And I guess we have pigs now.”
“Yes, he was, and yes, we do! I told you it was Pig Day!” Khaiti smiled at me, and I wished fervently that every day could be Pig Day. (But then of course we’d have too many pigs.)
We brought the girls home and got them into their hog-panel paddock in the drafty hoop house. They were tense and suspicious of their new home. They also produced a prodigious amount of poop. After a few minutes, they settled themselves into some straw and stopped moving. They huffed noisily and eyed us warily. There was a chill in the air, and they had just come from a warm barn. We hoped they could adjust without too much difficulty. We relaxed a little and agreed that it felt like this little farm had just grown up. Getting a couple of pigs seemed as if we’d received a “This Is an Authentic Farm” certificate.
The summer passed quickly in a blur of excitement and growth. The pigs gave us a lot of entertainment and manure. We gradually learned the ins and outs of pig farming, and in the end they provided the most delicious pork I’ve ever tasted.
Throughout this whirlwind year, we made bold choices, and we didn’t second-guess them. Without hesitating, we plunged forward and were rewarded with an incredible year full of hopes and dreams come true. Yes, I was worried here and there, but it seemed like the universe itself was behind the steering wheel of our crazy lives, so I let go and enjoyed the ride. With bold decisions come bold consequences, and with any luck life becomes exciting and rich.
That summer we found the farm of our dreams and bought it together. We moved there, and a few months later I realized that there was no point in putting off the inevitable. I asked Khaiti to marry me. Happily, she said yes, and we’re now on an endless farm-date in west-central Wisconsin.
The Fruits of My Labor
* * *
BY MAUD POWELL
On their farm, Wolf Gulch, in the Applegate Valley in southwestern Oregon, Maud Macrory Powell and her husband, Tom, grow produce and seed crops and coordinate the Siskiyou Sustainable Cooperative CSA. Maud also works part time as an extension agent for Oregon State University. They have two kids, Grace (twelve), and Sam (eight).
* * *
Every year, beginning in late August, I roll up my sleeves and give myself over to the fruits of our farm. Most of my waking hours at home are spent in the kitchen: chopping, squeezing, slicing, stirring, pouring, and then pulling beautiful jars from the hot-water bath and checking to see if the lids have sealed properly. I feel triumphant as I carefully line up the jars on our pantry shelves. Gone are the days of gourmet recipes for relishes and chutneys; I’m simply trying to get as much food in sealed jars as quickly as possible. Once harvest begins, the clock is ticking.
Every fall, I remind myself of the chocolate factory skit from “I Love Lucy,” in which Lucy and Ethel resort to desperate means to keep up with a conveyor belt. The work is neither precious nor exalted; it simply must be done. The heavy frosts of early November are approaching rapidly.
Meanwhile my husband, Tom, is outside transplanting fall crops, pulling drip tape off the fields, tilling in the summer crops, and broadcasting cover-crop seed. Part of me longs to be out there with him; I’d like to be moving my body more and feeling the elements on my skin. But the reality is that all the work needs to be done, and no piece of it is more valuable than another. Yet I’m still sometimes shocked at the conventional role I’ve ended up in on our farm: I’m in the kitchen and Tom is in the fields.
Tom and I first apprenticed on a farm together twelve years ago. During our training period, he and I followed a parallel trajectory in agriculture. We learned to drive a tractor, set up irrigation, and transplant, cultivate, and harvest alongside each other. Perhaps because I was brought up by a feminist mother who was one of a handful of women in her law school class, I believed that my career should be high-powered, professional, and linear. In the world of agriculture, that meant operating heavy equipment, making decisions about what grew in the fields, and controlling all the systems on our farm. It meant that Tom and I would split the work equally and our roles would be interchangeable.
While I was pregnant with our first child, I imagined working in the field with our baby strapped to my back, taking short breaks to breastfeed in the field. I intended to keep up with Tom and stay on equal footing in our farm operation. But toward the end of my pregnancy, I became acutely aware of the biological differences in our bodies. I had grown a human child in my uterus and would shortly be feeding her from glands in my fatty tissue. Tom had also engaged in sexual reproduction, yet his body remained fundamentally unchanged. Even so, I clung to the hope that my relationship to farming would continue to be the same as Tom’s. Pregnancy, birth, and lactation were to be peripheral activities that briefly called me away from my life’s purpose: farming.
Almost as soon as our daughter, Grace, was born, Tom and I fell into a traditionally gendered division of labor. I completely underestimated the amount of energy and time breastfeeding and childrearing would take. I also underestimated the love and devotion I would feel for my child, who immediately became the center of my life.
When Grace was three months old, we moved to our newly purchased farm, Wolf Gulch. Tom set to work with the determination and tirelessness of a beaver: building ponds, surveying the hilly terrain for irrigation lines and field contours, planting trees, and repairing an old barn and shed. By default, I started managing the kitchen, the baby, and the house. The trajectory of our lives suddenly split; our daily activities and tasks, which had been virtually identical, now barely overlapped. I felt torn and confused. On the one hand, I loved caring for our baby and couldn’t imagine handing her over to someone else for hours a day. On the other hand, I could feel the sense of an equal partnership on the farm slipping away each day, as Tom alone learned the nuances of running our new tractor and designed complex infrastructure systems that would serve as the foundation of our farm.
For several years, I struggled to find my rightful place on the farm. I found it difficult to value my behind-the-scenes roles as CSA organizer, field helper, mother, cook, and food preserver. Four years after Grace was born, I gave birth to our son, Sam. Even though Tom and I made most decisions together, the difference in our roles rankled me. I felt a subtle yet incessant gnawing sensation: I must be the same as Tom in order to be of equal value. And yet time was always
short, and we gravitated to the tasks we were best at, which meant that our gendered roles became more entrenched. It was not until we began producing vegetable seed crops eight years ago that I truly began to appreciate my role as a female on our farm.
* * *
The difference in our roles rankled me. I felt a subtle yet incessant gnawing sensation: I must be the same as Tom in order to be of equal value.
* * *
Letting a plant go to seed is actually considered to be a fairly negligent act in the world of farmers and gardeners; the very phrase “go to seed” connotes dereliction. But my favorite part of growing seeds is the opportunity to observe plants through their life cycle. I’m always awed by what happens to them when they’re given free rein to manifest their biological potential. Onions and leeks send up four-to five-foot stalks with spiky balls of white or purple blossoms. A bed of parsnips transforms into a ten-foot-tall, densely matted forest of brown, feathery branches. A zucchini will grow to the size of a small ruminant; radishes become cantaloupe-size. My pregnant belly comes to mind, stretched beyond capacity and bursting with excess life. In my more philosophical moments, the produce we eat for dinner seems like lives that have been cut unnecessarily short.
Seed farming demands an intimate knowledge of a plant’s mating habits. Vegetables are no longer genderless. Some plants are male or female; others have flowers that are distinctly male or female; still others have blossoms that contain both male and female plant parts. The reproductive characteristics of each species affect how much isolation is required for a plant to produce good seed. Gender is significant, and creates dynamic relationships that warrant attention and care.