False Start

Every year when I plant sweet potatoes I feel like within days I need to get down on my knees and beg their forgiveness.  The word that comes to mind when I furtively glance their way is “assault,” and I feel bad about it.  Their perforated leaves look like mini hail clouds parked right over them and dumped, only moving on when every last leaf looked like it had been sufficiently battered.



Oh, dear....



But, every year I also come to realize this early stage is short lived.  Within weeks the slips shoot out hardier vines and leaves that stand up to the sky with an air of defiance.  The bugs that caused the real damage move on.  Once the sweet potatoes establish that yes, they belong there, watch out.  And be sure any gardening implements are out of their way because you’ll surely never see them again unless the vines themselves decide to scoot them back out to you.



More like it....



Babies (of two kinds) under cover

The sweet potato doesn’t cave when conditions appear unsavory.  It grasps its power from within, and explodes with confidence.  With each new day the crop grows stronger, spreading out a green wave of vitality while cool quiet orange fortitude ripens with stamina.

Happiness!  Best results always come from hilled plantings, newspaper mulch, covered in lovely heat absorbing black plastic.



The Way I See It

Always a welcome sight

This growing season in Central Virginia is like no other I’ve seen.  Regular spring rains emerging into regular early summer rains have kept the ground soft, always at the ready to absorb more generosity from the sky.  Roots have dug in deep, branching out and reaching nutrients ready to work their way towards the setting fruit or fattened root. I have potatoes the size of my fist which I'm giving away by the bagload. Big Red, our Super A Farmall Tractor, could barely make it through the alfalfa pasture due to the density and lushness of the grass.  Nobody was complaining about that, except for maybe Big Red.

A few steps up from the reel mower, and just as green when operated thusly.

So getting all philosophical, I have been looking at this on a metaphorical level.  What has affected the growth all around me has been the conditions.  You can artificially water anything, but you come to a point where you realize if it isn’t happening naturally, it’s not really going to reach its potential.  It’s important to nudge things along and help out where you can, but even with that, the external conditions still rule.
 


Humble beginnings...

  

Some people treat plants (and other aspects of life) with artificial fertilizers, tricking nature into thinking the goods are there.  But the downside to this is the residue, the poisons that linger long after the fruit has been picked.  I, for one, don’t feel that simulated goodness can keep anything surviving for long. Over time the once fertile ground has been robbed of what’s real.



What a difference plants, sun, soil, water, and care make.



Conditions matter.  This is evident in health, happiness, and relationships.  The best examples of these come from conditions that are conducive to growth without artificial anything.  Vitality is a thing of beauty, made so by the zest and energy from within.  When an uncontained spirit can move through life without artificial barriers, it is something amazing to behold. 

On the Road Again

One major lesson I’ve learned from farming and gardening will stick with me forever, no matter what I do or where I go.  The book I’ve just read, The Dirty Life: On Farming, Food, and Love by Kristin Kimball speaks to it like this: nothing turns out the way you’d expect – never as perfect as you’d hoped or as awful as you feared. 

But for me, there’s a bit more, and that’s tied to what was never expected in the first place, the surprise that surfaces where you least imagined it.  For positive things, this elicits feelings of good fortune, and for negative occurrences, a state of shock that cuts wallowing off at the pass and steers you in the direction of figuring out what to do about it instead.

It’s like traveling.  I may hope to get from point A to point B in record time, but who knows what will happen along the way?  And as I’ve gotten older, record time is rarely, if ever, a goal.  I just want to get there, and if I end up on a detour that shows me places I never knew about, then all the better.  Quite possibly, I'll learn something.



Two cows diverged on a rainy road...



And on the farm, minor detours (and some major ones) occur pretty regularly.  A few weeks back I had gotten my morning work in, showered, and was ready to sit and relax with a cup of tea and a book on the back porch.  Before I managed even a sip I heard a sound that my brain attempted to classify as “not a problem,” but the gardener in me stood her ground and proclaimed “No chicken is free to roam my garden!”

I shouted into the house, “Chicken’s out, I got it!” and not even changing out of my dress into more appropriate farm clothes, I put on my boots and headed out with the dogs to catch her and put her back in the tractor to join the others, lickity split.  When the dogs headed in two different directions, the optimist in me paid no mind.  I looked in the tractor, which is when the pessimist revealed herself, hissing, “Oh, shit!”

So they were all out.  OK, so maybe I don’t got it after all.  I went inside and told the others, who were also enjoying other plans, to stop relaxing and help me catch the chickens.   I changed clothes, ready for some real work.

Have you ever gone on a chicken catching expedition?  One with fences, and brambles, and plants you don’t want trampled?  Oh, and with chickens? I had the added quality of “I CAN’T GET STUNG!” as part of this mix, so crawling over a yellow jacket hive was high on my list of things I didn’t want to do that day.

This is more his style, but he's willing to put in overtime herding chickens.

Squawking, fur flying, and confirming evidence that humans cannot (and should not) dive through fences ensued.  The dogs managed to push a few out from the grapevine tunnel allowing my son and me to each catch one as they sprinted past.  More were scurrying around in the pasture, so the Border collie rounded them up, nipping at their tails while we caught up and pounced. 

After those were caught, we realized we had a couple more to go.  The brain starts in with the dialogue of what may be.  No sign of them, which could mean they might have been taken by fox, weasel, or raccoons.  At this point I had no idea how long they’d been out, and anything was possible.  They could be in a tree somewhere or on the neighbor’s farm, either scratching at the back door or simmering in the stew pot.  I decided the best way to figure it out was to stay put in the garden, and just listen.  The book would have to wait, I’d have time later for another cup of tea, and what’s two showers in one morning?  It has rained cats and dogs this year and I'm on a well.

I worked in silence for a good thirty minutes.  I mentioned earlier my need to avoid stinging insects for the time being, so late morning gardening proved a bit nerve racking as everywhere I turned I heard buzzing or saw my nemeses zip by.  Believe me, I love them all, but until I know which one morphs me into a human strawberry, I have to be careful. 

The rest of the family altered their plans as well since they were already out, forced into farm work about seven hours before they had planned.  If there’s a mantra on this farm it’s this:  Adjust.



OK, now I get it.

So as I was discovering the reason why we thin carrots, I noticed my lab inching towards the blackberry bushes, ears cocked, nose doing the hula.  I crept behind her and heard a low baaaaaaaawk.  “Get it!” I cried.  She looked up at me slowly, her eyes clearly expressing, “But that will hurt.”

I called the Border collie, and the rest of the family came running, hearing the urgency in my voice.  When the collie approached, his eyes said the usual, “I live to serve.  What do you require of me, your humble servant?”  Without hesitation he burrowed into the brambles and sent two chickens exploding out.  My son caught one, and I just missed the other as I watched it slip through the fence.  I was over it in flash and trapped the chicken as she tried to get back through. The dogs were there in a heartbeat to help.



Home, home again....

So my morning hadn’t turned out as planned, and despite the potential problems, all was well.  The chickens were safe and sound again, the humans experienced challenging agility exercises, and the dogs got to practice what they do best.  It wasn’t my ideal late Sunday morning, but the outcome was ideal.  I guess it doesn’t matter how you get there as long as you enjoy the journey.

El-a-strate Me! (oh... you can't!)

I’m reading the book The Dirty Life: On Farming, Food, and Love, by Kristen Kimball. This woman has gotten into farming way beyond what I have, but periodically she stops to explain something I’m already well-versed in.  I admit that feels pretty good.  I want to feel like I’m growing and changing as a person in this farming experience, despite the fact that I naively got into it thinking it was mostly for the kids.

When the author mentioned the elastrator in her book, I knew I was in good company.  I even sort of felt, you know, like official and all that.  Every so often I get reminders that yes, I’m a farmer.  Sometimes it’s when I have some nugget of knowledge about garlic bulbils or goat cheese processing that makes city folk gasp in amazement.  At other times, it’s when I say something that makes people wonder how far I’ve gone off the deep end.  My elastrator knowledge put me in the latter category.

A fellow grad student was lamenting the upcoming neutering and subsequent vet bill for her golden retriever.  As we sat at our desks, side by side, plugging away at our computers, I suggested she just let me do it.  It would only cost her the price of a rubber band, and I’d throw that in for free.

Still focused on my computer, I told her how easy castration is with the elastrator.  Just slip the band over the four collapsed metal prongs, widen it out with the hand lever, slip it over the testicles as you lace them through, release, and viola!

Silence.

I looked over to see two faces, hers and the office mate’s beyond, searching me like they were still trying to figure out if I was joking or if they’d just discovered what a sick individual I really am.

“What?” I said with honesty.

That gave them their answer.

They quickly fixed their eyes rigidly on their computers, breathed deeply and calculated what to say.

The dog owner broke the silence.  “That can’t be sanitary.  And besides, how would you even anesthetize him?”

Pshaw!  That’s easy!  No anesthesia necessary.  It’s a slow, painless process.   The animal has no idea.  In fact, the sheep just run off and play after getting banded.  We do the same to their tails. You see, the band cuts off circulation.  The testicles just wither up and fall off in a few weeks.  The kids get a kick out of it when they find them in the fields.

Less inconspicuously, both women grabbed their stomachs, eyes wide with alarm and disgust.

“Whaaaaat?!” I said defending standard farming procedures.

The other friend exclaimed, “HOW can you do that to sweet innocent babies?!”

Easy, I said.

A farm full of adult male animals is a slew of problems waiting to happen.  After having a Jack on the farm, I understand the potency of calling someone “a real jackass.”  Roosters, Billy goats, rams, and jacks will fight, knock down fences, intentionally hurt young animals, and pee on themselves if there’s a female nearby they want to impress. Billy goats spray their own faces.  Nice,huh?  Maybe they’re really out to demonstrate flexibility, who knows?  I recommend when you go for goat meat, choose the skinless variety.

 When my boys learned that the daddy sheep had to be removed from the lambing field so he wouldn’t kill his offspring, they were shocked and hurt.  But, that’s nature.  The mama has the genetic disposition to want the lamb, and care for it at any cost.  The ram hates the competition and is suspicious of the newcomer, wondering where the heck he came from anyway.

The ounce of one elastrator band is worth many pounds of cure. In fact, wethers (neutered goats and rams) pack on a few extra, which means more meat per animal. Plus, they become sweet, gentle, and will lovingly befriend the newborns frolicking in the fields.  I’d say having their manhood squeezed off of them brings a marked improvement in disposition, not to mention civility. 



A mama with two females and a male (for the time being).



So yea, after being on my farm seven full years, I can say that I have an elastrator, and will use it with supreme( ball handling) skill.  My friends aren’t as alarmed at my understanding and know how when it comes to ear tagging, but then again, my friends have pierced ears.

Lunch Line

Lately I’ve been noticing how kids these days have quite a different perspective on food than was typical when I was young.  In my day, going to McDonald’s was a treat.  Today, kids do a pretty convincing vomit act at the mere mention of the place.  I felt kind of sorry for my son’s basketball coach when his team reacted with such vehement disgust after he enthusiastically told them they’d get to go to Micky D’s on the way back from a game.  Here he was trying to be cool and with it, but instead must’ve felt like all the kids were hand gesturing upper case L’s on their foreheads, extending them in his general direction.  They went, but some kids, including mine, chose not to eat.

And this stance didn’t come from me.  It’s part of the peer culture.  A couple weeks ago I took my 11 year old son and his friend to Subway, right across the road from their school, 20 minutes before a school activity was set to start.  The friend walked in, looking around like he had just stepped into a bizarre wax museum.  Before they ordered he asked, “Is the food here organic?”  Um, no.  “Is it local?”  No, it’s Subway, whattayawant?  He wasn’t sure.  Putting the pieces together here was a whole new experience for him. 

A recent issue of “Educational Researcher” had an article on nutrition tied to academic achievement.   The authors suggested that a deeply entrenched stigma of poor quality has been the accepted norm for school lunches for years, and big business contracts have kept cheap food (aka crap) on the lunch line.  But gradually, people have taken stabs at changing this.  Currently a local district is facing parental concerns that the food choices are too high in sugar and too low in nutritional value.  The parents are becoming vocal, and have garnered support from key figures in the mayor’s office and on city council.  The request is this simple line: Please serve nutritious food.  All kids deserve it regardless of whether their lunch is subsidized or not.

And there’s the rub.  For many children, 2/3 of their daily meals are free or at a reduced price, and school systems strive to cut costs in the interest of volume.  Some of these children actually receive all their meals at school, as dinner isn’t served in every household.  So yes, I’m willing to have my tax dollars go towards improved nutrition for these kids for the simple reason that they’re kids.  They’re growing, they’re learning about food choices, and they can’t do it on their own.  Just as I feel the school system should teach them how to write, I feel they should teach them by example how to eat.

And a cool thing about eating well is that there’s this added benefit of feeling good.  Who doesn’t learn better when their body is well-tuned towards it?  I have seen calm, quiet kindergarteners get out of control after their breakfast of sugar cookies (well, the label said “cinnamon rolls” but the actual item was a cookie with a swirl of cinnamon icing) and strawberry milk.  When adults scold children for acting out after watching them pump themselves full of sugar, I just cringe.  Bodies respond to what’s inside them, so let’s give kids some real power in the form of nutrition.  If standards are the end all and be all, how about we legitimately address nutritional standards? Perhaps one day we’ll actually have fewer people taxing the health care system with bad-habit induced health problems. 

No, don’t look away policy makers.  Pay attention!  The problem won’t go away by ignoring it or quibbling over immediate costs, which is the overused counter line.  Yea, it’ll cost money.  So does childhood obesity, diabetes, and a whole slew of health problems that will surely follow.  Instead of digging a hole where nutritional value gets buried, why not build a garden instead and get kids moving and eating right?  Quality in every way, shape, and form is worth it.

Input

I write this blog for a couple reasons: first, I like recording things as I begin to understand them; second, writing this sort of creative free-form way creates space for me to do the more tedious formulaic writing I do for a living. Writing the blog is like a mini vacation; when I get back to the more technical stuff, I feel invigorated, and ready to tackle the apollonian aspect of my life with energy and a positive attitude.  My output requires brainwork that reaches outside the office, stepping into the garden for a few tender bits to savor.

At times this garden walk is metaphorical, approached in an unexpected way. For instance, this blog has a stats section where I can see how people get to me.  Up until recently it’s been through Facebook or a straight shot on blogger.  I have friends who blog and will cite certain searches that led people to their blog.  I thought they had some sort of extra analysis tool that I was lacking, but recently, I saw that it shows up clear as day.  My stats showed the search line “a poem about rain softening everything.”  They found my post “Beautiful Reign,” and hung out to see what else I had to say.

I’m grateful, because when I did the search myself, I found this poem by Sara Teasdale here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sara_Teasdale

There Will Come Soft Rains

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pool singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself when she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone.

Published shortly after WWI, I find it amazing that her words ring true now with the wars we know today; wars against people and their beliefs and wars against all forms of sustainability.  In Teasdale’s poem, there is peace unaltered by human activity.  Written in 1920, this pre factory farming perception speaks assuredly of nature’s power. 

Further towards our modern ways, E.B. White said that mankind’s approach to nature is to beat it into submission.  “...too ingenious for its own good,” he suggested the human race should appreciate nature rather than try to rule it.

But, I can’t quite go down that road because I need to ask first who he meant?  The human race is a big group of people.  Surely not all of us went the dictatorial route, maybe just the ones with the big guns.  Sadly though, that’s been enough to create devastating change.

However, ingenuity coupled with observation that takes in the whole is a completely different matter.  There have been plenty of groups who figured out how to keep things going without trying to rule nature; abundant crops, pest control (not pest destruction), and stable animal populations have been a part of some human existence for ages. Also, various groups have historically understood that natural influences on production are a way of life, and adjusting to these is part of being human.  There’s a process that leads to product; input is the magic that generates output. 

In my opinion, that’s the difference between sustainable practices and agribusiness.  The former respects input, the latter glorifies output at any cost.  Sustainability is all about process; there’s a road one travels where any glance back is met with a beautiful view of a thriving ecology.  Its opposite leaves a scene that’s been stripped and flattened, confused about how it will manage to regain the severed connections.  But, as Teasdale wrote, nature will find a way.  She might not be able to support the humans anymore in the rebuilding, but she’ll rebuild all the same.

A link you may find of interest is attached below.  I found this when I searched “sustainability practices around the world.”  For those interested in seeing what some humans have knows for quite some time now, take a look!

http://insight.glos.ac.uk/sustainability/unescoculture/Pages/default.aspx

Garden Groove

Sometimes in the car or garden I have these eureka moments, which could be really cool if I actually remembered what they were at least some of the time.  For my blog, I bought myself a pretty nifty voice recorder so that I could document these amazing thoughts as they occur.  Now, if I could just locate it, I’d be set.  Last week while harvesting potatoes, I’m pretty sure I uncovered life’s greatest paradox.  But like a dream, it slipped away before I made it out the garden gate. 

As a kid, I loved car rides because I could somehow be alone with my thoughts with 6 other passengers and a blaring radio.  My family was big on educational field trips to historic places and natural wonders.  I was always disappointed when we arrived because it meant my thinking time had come to an end and I’d have to get out and learn something.

 It’s interesting that the other place where this happens to me is the polar opposite to the loud confining high speed venue where my thoughts can get cosmic.  When I go out to garden, it’s to do maybe one or two specific things that may or may not get done once I get out there.  I get into a flow where I just do what catches my attention, and when I get really into it, whatever my task is teaches me something.

Perhaps because I have a big garden, people often ask if I have my kids do garden chores for me, assuming, I suppose that it’s too much for one person. 

No.  I don’t.

 And besides, “garden chore” is an oxymoron.  Well, I guess I’ll make an exception for Bermuda grass, but even that can be a good thing if you’re in the right frame of mind.

Is this wrong?  Am I denying my children the hours of drudgery that every childhood should earn like a badge? If they want to come out, great, but they know that I’m not out there to chit chat and get all “educational,” unless they ask for it.

At times I will call them out to see something of immediate interest, but the garden’s not about work and it’s not about togetherness.  It’s about reflection and being in flow because that’s just what happens to me.  When people come out and ask me questions, like “When are we eating?” or “Have you seen my shin guards?” I’m sure they can see the gears working as I come back to the here and now.  It’s sad, really, to see how long it takes me to register what’s been said.  Early onset?  No, just a woman doing what she loves and welcoming the drift into a different consciousness that naturally comes with it.

On occasion I’ve had opportunities to garden with others who are really into it.  We ride the same wave of peaceful , quiet concentration and it’s a beautiful thing. When I get to enjoy that, it’s like a new bond has formed, similar to the connection one feels as they realize they’ve met their best friend.  It’s deep and rooted, where understanding and love get things growing.  As I said earlier, it’s not about togetherness, but I guess what I meant in my words above is forced togetherness.  That just can’t happen.  However, real connection happens naturally when you garden with a fellow gardener.  I guess it’s like in sync musicians getting a good groove going, celebrating the unspoken joy of sharing a common language that only registers with a few.