Reports from the Farm

One Small Step for Pinwheel, and Mankind, and the Planet

2011-03-11T23:47:00.003-05:00

About 11 years ago, we enrolled 2.3 acres of our approximately 12-acre farm in the USDA's Conservation Reserve Program (CRP) as a Riparian Buffer Strip. Setting aside some adjacent odd corners that weren't eligible for the program gave us a total of about 2.5 A (20% of the farm!) that is "set aside". We receive a modest annual lease payment for maintaining this land by keeping it free of noxious weeds and cedar trees, and by mostly just leaving it alone. We are not even supposed to walk in the same place all the time, but the deer don't know that, and we tend to follow their trails on the rare occasions we traipse around out there. We do sometimes mow a path along the slope that isn't in the CRP proper.

In aerial views (try Google Earth for 1480 N. 1700 Rd., Lawrence, KS 66044), you see a shaggy-looking diagonal band on the west of the pasture, and along the north. It is 150 feet wide: 50 feet we planted to trees that would look beautiful, while providing food for wildlife, and eventually for us, and 100 feet we planted to native Kansas tallgrass prairie grasses and forbs (wildflowers) that would provide excellent habitat for wild creatures of all kinds, while slowing any run-off (and erosion) from our farm into the Maple Grove Tributary to the west, and the unnamed drainage channel to the north.

This land was eligible for the CRP program because it had been in row crops--corn and soybeans--when we bought it. On a certain sloping area, in a 100' diameter circle, not even weeds would grow, and the corn would get maybe a foot or two tall, producing nothing. The ruts between rows of corn were as deep as the plants were tall. Old-timers tell us that the 1951 flood left a "sand boil" there--like a sinkhole, but filled with pure sand. Indeed, the soil there is nearly pure sand. No wonder nothing grows.

Not even the trees we planted took hold there, but a few species of the tallgrass mix we planted made themselves right at home. Amidst the little prairie of 10' tall Big Bluestem and Indian Grass, there is a circular amphitheatre of Little Bluestem and Sideoats Grama, spanning both the 50' "tree" band and the 100' "grass" band.

In another part of the area seeded to grasses--near the south end, the highest ground--the taller grasses have done well, but thousands of elm trees have sprouted into an impenetrable woods.

On the low north end, many different tree species that we didn't plant have found their way to the farm by wind and birds: ash, sycamore, ornamental pear, mulberry and cottonwood. The pears are lovely in the spring, provide flowers for bees, and produce lots of tiny, inedible fruit that the birds love in late winter.

Our planted trees and shrubs include wild plum, redbud, buffalo currant, burr oak, walnut, and pecan.

Periodically, the Farm Service Agency or Conservation Service folks have come out for an inspection. We always have a nice hike, and they have approved what they saw. Our "management plan", as far as I knew, was "natural succession", which means that instead of trying to keep it the same for ever and ever, we would let nature take its course and "evolve" into whatever the land wanted its ecosystem to be (minus noxious weeds).

This year heralded a change: satellite imaging good enough that they could sit in the office and "walk around" the farm. I received a satellite photo in the mail with angry red circles: trees in the area that was supposed to be grass.

But I thought we were doing "natural succession"????

"No, you are not, not in the grassland, only in the tree band," I was told. After all these years, cutting down about an acre of trees would take longer than the April 15 deadline "or we will demand a refund of all payments plus penalties and interest"...even if I didn't have sheep shearing, lambing, spring planting, plumbing, policy work, and a full-time off-farm job.

They grudgingly offered that maybe they could change the management plan, if the board approved the change.

After a week on pins and needles, I found out today that they approved the change! The trees can live!

This is great news for me, just in terms of not having to do the work of cutting them down to avoid a payback I couldn't afford. But it's really much bigger than that.

Compared with the original corn/soybeans, or even with the tallgrass, those trees have sequestered a LOT of carbon...meaning that they have taken it out of the atmosphere and stored it in their trunks and roots. CO2 (carbon dioxide) is the "greenhouse gas" that is causing global climate change. Our atmosphere currently has about 388 parts per million (ppm) CO2. Scientists have said for decades, and continue to affirm, that this is TOO MUCH CO2 for life as we know it to continue. We need to get the CO2 level down...down to 350 ppm or below. We need to do this as soon as possible. (for more information see www.350.org.)

But how? Well, all the yucky stuff about using less energy in our daily lives, of course. And switching to renewable energy...but not just any renewable. Burning anything releases CO2 into the atmosphere, so though it conserves fossil fuels, burning firewood to heat our homes and ethanol or bio-diesel to run our cars isn't going to solve the problem. Solar and wind--and ironically, nuclear--are good energy alternatives, as well as hydroelectric and geothermal where they can be effectively used.

There's a happier, really green side of getting the CO2 levels down, too: trees. We all need to plant lots and lots of trees, and preserve the older trees we have! Trees to reforest lands slashed and burned to produce lumber and increase conventional cropland. Trees to fill vacant lots and odd corners of land, like the slope along the west edge of my land. Trees around our houses and along our streets.

Trees do so much more than just capture CO2! The CRP trees have nearly obscured most of the lights and much of the noise from commercial and industrial areas nearby, as well as the highways. Lumber is one way of sequestering carbon...using trees without burning them to release their carbon back to the atmosphere. Trees can also reduce energy needs by cooling our houses and slowing wild winter winds. And they can provide food for us and the rest of creation.

I don't know whether the FSA board took all this into account when they decided to let my CRP keep its trees. But these are many of the happy outcomes of their decision. Long live the trees! So that if we're lucky, long live us!

Drowsy Winter, Beginning Spring

2011-03-06T03:37:00.003-05:00

Winter turns me more nocturnal than usual, and this winter especially since I've put so many late nights in working on the house project. Nary an end in sight there, though much progress has been made...I've resigned to not being "done" before the farming season starts, and continuing to plug along at it while doing all the usual farm stuff as well.

No idea how that will "work". It's not like I have enough time as it is, without lambs and planting and harvesting and Farmer's Market...but I trust that I will figure it out as I go along.

Today, though, I've realized that I'm beginning to feel "spring", and that means more energy, more interest in poking around in the dirt, more enthusiasm for getting out there and doing stuff. A dim remembrance grows in the back of my brain...oh, that's why I've been so ineffective and slow at getting stuff done this winter. I've been in the cold-induced stupor of the goldfish at the bottom of the stock tanks: alive, and essentially thriving, but in suspended animation.

So, in a few minutes this morning before work, I pulled enough weeds in the high tunnel to direct seed some broccoli and cauliflower transplants, and weeded out a few of the many volunteer Upland Cress and arugula plants. Pesto, anyone? The garlic and regular chives are sprouting, ditto the chard. Lots of Ruby Streaks mustard greens, too.

Chard is amazing! The plants in the high tunnel are now 1 1/2 years old...we harvested for 2 seasons last year, and looks like at least one more season this year. Who knows how long they'll keep going? And all this with no irrigation, inside the high tunnel! There are some new plants, too, germinated by the 1/2 inch of rain last fall when we took the high tunnel cover off for a week.

Outside, there is kale and mustard and other greens under row covers. The sorrel is sprouting up, and there are fresh green leaves hugging the ground under the dead branches of lemon balm.

As I wander, investigating, taking a census of the survivors, I nibble little bits of this and that. The leaves are thick and dense and bursting with flavor, nothing at all like the vegetables in their usual main-season form. I suspect the tiny handful I browsed today had more nutrients than a couple bags of grocery store salad put together. I want to do some research on that, to document that really, even small bits of really intensely healthy plants can make a significant contribution to a balanced diet.

So much to study, experiment, learn and do! Full of ideas this year, as always. Track soil temperatures and learn what the parameters are for various weeds, so I can better use them as indicators. Effects of rain and high tunnel on soil temperatures. How to make the high tunnel cover easier to take off and put on (alone). How to capture and re-direct and store the rainwater that runs off the barn and high tunnel so I can grow more in the high tunnel without

irrigating. How to replicate and manage the micro-climate effect of the barrels of water at the back of the high tunnel.

I visited Mom and Dad in Manhattan, KS, recently: like looking in a mirror! They are dreaming and plotting and planning as well, along the lines of integrated tilapia/vegetable production in their high tunnel. So many possibilities!

Planning Season, Revisited

2011-02-09T23:11:00.003-05:00

This time last year I was busily putting together our Conditional Use Permit submittal. As long-time readers may recall...well...you don't recall because I never told you. Last year's efforts to be able to legally camp on our farm were brought to a stunned halt by heated opposition from a small but vocal group of neighbors. After that, I was simply too exhausted and too emotionally raw to write about the Public Hearings. And, without any housing options for volunteers after the new tenants moved into the farmhouse in May, I was simply way too busy farming solo to write about what had happened.

At the Public Hearings in April and May, we were utterly blind-sided by neighborhood opposition. We--lifetime outdoor livers that we are--were astounded to learn that some people consider anyone who sleeps in a tent or camper to be lawless, filthy, rabble-rousing hoodlums, undesirable in our nice suburban neighborhood..probably pedophiles, in fact. Really. The public record contains comments alleging that if the same people who were house guests under my roof were to take the tents out of their car trunks and set them up on the pasture at night and sleep there, they too would become vagabonds. Really. Canvas (or ripstop nylon, in this modern age of high-tech camping) apparently has that effect on people. My neighbors vouch for this. Who knew?

Very politely summarized minutes of the proceedings are at http://www.lawrenceplanning.org/documents/pcminApril10.pdf (pages 3-13) and http://www.lawrenceplanning.org/documents/pcminMay10.pdf (pages 37-42).

Maybe that gives you a little window into why (aside from a busy farm season and full-time job and nursing my beloved dying partner of 12 years (see "Losing Toss")) I didn't write much last summer and fall. Just...speechless.

Now it's 2011. A new year. A new farming season. New hordes of eager farm volunteers contacting me from all over the country seeking internships. And in late January I picked up the phone and asked my long-suffering planner to put the CUP back on the Planning Commission agenda on March 30, 2011.

I'm better prepared this time. I know what's coming...I think.

Most of my effort this time can be directed toward educating people about the project and gathering support, instead of the exhaustive policy and writing work of last year. I'm planning a community meeting--hopefully early March--to try to discuss the issues with concerned parties in a more informal setting than the public hearing. We'll have open houses at the farm for interested parties to actually see the farm from the inside, rather than the rather shaggy street view. I'll blog more, email more, etc. We'll actually get the farm web site up this year so we can make materials readily available online.

Over the intervening year, I have attempted other avenues towards legally being able to camp at the farm. Increasingly detailed study of the regulations have proved very, very interesting. Logical inconsistencies: Camping is allegedly illegal because it is not an explicitly permitted use in the zoning regulations. But, hunting is allegedly legal, and the regulations are just as silent about hunting as they are about camping. I guess it's easier to threaten to fine someone napping in a camper, than someone holding a deer rifle? It can't be that sanitation isn't a concern for hunters...trust me, they are out there for hours on end, and not a portapotty in sight.

The demand for opportunities to volunteer on the farm has been amazing. Between July and December, I had many inquiries from potential WWOOFers and Growing Grower apprentices that I had to turn down. Had all of these people come for the time periods they offered, it would have totaled about 3,000 hours of volunteer work on the farm.

I got to see what the farm looks like without volunteers this summer and fall. In the spring, we had a lot of WWOOFers and it was tremendously fun and productive. Then after May, we only had a few day volunteers, and things started to wind down. By late summer, it was pretty much just me and the tomatoes. Without very many volunteers, almost no landscaping or maintenance got done, since no one but me knew how to run the mower...and we had some mower malfunctions, which no one but me knew how to fix. And it was all I could do to keep up with sheep rotations and tomato picking and Farmer's Market. A very dry fall meant no fall greens to speak of...kind of a good thing, because I would not have had time to harvest them.

There have also been little bits of progress on a larger scale. The County is revising and clarifying some of its regulations, and camping will be much more explicitly addressed, with my experiences and the farm's needs being taken into consideration in the process. A group has been working diligently on developing new county policy supporting and guiding "agritourism", which would include the sort of camping/learning/volunteering experiences we are wanting to allow.

Please contact me if you want to be kept up-to-date on activities related to this effort. Look for Pinwheel Farm on FaceBook; email me at natalyalowther@hotmail.com; or call 785-979-6786.

Thinking Towards Spring

2011-02-09T22:20:00.005-05:00

Despite the weekly snows that keep never quite melt out on the farm, I can tell that spring is coming. The birds have it in their voices. I can see the cottonwood and silver maple buds swelling on the branches. I read it in the lines of wild geese at sunset, silhouetted against the sky.

I see it heralded in the mail, as well: seed catalogues, dairy and sheep supply catalogues, poultry catalogues.

I hear bits of talk among friends of seed starting, garden planning, CSA marketing. People ask, "Now, when does Farmer's Market start up again?" At Pinwheel, we start planting as soon as snow is off the ground, hopefully in early March. Looking out across white lawns and fields, it seems impossible. But each afternoon brings unexpected melting, even if the thermometer still reads below freezing.

I get a call from one of my fellow shepherds, confirming my flock size so she can make arrangements with the shearer. Sheep Shearing Day is set for March 19--only a little more than a month away! People I meet in the grocery store ask about it more and more. I get emails from people offering to come help.

Shearing heralds lambing: The beginning of April should bring lambs on the ground, as well as Farmer's Market Opening Day. People start enquiring about helping with lambing, volunteering in the garden, interning for the season.

The Planting Season is preceded by the Planning Season. To-do lists, lists of seeds to order, garden plans, talking with potential volunteers, planning, planning, planning.

Calling the sheep

2011-01-27T02:51:00.002-05:00

I'm figuring out how to include sound recordings in the blogs and on facebook. There may be a more graceful way, but at least I've figured out how to include a link to the host site for the recording. Any unattributed vocals or instrumental work on the blogs will be me.

"Come, Sheep" was written during my sabbatical travels, and is based on my working "sheep call" at the farm.

Losing Toss

2010-09-17T01:46:00.005-04:00

Toss was a very good dog,

Toss--Toss--Toss--Toss--
Toss was a very good dog.

That is the little song that I made up and sang to her when she looked so scared, riding home with me when I first got her more than 12 years ago. I did it to steady my own nerves, but it turned out that Toss loved music of any kind, and it soothed her as well as me.

Looking back through the summer's posts, I realize that I've neglected to mention her passing.

After her grave illness early in the summer, she rallied amazingly. I continued to carry her up and down the stairs, but otherwise she was fairly active and clearly enjoying life. Aside from never really getting her old appetite back (and she was always an indifferent eater), she seemed quite normal.

In early August, it became harder to coax her to eat, and she was clearly losing weight. Something about her--an attitude, a look in her eyes, the set of her ears--reminded me of Ambrosius in his final days. Sure enough, blood tests confirmed that her kidneys were failing significantly.

I lavished the same tender supportive care on her that I'd given Ambrosius, waiting to know when it was time to let her go. Even with subcutaneous fluids, she was clearly departing this life at a rapid rate.

My daughter and her family and several friends stopped by to say goodbye during her final days. She had many, many friends.

On a Sunday evening, three days before her 15th birthday, she slowly walked up to me and pressed her forehead against my knee, something she had never done before. My understanding of her gesture was intuitive and complete. She was asking for it to be over.

The next morning I made an appointment with the vet, and made arrangements for one of our long-time friends to drive us there. Then I went out to start digging her hole, in the spot beneath the torii that had been reserved for her since it was built.

I left her in the coolest shade by the big mulberry tree, up by the barn, where she often hung out. But she haltingly made her way out the torii, surveyed my digging, watched her sheep grazing nearby. Then she walked back...the photo of her just about to pass from the deep shadow of the willows into the brilliant sunlight seems to convey a sense of her impending passing from the troubles of this world into whatever the next world is for dogs that have been faithful, generous, open-hearted, forgiving, and patient.

Our dear friend came at the appointed time, and I snapped a shot of their greeting/goodbye in the driveway just before we left.

Toss walked on her own into the exam room, very weak but calm, as beautiful and sweet as ever. In a few calm, quiet minutes, all that remained of that glorious being was an empty bag of bones, and a million memories. Peace, completion, gratitude for the gift of her life were the overwhelming feelings in my heart.

Dead sheep are never as limp as she was in my arms on the way home. And her 31 lbs. seemed to double when her buoyant spirit went out of the flesh. Not only could I not have driven safely because of tears, but I could not have managed the doors with her body so limp in my arms. It never had been so difficult when she was merely ill, even though she weighed 5 lbs. more during her illness.

We laid her in the waiting grave, curled naturally, with her same old collar on. One of my garden volunteers, A., was there, and she helped us to fill in the hole. As we put the last few shovels full of dirt on the mound, A. said, "We need some flowers" and came back a few minutes later with a nosegay of wildflowers which she laid on the bare dirt. No fancy words or rituals needed. Not even many tears. We each went on our separate ways, just another noontime. I "turned into a busdriver" and clocked in on time, hardly a thought back to the morning's work. The work was a good refocusing.

It's been about 6 weeks now without her...hard to believe it's only that little time! In the topsy-turvy life of tomato season and work and everything else, I rarely miss her. Partly, her overall decline and distancing was so gradual that life without her was simply the next step. Her growing deafness over the past couple years had gradually loosened our close communication, honed our relationship to a simple side-by-sideness that is difficult to describe.

I miss her presence, her friendship, the intelligent hard-working partnership we had for many years until her deafness took that away. But I don't feel the loss much, or often. When I do think of her--as in writing this--tears of gratitude and love flow freely. But seeing other dogs, even Border Collies, doesn't bring any pangs of regret or loss or loneliness, and I know that my life is not well suited for a dog at this time. There will be another Border Collie--never another Toss--someday, when I'm not working full time off the farm.

Yet I know that even though I don't explicitly mourn for her, or miss her, her absence is a significant thread in the cloak of isolation, loneliness and subtle depression that keeps wrapping its arms around me in odd moments. It has been a season of many changes and losses. They add up and weigh me down, those empty spaces do. Only time can fill them in. Meanwhile, I learn to live with them as peacefully as I can.

Catching Up

2010-09-17T01:09:00.003-04:00

A picture is worth a thousand words. Here are some recent photos from around the farm. I'm not even going to pretend to put the text in the order that Blogger puts the photos. Some of the images include:

A menage a trois of praying mantids: two males cling to the same female. After awhile, my presence seemed to startle one male and he scurried off; then I got some rather intimate shots of the remaining couple.... These are the big mantids that are most visibly common at the farm, about 4-5 inches long. As I struggle to clean up some of the weed patches, I'm finding numerous egg cases on green stalks, confirming that they are this year's batch. I always clip these out carefully and try to keep them safe for next spring.
A mantis of the smaller species rests nimbly on a water lettuce plant in the tank north of the high tunnel, where we capture the waste water from washing potatoes. Recently we released a school of ten tiny tilapia fish in this tank...my parents in Manhattan are sharing their high tunnel with a grad student who is doing an aquaculture/hydroponics pilot project destined for Uganda. Her fish weren't supposed to breed, but guess what....! It is great to have fish in my life again; guppies were constant childhood companions. I'd rather hang over a pond watching for a glimpse of fish any day, than punch away at silly some computer farming game. We'll move the fish indoors for the winter and see what happens.
A classic view of the torii and willow row. At a distance, you can't tell how much of the green is that nasty Japanese Hop Vine.
I was thrilled to have the camera with me when a goldfinch lit on a dead weed next to a blooming sunflower, as if trying out some camoflage! Two females are right below the brilliant male.
That gorgeous yellow-flowered "hedge" is Red Grape tomatoes, setting on a mind-boggling display of blooms that will turn into sweet red fruit in a few weeks. The vines were over 7' tall at one point, but now the tops are leaning over as the weight of developing fruit bears them down. Good thing...I'd hate to have to go up and down a ladder to pick tomatoes!

Beyond Dustbunnies

2010-08-20T23:31:00.003-04:00

Those who have been guests in my home very much have doubtless heard me refer to the fuzzy lumpy unidentifiable THINGS under the beds, in the corner behind the desk, etc. as "dust dragons"...because I invariably have some that are far too large to be considered "dustbunnies". When dissected, they prove to be primarily cat and dog hair, sometimes a long strand of my own, bits of blanket fuzz, dust, and other little shreds of stuff. As long as my allergy meds are working, they are quite harmless, and I don't place a terribly high priority on eradicating them unless they somehow manage to crawl out from under their hiding places and catch my attention. That generally only happens when I'm sweeping the floor for company, or rearranging the furniture.

Usually they don't move of their own volition.

Last night I was peacefully typing at the computer, minding my o

wn business, when a slight motion caught my peripheral vision. Something gray and fuzzy, about the size of a hen's egg, was on the floor at the base of the desk, near my chair. I turned to view it properly with my bifocals. Just a dustbunny, primary of Mike-the-cat origin.

AND THEN IT MOVED AGAIN, not very far, an awkward hoppish sort of motion brought up short, like a mechanical toy that is winding down.

I did a double-take. Looked again. Just a Mike dustbunny; my eyes must be playing...AND IT MOVED YET AGAIN.

I bent over and looked closely at it. I could just barely discern the poor little creature who was engulfed in a normal dustbunny: a small green tree frog. It looked rather dehydrated under all the cat hair.

I scooped it up and took it to the garage (where it could get outside if it escaped during its rescue), and gave it a bath in the bowl that the garage toads use. After much de-fluffing, I got down to just normal non-furry frog skin.

I was going to leave it in the garage, or just outside the garage door, but then it occurred to me that there would be plenty of moisture and good bug hunting around the light in the washhouse, so I took it out there. To my surprise, there was another, larger tree frog stationed there, hunting bugs!

Vine and Fig Tree

2010-08-06T01:09:00.002-04:00

"And everyone 'neath their vine and fig tree

Shall be at peace and unafraid..."

Perhaps these comforting words nudged me towards the row of fig trees along the south wall of the green barn tonight, when I was out working by headlamp with pruning shears. I'd found the break in the electric fence, but decided the repair would be best done in daylight. And the night was pleasant, and my mind was troubled by a disruption earlier in the day.

The fig trees are one of the beings on the farm that truly brings me untarnished joy, a joy that seems to spring from their very sap. This year the new growth is already over 8' tall, spreading fingered sandpapery leaves larger than my hands in elegant alternate patterns along the branches. On many of the stiff, erect stems, fat green immature figs spring jauntily from the base of each leaf where it attaches to the branch, large at the bottom, smaller and smaller up the stalk. The hottest day does not phase them. Insects leave them alone. They don't wilt or sunburn or fall prey to disease. They are pristine, brilliant green, exotic, a dense hedge now along the barn. And as if that weren't enough, they give off a breath of figs: the fragrance of fresh figs, making the very air exotically delicious on a hot summer day. Even on a not-to-warm night, not as humid as it has been most the summer, there is a breath of them when I draw near.

And then there are vines.

The vines referred to in scripture are grapes: THE vine, not A vine. I had the pruning shears in my hand because I'd been snipping wild grape vines off of the electric fences. When Jesus said, "I am the true vine, and you are the branches," did he intend for belief in his doctrine to overtake everything as swiftly as a growing grape vine, and to be as stubbornly hard to kill? Unless I dig these out by the roots, they will spring back again in a matter of days. Living water? I cut a large grape vine one year in early summer, such that the cut trunk bent over towards the grown. Sap flowed from the cut end like a very leaky faucet for a long time, so vigorous was the life force of the plant.

But the vine of concern among the figs this year is the vining milkweed. It's a beautiful vine, with dark leathery heartshaped leaves and small clusters of white flowers. Unlike most milkweeds, it does not have the milky sap (that makes it nicer to prune out when it entangles things). But the pods are large, fat classic milkweed pods filled with silky seedfeathers. Beautiful though it is, it is a strong twining vine that quickly ties everything together in a distorted mess.

My "farm therapy" tonight was to methodically cut and untwine every bit of vine from the figs. At first there just seemed to be a few, but it ended up taking about 45 minutes. Some were so tight around the fig branches that they left indentations. Hundreds of flower clusters gleamed in the light of the headlamp, waiting to become tens of thousands of seeds. I wantonly aborted them, poor un-conceived children. Willfully, but peacefully.

For I am at peace under my fig trees, and unafraid.

Except, perhaps, of the vines.

Burying Freckleface

2010-07-19T23:06:00.003-04:00

I cannot count the times that I would walk out to the sheep and my heart would stop for a moment, when I saw Freckleface lying stretched on his side. Sheep don't DO that...unless they are dead or very nearly so. So I assumed the worst, every time. But invariably I would call to him, and he would lazily flick an ear in annoyance at my interruption of his nap. I would roll my eyes at myself for falling for his "trick" once again, and for "awfulizing" the whole scenario of what I would do with a dead animal weighing easily several times what I weigh.

Yesterday afternoon, it was different. A visitor and I walked out to see the sheep late in the day. I cannot say how I knew, but even from a great distance, even without calling, this time I knew he was dead. And indeed, he seemed to have given up the ghost only a short time earlier. Only a few flies had come, his eyes were just beginning to dull, rigor mortis had not set in.

He was in the vestige of shade cast by the trees on the east side of the pasture. He always got first dibs over the sheep for the best shade. He had rolled over on the electric fence, pressing it to the ground beneath him. He was not tangled in it in any way, and I doubt that very much current would pass through him with it pressed against the ground, with all that fur for insulation, and fairly dry conditions.

Aslan, the yearling ram that has been Freckleface's constant companion, was laying very close to him. When we approached, Aslan gave me a solemn, piercing look and rose and walked away. I felt he had been keeping a vigil with his dying/dead companion, and now was turning things over to me. He did not look back, and did not return to Freckleface's side at any time later while I was there.

The ewes and lambs seemed unconcerned. They had sought out scraps of shade as best they could, a tall tuft of grass near a fence post, or a grapevine "shrub", or a small elm tree, and were chewing their cuds.

The visitor and I dragged Freckleface off the fence with considerable difficulty. I really don't know how much he weighed; very roughly in the 300 - 500 lb. range. Much bigger than a large ram or deer. I mentally reorganized my life--at least the next 24 hours--as we walked in silence back to the house.

After my visitor left, I returned with my best sewing shears, and sheared Freckleface myself for the first and last time. This was a job reserved for our professional shearer, who is big and broad and experienced. It was always a private affair, rated "R" due to foul language and ugly behavior in both species. My greatest remorse is that this year I was not assertive enough in trying to get the shearer to schedule a date to shear him earlier in the summer, in June. An earlier shearing might have helped him weather the harsh heat and humidity better. Kansas is a tough climate for llamas. It ain't the Andes.

The next step was to dispose of the body. Options included: waiting until the next day and paying a renderer to come for it; getting someone with a backhoe to come dig a hole and drag him to it; or just going out there with a shovel. I immediately ruled out the possibility of composting (which has proven highly effective with sheep carcasses) because of his size: I would have had to purchase and haul in a lot of organic matter in order to have sufficient cover. The first two, obviously, would have entailed a lot less physical effort, but in some ways a lot more emotional effort, as well as some cash outlay. Besides, there is something very therapeutic about the physical act of digging. I think our culture's assignment of the digging of graves to non-relatives has aided our divorce from death as a natural process.

Two very dear friends were willing to come out after sunset and help me dig the grave. A BIG hole, about 3' x 7' and quite a bit deeper than I usually dig for sheep, to accommodate a thicker body. This is a job I would not suggest to very many folks. First, it had to be folks physically capable of strenuous work in still-harsh conditions, even after dark. And folks who were available late at night. Folks who had been around the farm enough to know Freckleface. Folks who didn't mind getting dirty. More than anything else, folks who wouldn't be overwrought at seeing a big dead animal, folks who would remain on an even keel emotionally, and offer me some ballast.

On my way back to the house from shearing him, I had opened the gates that I could without releasing the sheep, and moved the hoses that supply the sheep's water tank so that I would not run over any vulnerable fittings with the truck when we drove back out in the dark. The torii is, by design, just wide enough for the truck to fit through, give or take a folding mirror. Usually it is ambiguous, but last night the sacred space that the torii defined was clearly the pasture side, the burial ground.

We quietly assembled and gathered tools at the barn in a measured pace, placing them in the truck. Thinking through the task ahead, not wanting to hike back to the barn, letting the calm of the darkness enfold us. No tears, no hysterics, no big deal. A simple job to be done. Some walked, some drove to the field.

I had not thought much about where to put the grave. I mentioned to one of my companions that I was thinking about putting it near the Willow Row, where the long-dead sheep from the farm's first "worm storm" lie, along with Grace who died of a ruptured spleen, and the Lincoln ewe who went septic, and Lina who hung herself in a grafting stanchion, and the one who birthed her uterus while leaving the lambs in her belly. My friend thoughtfully reminded me of tree roots....

As I eased the truck through the torii and swung between the posts of the half-built fence to the southeast paddock, the headlights glanced on the post that marked the location of the first dodder infestation. The pasture was still a little skimpy there. It was someplace slightly less random than the rest of the pasture. Good enough.

The task took about 2 hours, start to finish. We proceeded at a steady pace, reminding ourselves several times that it wasn't a race. Over and over, we remarked on the blessing of stone-free, un-clayey soil. We took breaks to guzzle water, eat bananas (to replace electrolytes), look at the stars, rest, shift hands. Our workplace was lit by a small solar yard light and two battery headlamps--a dim puddle of light on the dark pasture, not harsh and glaring light the truck headlights would have been. There is a quiet, solemn camaraderie in digging together in the dark for this purpose, a bond that renders too many words superfluous.

From previous diggings, we knew to put a tarp down to place the dug soil on so that we wouldn't have to rake it out of the tall grass at the end. Instead, we could pull the tarp upside down over the grave mound to roll the last layer of soil off of the tarp.

From this burial, we learned (again) not to put the clods of sod down on the tarp, under the loose soil, where they interfered with scooping up the last bits of soil from the tarp. Remnants of straw on the tarp commandeered from another purpose also got in the way at the end.

We used the truck and some tow straps to drag the carcass to the grave, opening and closing electric fences as we went. We pulled him alongside the grave, then stood on the far side and used straps on his legs to pull him in.

There is a particular muffled thump that is the sound of a dead body settling to the bottom of a grave.

Some of the rigor mortis had passed, and his front legs folded up neatly under him. His head lolled back on his shoulder. But the hind legs were still stiff, and wouldn't bend, and his toe-tips were right at the surface. Not good. Eventually we got them to stay down along his belly, by digging little caverns for his feet in the side of the grave. To do this, I stepped into the grave myself, standing gingerly on the firm, shifting bulk of his shoulder, using my foot to press the stubborn limbs into position.

One has to stay in the moment, serenely matter-of-fact, attending simply to doing the next indicated thing, to keep such a task from becoming too macabre to survive. This is why it is so important to have the right companions. Even while I was still in the grave, my co-workers began gently pushing dirt back into the hole. There was no sense in not doing so; if we rested too long, weariness would overcome us. Again, why it is so important to have the right companions. Joking could too easily go awry.

We had begun the task with the goal being to get him in the grave with a few inches of dirt over him. If we wore out before all the dirt was returned to the hole, it would be fine to finish in the morning, or even to engage a neighbor with a tractor and blade or a skid loader to push the dirt into the hole. But we never really tired. We kept going until the job was done, a good sense of completion.

There is nothing that fixes the reality of a loss in one's mind like the physical task of digging the hole and settling in the body. A good sense of completion.

Thank you, friends.

Thank you, Freckleface.

Slime Molds?

2010-06-26T00:51:00.003-04:00

While rummaging scrumptious Yukon Gold new potatoes out from under the mulch, I found these two distinctive beings. Some sort of fungi, probably slime molds? Very small. I would not have noticed them except for being down on my hands and knees, and the striking colors.

The black and white one covered quite a large area--perhaps a foot in diameter. Everything within the boundary was encrusted with the black-tipped white spikes...dry leaves of the mulch, potato vines, sticks. It did not seem to other the plant, but time will tell. The red one was just in the bits of straw.

LOVE the macro feature on the camera! Thanks, Dad!

Why toads are fat

2010-06-26T00:33:00.005-04:00

These two handsome creatures have been sharing the garage with me for several weeks now. They like the low water dish I keep for Toss.

Tonight I really got to hang out with them for awhile, with the camera. That's when I realized they are dining on june bugs and other large beetles...between them, at least 6 beetles met their demise in the space of about 15 minutes. They position themselves near the doors and wait. If I throw a beetle on the floor near them, it's gone in moments, faster than you can see, even.

The camera does not fire quickly enough to catch the act, but I have a nice before and after set. Sadly, Blogger decided to display them in the reverse order from which I chose them...so the top photo is actually the "after" photo for the second photo. The fun "leapfrog" photo occurred moments after they both squared off on a beetle, and then the big one got it.

After the big one downed the big hissing polyphylla hammondi june beetle, the toad intermittently writhed and gagged for a few minutes. I would think so, swallowing one of those big (>1" long) thrashing scratchy things whole, on top of several smaller beetles! The Spotted Grape Beetle and smaller common brown june beetle didn't seem to bother the toads.

Light Show

2010-06-08T00:44:00.002-04:00

One of the things I love in the new ordering of my life (living in the basement and garage, while a young family occupies the main living quarters) is that I am encouraged to use the privy (outhouse). Changing potty habits is not easy, but the results are worthwhile in this case.

It rousts me from the bright, cheerful clutter of the house, for one thing. Instead of separating myself from the land, and the Community of Life that inhabits it, I must go out into it at all hours. I am not a morning person by nature (or genetics), but once I'm outside on a quiet summer morning, when the sun is still behind the trees and the grass is soaked with dew and every spiderweb is a diamond tiara, I'm oh-so-glad to be there. A good start to a good day.

My last walk out, late in the evening, is a fitting reward for a day's work--a resplendent light show in dazzling silence, courtesy of the fire flies. And now is the season for them! Is it Disney World that ends each evening in a grand finale fireworks display? Mine is better, as peaceful as a lullaby.

Tonight's show was especially entrancing, because the fireflies in the trees west of the back yard are flashing in synchrony...or is that harmony? The trees are nearly dark for a few long moments, then it starts: at the north end, a sudden twinkling like fireworks, only silent. And instead of showering to the earth, the bright flickers of light sweep from one end of the tree line to the other! Over and over, in cadence, this sideways cascade of scintillating pinpoint lights occurs.

I could think it was for my benefit, but it is not. The only audience for this show is the female fireflies, wherever they may be. I am just a lucky eavesdropper on their luminous concert.

How rich I am! My first gainful employment (at about age 6) was to catch fireflies and sell them ($1.00 per 100? or maybe it was only $.25) to researchers at Oak Ridge National Lab. I suppose the fruit of that labor was eventually, by some round-about path, the glowing light sticks that children of all ages amuse themselves with at night-time events.

Now I breed them for fun, and don't harvest. Neither do I have any use for the phony light sticks. The shimmering trees are much better.

"Life is Good"

2010-05-18T23:57:00.003-04:00

I think that must be the motto for the entire Cedar Waxwing species. In April, we watched them plucking apple blossom petals and eating them like potato chips.

For the past few days, a large flock has been frequenting our favorite mulberry tree...the one whose berries we sell at Farmer's Market and (in the past) to high-end restaurants. It is incredibly thick with berries, from tiny and green to big and pinkish. It is always the first fruit to ripen in the area, and the birds love it. I always fear they will eat all the fruit, but they never do. Soon they'll move on to cherries....

Cedar waxwings are one of my favorite birds, and I watch them whenever I can. But this bunch has been persistent enough that sometimes I do kind of ignore them, aside from saying "Please just eat the berries I can't reach, and leave the lower ones for me to pick."

I was charging towards the tree the other day on my way to the house for something, and the flock startled and wafted over to the top of a nearby elm where they often take refuge.

Except for two of them. They were oblivious, engaged in their own little dance.

Obviously it was a courting (or mated) pair. They sat wing to wing on a horizontal dead twig. Left would take a giant sideways hop away from Right, gaze over its shoulder at Right, and then take a giant hop back so they were wing to wing again. They would "bill" each other with coy little kissing motions. Then Right would take a giant hop sideways away from Left, gaze over at Left for a moment, and then hop back wing to wing. More smooching. Then Left would take a giant sideways hop.... This went on for quite awhile, over and over. Fascinating to watch.

Something very touchingly human about their little dance. Together, apart, together, apart. Maybe, maybe not.

And yet, not so human. No big emotional drama in all of it.

At least not that I could tell. But then, I'm just a human.

Finally in the fast lane

2010-05-18T23:43:00.002-04:00

After years of suffering...oh, I mean meditating...with s-l-o-w dial-up internet, today (early B-day present) the farm finally got high-speed internet. Even the slowest level of broadband service seems like greased lightening.

Hopefully, this will gain me more time for the meditation practice that's more my style...weeding, mulching, planting, picking, etc.

And probably, once I get used to the keyboard on the new Mac, more time for keeping up with the blogs.

Big transitions at the farm. A new family is moving into the main floor of the main farmhouse as of Memorial Day weekend. I'm moving to the basement/garage/farm...a diffuse life, either odd or horrific to most folks, but one that tends to suit me well. Over the summer, I hope to get the little brown house renovated enough to move in there for the winter.

Big transitions ahead for the farm itself. New/expanded restaurant customers mean increased production means we need to do things a bit differently. We are making plans for a new, bigger washhouse closer to the garden...those extra steps really add up during a busy picking day. In hot weather, seconds count with getting fragile crops into their refreshing bath, so this will improve quality as well. Then we'll need a walk-in cooler to keep that quality...and to be able to pick things when they are ready and not wait until they are sold. Too often everyone wants stuff on the same day, and there just isn't time to pick that much. Or, we have perfect picking weather the day before a delivery, with horrible weather forecast for the delivery date. Got to be able to manage that better to be able to keep our commitments!

It's a whirlwind of excitement and busy-ness and decision-making. In many things, I'm just going by faith, doing the next indicated things and trusting that it will all work out. Things actually tend to do that, when I let them!

Soil-So-Soft

2010-05-07T01:20:00.002-04:00

So many of my farming techniques fly in the face of conventional wisdom. And sometimes, despite the fact that things have worked for the last 10-12 years, I begin to doubt that what I believe--what I have seen--is actually true. Maybe my successes have just been random luck.

Spring is always a time of such self-doubts, esp. when I am touring gardener after gardener through the farm, extoll the virtues of our soil and our system to them. "You NEVER water???? You NEVER till except an inch or two for tiny seed like lettuce???? Do I really not? Am I imagining things?

As the season wears on, I tend to be vindicated.

Today we planted tomatoes. Dozens of tomatoes. Flats of tomatoes. To be more specific, 126 tomato big, tall, succulent, thriving tomato plants from Pendleton's Country Market (yes, they have LOTS left, some great heirloom varieties, all colors and sizes and shapes!). Only another 90 to plant on Sunday, and then we start planting the 117 lbs. of seed potatoes that arrive tomorrow....

Our method is simple and direct...usually. The extra tall plants (some more than 2 feet) were a bit of a challenge, though. Our normal method is to bury all but the top few inches, so that there is lots of root system down deep to anchor the plant and to draw up water from way down if there is a dry spell. Judging from the length of roots that had crept through the holes in the pots, given the time and the need they could go down to the water table by August.

We are planting tomatoes and potatoes (and some cole crops, like cabbage and broccoli, by way of experiment) on the NorthEast Quadrant, which has been fallow and untilled for at least 4 years, probably longer. Mostly it grows a thick stand of crab grass, and we use it for hot-weather forage for the sheep.

Last fall we didn't graze it, just mowed it once to prevent a particular noxious (in a wool-grower's sort of way) weed from setting seeds, a.k.a. burrs. When it frost-killed, it made a dense silvery-tan blanket over the field. I've observed that a crabgrass cover like this, even a thin one, seems to have unusual weed preventive powers. I have never heard of it being allelopathic, but it sure looks like it. So we thought we'de experiment with using fall crabgrass as a self-mulch.

Early in the spring, we started planting potatoes out here...50 lbs. of Yukon Gold, and some early red 'taters, too. I worried a bit about planting them directly into this soil that hadn't been tilled for so long. Surely it would be very compact and hard to dig the potatoes? They might not even be able to grow well?

Imagine my happy surprise when I discovered how wonderful the tilth of this field has become! The sharpshooter went in easily; three progressive step-inn/pullback motions and the shovel was up to the top of the blade. Then I could burrow down in all that and be up to my elbows in perfect dirt.

If planting tomatoes is this easy, then digging potatoes will be even better after the soil has enjoyed a deep mulch of grass clippings on top of the crabgrass.

We worked as a real team on this, assembly-line fashion. JL would lay the string line, locate the plants using a planting stick (a willow twig that was lying in the garden, broken to the right length (a bit more than 2 feet)), pull back the mulch to reveal about 12" diameter of soil surface, move the string line out of the way to the next bed, pull the leaves off all but the top cluster of the plant (to reduce transpiration and stress; an important technique for transplanting without added water)

I would dig holes where the mulch was pulled back, take off the pot, wiggle myself elbow deep in the dirt, drag a tomato plant root ball down there with me, firm the dirt around the plant, circle it around gently in the hose to get more of it under the ground level if possible. Repeat.

TK ran the mower, keeping us well supplied with mulch. Nex, we need to mulch even bigger and thicker.

Before we know it, we'll be harvesting the fruits of our labors. Some tomato plants had fruit set on them already!

The best part of our soil, though, is NO CHIGGERS! When we are this tired, we can just go lie on the grass and stare at the stars.

Honesty, Openness, and Diligence Pay Off

2010-04-14T00:13:00.003-04:00

In the midst of all our goings-around-in-circles, we seem to utterly fail, sometimes, at keeping things neat, organized, etc. Having so many volunteers around makes it even harder to keep things in place, and at the same time we get glimpses of the apparent disorganization through their eyes. It is easy to feel discouraged.

Then a morning like this puts it in perspective.

I had just finished breakfast and the morning's crew of volunteers (two resident WWOOFers, and two off-farm volunteers) was all lined up in the kitchen looking at farm layouts, about to begin the introductory lesson on our very complicated network of electric fencing.

A strange van pulled in the drive, so I went out to see who was here. Surprise! Our properly unannounced visit from the KS Dept. of Ag Meat Wholesaler Inspector (or whatever his exact title is).

And I realized in a flash that I AM organized and up-to-date in the things that REALLY matter, because my automatic reaction to his arrival is always to relax, shake hands, and welcome him to my farm. I KNOW that I have nothing to hide from the inspectors, because I've done my "homework"--and "housework"--on this key aspect of my business all along. I look forward to this annual opportunity to visit with him and show off the results of my work.

Some regular inspection points included:

Meat Wholesaler's license up-to-date and posted.
Scale up-to-date on its certification.
All meat properly labelled, state inspected, frozen solidly.
Freezer area clean enough (it passed muster last year, too, but he noticed that it looks even better this year! Strange but true, this is mostly due to getting casters put on Gilbert the Garage Piano, thanks to a couple volunteers...!).
Ice chest that we use for Farmer's Market clean, freshly painted this year (with a great stencil of our logo, thanks to a couple other talented volunteers!), and made even more cold-keeping by moveable sections of Reflectix that help insulate the meat.
Marketing materials (my price list) provide detailed information about practices we use, but don't make any unsubstantiated claims like "hormone-free" (we don't ADD any hormones, but we sure like it that our ewes and rams have plenty of the hormones that make them want to breed and raise their young!)

He seemed pleased about other things I voluntarily showed him, that aren't necessarily required but certainly contribute to the quality of our operation:

We've developed a written Food Safety Plan for the farm, which not many other farms this small have.
We have a trace-back system in place where we can track any package of meat back to the animal's production and breeding records. This year the core documents are even right there hanging above the freezer...we realized the processing plant was throwing away one part of the triplicate forms, and asked them to give us two copies, one for our files and one to keep handy near the freezer. Was order # XYZ the old tough ram or the younger ewe? We can look it up in an moment.)
We have an effective system for handling and sorting meat from the processing plant to our freezer that helps keep packages clean and undamaged (clean pillow cases for each order or category!).

He mentioned the recent write-ups on us in the Lawrence Journal-World (http://www2.ljworld.com/news/2010/mar/31/mcdonalds-23rd-street-slated-major-remodel/ and http://www2.ljworld.com/news/2010/apr/07/betting-farm-lawrence-farmer-works-double-time-rea/), and asked about our plans for expanded retail activities at the farm. This was a great conversation to have at this point in our long-range farm planning process! I learned that if I were to quit doing any wholesale meat sales, the farm would shift to a different licensing category, Meat Retailers. A Retailer's license starts at about $100, compared to our FREE Wholesaler's license! Definitely something to remember when I'm grousing to myself about the little petty details of arranging wholesale sales to local restaurants and stores, compared to having folks just drop by and say "I'd like a leg of lamb". Those few small restaurant sales last year paid for themselves, in hindsight!

Little things, in some ways. But huge in the overall operation of the farm. We ARE making progress.

Of course, the best part of the inspection was the part that wasn't required at all: a tour of the sheep pens to show off this year's crop.

How I Cook Lamb

2010-03-29T23:50:00.003-04:00

Thank you, JS, for being the catalyst for typing this up! I've needed to do that for a long time!

Mostly I am a "method" cook, not a "recipe" cook. This can annoy recipe cooks to no end! On the other hand, it means that you get to use your old favorite recipes in a new way, by substituting lamb for whatever the recipe calls for.

A few general hints about enjoying Pinwheel Farm's forage-fed lamb: First, it is very lean.That means you pay for delicious, nutritious meat, not fat! It also means that it's easily overdone or dried out. So use low heat and cook it a little longer.

Never thaw lamb in the microwave--guaranteed to make it tough! To quick-thaw chops or cubes, unwrap the meat and put it in a sealed plastic bag with the air squeezed out. Submerge in a bowl of lukewarm water. Keep changing the water and turning the bag. A bowl on top of the lamb can help it stay submerged. Do this while you're peeling the garlic and prepping the veggies (or whatever), and it doesn't take long.

Ground lamb can be thawed/cooked simultaneously, if your goal is to brown it. Use a little oil (olive is great for most cuisines) in a cast iron skillet, on medium heat, and put the unwrapped frozen lump in the middle of the pan. While you are peeling the garlic and prepping the veggies (or whatever), turn it over every few minutes and scrape off the browned layer to the side of the pan. Keep turning and scraping (and stirring the browning crumbles on the edges of the pan) until it's all thawed and browned.

Pinwheel Farm calls it "lamb" if it's less than a year old. Generally this means about 7-9 months old. If the animal was in its second summer, we call it "young mutton"--not quite as tender, but delicious. "Mutton" is anything past its second autumn, and may be richer/stronger flavored and chewier/more tough. There is a "YM" or an "M" printed on the paper package if it was anything but true lamb...the processor doesn't have special printers for "mutton".

Some of my favorite ways to cook lamb:

Festive Leg of Lamb (is there any other kind?)

Thaw leg roast in fridge for several days (in a dish to catch any juice that runs out).
Have on hand a head of fresh garlic, lots of fresh or dried rosemary, and a large organic (because you'll use the peel) lemon.
Slice the lemon crosswise to the core into paper thin slices with a sharp knife. Set aside for now.
Peel a bunch of cloves of garlic. Cut lengthwise into pieces the length of the clove and about 1/8 square in cross section. They will look like slivered almonds.
Use a sharp, pointed knife (steak knife or paring knife) to stab the leg every inch or so. Insert a garlic sliver in each slit. Takes some time, but well worth the effort.
When the entire leg is embedded with garlic, place in roasting dish. Start pre-heating the oven to 325 degrees.
Cover the entire surface of the leg with slices of lemon, with the prettiest ones on top and filling in with the scrappy ones on the edges.
Sprinkle liberally with rosemary, a little black pepper and salt as desired.
Roast until done, using a meat thermometer.

The Joy of Cooking has a nice illustration of the carving method for Leg of Lamb.

CHOPS

Grill, panfry, broil, bake...marinate if you please, season how you wish, there are so many options. Mostly I sell these and eat the liver myself, so I can't give much expert advice.

GROUND MEAT

I used ground lamb just like I would beef in many favorite dishes. Browned crumbles are wonderful in chili, tacos and other Southwestern-style dishes; curries; any sort of red-sauce-and-pasta favorites, etc. For pizza topping and lasagna, I like to saute the garlic and onions along with the browned meat, and add some fennel seed as well as salt, pepper, and Italian herbs (basil, oregano, etc.). The fennel gives a wonderful "Italian sausage" flavor.

You can also make meatloaf, burgers, etc. Because the meat is very lean, patties tend to be more crumbly than beef, so adding oatmeal or breadcrumbs and an egg can not only feed more people but help the patties hold together better. Add seasonings as desired, or simply enjoy the special flavor of lamb.

Kibbee is a wonderful Lebanese dish that blends bulghur wheat with ground lamb and spices. An easy version is at http://www.recipezaar.com/123-baked-kibbee-381713.

STEW MEAT

Cubed lamb makes wonderful hearty soups and stews! It can also be used in chili or curry dishes, and of course kabobs. Use your imagination, and fresh local vegetables in season! Tonight's soup featured Jerusalem artichokes, onions, and carrots, with allspice and other spices.

RIBS

Well, barbecue them, silly!

OK, seriously, you can grill them or do them in the oven or simmer in a cast iron skillet on the stovetop. Marinate with your favorite flavors first, or rub, or baste.

LIVER

My favorite for quick and easy. I mean it. No, not everyone loves liver, you don't have to, someone else will gladly buy your share. But if you like liver, lamb liver is delicious. And it thaws quickly in lukewarm water, and reheats well after it's cooked.

I dredge with seasoned flour (whole wheat, salt, pepper, garlic powder, paprika, and sometimes rosemary) and brown just until done in a little bacon grease or olive oil. Serve warm with bacon crumbles and sauted onions...or put in a bun warm or cold, dressed up with all your favorite hamburger fixings. Oh, so healthy!

Why We Don't Use the Rototiller Much

2010-03-23T22:34:00.004-04:00

The rototiller has its uses, to be sure. But I avoid it when possible, for many reasons. It damages the physical soil structure, disrupts the soil ecology and hydrology, is tiring to the operator, hard on the ears, obscures birdsong and conversation, etc. It disconnects us from direct ground contact, and we don't know our soil and its ecology as intimately as when we are down there with our hands in it.

The rototiller can also kill small animals...a gruesome death.

Fortunately, we were digging by hand when CC spotted something odd in the soil. A dark jelly-like blob, at first glance. What...? But--"It's got legs!" she observed, scooping it up.

On unfurling, it turned out to be a salamander.

It's not uncommon to spot a new insect or plant at the farm...or even bird. But today we found a representative of a whole new ORDER! Never before have we found a salamander of any kind on the farm!

Based on comparison with online photos, this appears to be the Smallmouth Salamander, Ambystoma texanum.

http://www.caudata.org/cc/species/Ambystoma/A_texanum.shtml shows photos that look a whole lot like this precious creature.

We took photos as quickly as possible, and then "replanted" the salamander at the edge of the garden, safe from further digging and from the lime we were about to apply.

Amphibians absorb chemicals readily through their skin. Thus, they are very sensitive to environmental degradation, and serve as "indicator species" in an environment. I rejoice to see more of them, and more diversity, as the years go by and the farm becomes a more balanced ecosystem.

Seeing this salamander, however, makes me question my use of hydrated lime in the garden...a quick, easy and cheap way of raising soil pH for acid-hating crops like spinach and other salad greens. I'll continue to ponder this dilemma.

Swiftly changing seasons

2010-03-22T01:24:00.002-04:00

Thursday and Friday were perfect blue spring days, barely a breeze, 60's, frogs calling from the wetlands. We did two huge jobs at once: cleaned out last year's bedding from the barn, and staked out and mulched more than 20 new growing beds in the Northeast Quadrant.

WWOOFer CC arrived Wednesday and really hit the ground running...I think she was part of the team on every single heavy load of wet, half-composted/halt ensiled, manurey hay. KU student gardener LP pitched in on several loads, I helped on some, longtime farm volunteer MW did a bunch, too. New volunteer PM worked two long days with us, helping stake out the new beds (4 corners per bed, 10 beds per block, 3 blocks completely marked...hmmm...120 stakes measured and pounded?!? We also received a delivery of brome--square bales to stack in the barn and big round bales in the barn pen.

The goal was to have the barn floor cleaned in time to get the sheep under shelter for Saturday's shearing, in case it rained or...snowed? As we put finishing touches on rearranging the gate panels, and spread the floor with lime and sawdust and brome hay for bedding, the temperature dropped about 20 degrees. We hastened to run the sheep in, did a few more chores, folks headed home.

CC and I went to a Taize service in town with a friend, pulling out our warm sweaters since it had gotten dark and a bit cooler. A bit cloudy, too. Silly us! An hour later when we left the church, it was raining a light, icy rain. None of us had jackets on.

We went home, ate dinner, went back to town for groceries wearing rain jackets this time. By the time we got out of the grocery store, icy pellets of sleet were freezing on the windshield.

We awoke to a thick blanket of snow on shearing morning! The sheep were snug and dry, though, and the roads were passable so the shearer could get here, even if a bit late. A very odd first day of spring!

It snowed all through shearing, all day, all evening, amounting to about 8 inches of moderately heavy snow. But the streets were mostly clear, because they were so warm to start with.

Today most of it melted away, the frogs were singing again, the grass is greener than ever where the snow has gone, the crocuses emerged largely unscathed.

And we had our first lamb born this morning!

I have photos, but never enough time.

Where ARE We?

2010-03-06T22:49:00.004-05:00

Yes, I know I've been awful quiet here lately. Lots going on, though.

Partly we are transitioning to other internet venues. Pinwheel Farm (that's right, NO "s") is now on facebook; it would be really helpful if you could let me know you're a blog reader when you make a request to be a friend.

We are also on the verge of having a web site, TBA very soon I hope. We'll keep a lot of our policies, directions to the farm, etc. there, as well as (eventually) lists of what's available and how to get it from us.

Spring is suddenly here, we got the roof mostly on the west end of the barn, shearing (March 20, 10:00 a.m.) and lambing will be here before we know it, Farmer's Market Pre-Season opens April 10; things are really growing in the high tunnel...such abundance!

We are especially impressed with how well the salad greens came through the winter under the row covers. Lettuce is looking great, and there's tatsoi, mizuna, arugula, etc. still thriving. A few sunny weeks and we'll be harvesting again!

Spring plans include a new washhouse facility, a walk-in cooler, rearranging some sheds (I mean moving the buildings, not just the content), massive garden expansion planned this season so we can supply even more veggies to Lawrence Memorial Hospital than last year....

We're looking forward to seeing all our friends again, whether at the farm for purchases or volunteering, or at Farmer's Market. See you soon!

New Fave

2010-02-23T01:06:00.003-05:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robinia_pseudoacacia describes a new favorite tree. Well, it's been a favorite for a long time, at a distance, when it blooms in the spring, but I'd never learned to know it up close.

Out of the depths of the woodshed, which housemate DK had stacked late last winter from the huge mixed piles our arborist friend accumulated over at the woodlot, came a supply of wonderful wood to see us through this especially cold winter.

With housemate DK, at first, and then WWOOFer KK more recently, doing most of the woodstove "work", I didn't really pay much attention to what was going into the woodbox, just what was coming out of the stove: HEAT.

But with DK having moved on to new digs in town, I get more opportunities to poke at the fire, and I started noticing this wood in the wood box. Deep furrowed, solid bark over yellowish-grayish, dense heartwood, it reminded me a bit of hedge. Certainly it was nearly that heavy in weight. And in the woodstove, it behaved like hedge: catapulting showers of sparks like the 4th of July out the door as I pushed the coals around. Not quite as intense in the pyrotechnic department as hedge, but definitely enough to get your attention. Another thing I noticed was the particularly pleasant smell of the woodsmoke from it.

It was certainly not nice, quiet, dependable, bland oak. And it was a trifle too lightweight, and too pale a color, for hedge. The tree had been reasonably good sized, not some odd little foreign ornamental cut out of yard.

I finally got a chance to ask the arborist the other day. Turns out it's Black Locust, the same tree whose fragrant, white trusses of flowers enchant me in early summer in certain groves along my bus route.

A real dilemma: I would love to grow it here at the farm for firewood, especially because it grows back quickly from the stumps in a sustainable production method called "coppicing". But apparently it's toxic to livestock, and invasive in some situations.

But no thorns. Fixes nitrogen. Fragrant, showy flowers. And fabulous wood that grows quickly. Worth thinking about.

The Planning Season

2010-02-23T00:19:00.002-05:00

Nope--not a typo. Planning, not planting.

Winter is the season for planning, here at the farm. The whole coming season stretches out before us with the calm expansiveness of the snowblanket outside the window. Anything is possible. A time for dreaming.

This year I'm dreaming big and long, trying to dream enough for a lifetime or two.

Today I let a big chunk of the winter's worth of planning go free, to fly as it will, buffeted by the whims of politics and rumor and economics. Like Luna chasing sticks on the snow, under the stars on a crystal clear COLD night, I have little control. My dreams will come back, but not necessarily at my beck and call.

OK, enough riddles and metaphors. This afternoon at 4:00 I handed my Conditional Use Permit submittal materials to my friendly Planner at the Lawrence/Douglas County Planning and Zoning Department. We've been working on this for about 2 months now, more intensely as the deadline drew near.

I'm sure I could have picked over it and tried to make it perfect for next month's submittal day, but why bother? The public comment period, when neighbors and other interested parties can pick it to pieces, will quickly dispell any notions I have about perfection!

In about 3 months, we'll know the results. Hopefully the staff will understand and support it, the Planning Commission will agree with the staff's recommendations, and the County Commission will approve it substantially as it is, with a few additions along the way as we think of things we forgot in the haste to meet the February deadline, and maybe some tweaks to accommodate the neighbors' opinions.

So what's it all about? Essentially, a Conditional Use Permit is a temporary "rezoning" that allows activities that are not permitted under the existing zoning for the land. There are some surprising things that are not "permitted" on land zoned for agriculture, and there are some funny regulations that have sprung up as city regulators tried to exercise a little prudent control over activities in the county, at the edge of the city. So, legally I cannot camp on my own land...if you aren't a friend or a relative you can't go birdwatching here...and I can't have more than one animal per acre, whether it's a bison or a chicken.

Enough is enough. I need to focus my energy on farming, not continually defending my right to farm, continually explaining to folks that yes, my land IS "developed" from fence to fence, even if it doesn't look like anything but a rather scruffy open field on Google Earth.

Today's submittal asks for permission to allow a very limited number of folks to camp at the farm while they are working here. It outlines all the activities the farm plans to do in the foreseeable future, so that they can be "grandfathered" activities if the regulations become even more restrictive. So that we can invest in our future with the assurance that we will not be breaking the law by holding an open house for sheep shearing (Mar. 20, 10:00).

What's our "foreseeable future"? Most CUPs are written for a duration of 10 years, with a review after a few years to be sure the conditions are being met. That sounds like a long time to many businesses, but for a farm? Goodness, I feel like I'm just getting started after 13 or 14 years! I talk a lot about how my grandmother turned 100 last fall, and I'm just barely over 50, so I need to plan for the next 50 years. So initially I was going to boldly ask for a 50 year CUP.

This morning, an email came through from the Grower's list, which spans both Kansas and Missouri: a request for information about farms that might be celebrating their 100th year of ownership by the same family in 2010. Seems there are already some 7000 (seven THOUSAND) "Century Farms" in Missouri already! I know there are many in Kansas, as well...I know people who run them.

So, why not? Dare to dream the real dream that I've been dreaming all my life. Dare to think that this farm could BE a Century Farm someday!

The CUP asks for a term of 100 years.

I can't do it alone. I don't WANT to be around for it's 100th birthday.

But I will die happy knowing that the land will have the right to be a farm for that long. Hopefully a wonderful, adventurous, happy 50 years from now.

After finishing a big project like this, there's often a period of wandering, drifting, a bit of sadness, a lost feeling. But I don't have time for that this year. I'm leaping out of the frying pan into the fire of another big project: More planning, this time for PLANTING season.

Eating in Season

2010-02-11T00:49:00.002-05:00

One of my long-term "practices" (in both habitual and zen/spiritual sense) has been to try to focus my daily diet on things that at least COULD be grown at Pinwheel Farm, and that COULD be reasonably available at the season in which I'm eating them. This is a big step towards eating locally, eating homegrown, etc... but a bit more managable when I'm so busy. Even though I'm still shopping at Dillon's, I'm at least training my taste buds to more local habits.

With the full-time job and so many other important pursuits, I have to admit that my diet has degenerated to new lows in the past year. I eat what comes prepackaged from the grocery store or from Burger King. How embarrassing for someone who produces such amazing vegetables and meat!

So it's been a real treat, and balm to my soul, to come home each night to a dinner plate prepared by WWOOFer KK. The last two nights have been especially local/seasonal.

Last night, it was spring rolls. Homemade whole wheat wrappers (definitely localable/seasonal) filled with Jerusalem Artichokes (harvested on the farm last week), onions (localable/seasonal; could have substituted green onions from the high tunnel) and PWF's Mutton and Pork Summer Sausage. YUM! I could have scarfed all 3 down last night but savored two then and saved the third for my lunch on the bus today.

Tonight was even more local/seasonal. Barbecued walnuts and apricots with acorns.... WHAT???? Well, it's a food chain, right? KK asked one of the "tree rats" that has been decimating our favorite tree crops for years to star in tonight's main dish, and then didn't give it the option of saying "no, thanks". Actually, if we do get a crop of apricots and walnuts this year thanks to her skill with a .22, I may experiment with developing an apricot/walnut barbeque sauce to serve with next winter's squirrel dinners.

A salad from the high tunnel--baby chard, shepherd's purse, chick weed, green onions, carrots, and salad turnips--complemented the squirrel nicely, dressed with a celeryseed dressing sweetened with PWF honey. Biscuits (localable) balanced the plate and filled in the empty corners.

Someone on the bus was grousing gently today that their doctor had told them to try to eat 5 servings of fruits and vegetables every day. It just seemed like a lot of stuff to them. But as I crunched and chewed through my small but incredibly colorful salad, I got to thinking that it probably has several times as many vitamins and minerals as a similar sized salad from a restaurant or grocery store. The leaves are dense, not watery, and deeply colored, not pale. The plants have especially deep roots because they've grown slowly over the winter...bringing up minerals from deep in the soil. They haven't been force fed water to bulk them up.

That leg of squirrel, small as it was, probably was more nutritious than any store-bought meat. It was raised on the fruit (grrrrrr) of trees rooted deep in healthy soil, drawing clean water up through their roots. It certainly bore no resemblence to bland, pale store-bought chicken.

The cost of such a meal is hard to calculate, though. Do we include the bushels of fruit stolen by squirrels over the years? If so, it was a very pricy affair. If not, it hardly cost a thing.

A Real Hoot

2010-02-09T01:09:00.003-05:00

I was diligently studying some documents related to my on-going farm development plans on the computer, when I was startled by the haunting, deep call of a Great Horned Owl. It sounded like it was right at the table with me, it was so close.

I lept up, slid across the vinyl kitchen floor to the entryway in my sock feet, and quickly donned full winter gear. The temperature has dropped from 32 degrees last night to a mere 5 degrees tonight. Brrrrr! But the clouds from the drizzle and sleet and snow of the day were swept away by the vicious cold wind earlier this evening, and now it is clear and bright. The stars twinkle as they do only when it is so, so cold.

I went out the back door, and the owl called again from the direction of our wonderful huge silver maple. I answered, feeling very rusty indeed at this foreign language. It has been a long time since I've had a conversation with an owl of any species, and Great Horned is not my best dialect. I'm better (in my human opinion) at Screech (a haunting, breathy whistle descending in shivers down your spine) and Barred ("Who cooks for you? Who cooks for YOU all?").

But it answered back after a few minutes, anyway. I haven't lost this voice, entirely.

We carried on for awhile. When it didn't seem to be inclined to move towards me, I walked further out towards the barn, thinking more distance might lure it to fly closer. But it remained in its invisible spot in the branches of the magnificent tree. Eventually I decided to walk towards the voice, and try to see exactly where it was perched.

We kept exchanging phrases, and I slowly moved towards the sound. No sneaking up on anything: The frozen snow crunched loudly under my feet. It took awhile, but I finally found it: straight above my head on the highest branch, as I stood under the spreading branches.

After a few more hoots, it flew off to the trees on the west side of the garden. I searched out the deaf dog, and we went back into the house, deeply satisfied.

If you have had this experience, my words will conjure up the very smell of the cold air and the glittering stars. If you haven't, and pictures would help, go to the children's section at the library and find the book Owl Moon, and you will have a better idea of the experience.

It is something a camera cannot capture.

Very Blue

2010-02-06T02:23:00.003-05:00

A new WWOOFer arrived last weekend, and one day we took a hike out through the pasture to the wilderness area to show her the lay of the land.

At the northeast pasture gate, I stopped short. An unfamiliar bird had caught my eye, hopping around in the big elm tree nearby. What WAS it? The breast looked pale orange, but the back was too pale for a robin, and it was much too small.

"WOW" said KK. "It's REALLY blue!"

Well, yes, it was sort of a blueish gray. But she's an Easterner, not used to our Kansas wildlife. I looked at her, about to explain what BLUE really is. Silly me! I realized that she was looking at a different bird!

On a fence post near the elm, sat the male bluebird in irridescent hue. And in the elm hopped his mate, a pastel version. Hopefully they are scouting out the bluebird boxes that we finally got put up last year.

Your good fortune is that I happened to have the camera with the zoom feature in my pocket!

The tree, by the way, is one that has grown from a wind-blown seed just in the past 12 years or less.

Woodshed Resident

2010-02-06T01:06:00.003-05:00

We went out to the woodshed a few days ago to haul some wood to the front porch rack. I like to keep it nice and full...then when a cold or a cold day sneaks up on us, we don't have to venture out too far to keep the house warm.

I noticed a few elm twigs on top of the wood piled in one end of the shed. Didn't think much of it until I started taking some of the wood out. Each piece I took off, I found more "evidence" of a guest, probably a hispid cotton rat (commonly known as a "pack rat"). We've found them on the farm before, but don't see their nests as distinctly as I used to find them out in the Flint Hills. Typical pack rat nests are several feet in diameter and about as tall, dense piles of sticks forming an elaborate hut over their stashes of food and trinkets. In a nest on a farmstead where there were children, I found a toy soldier, buttons, marbles, bottle caps...pretty much what you'd find in an 8-year-old boy's pockets.

This critter has put together a pretty good stash for the winter, using our handy pre-fab stick pile (a cord of mixed hardwood for the woodstove). There was lots of bright green, crispy leaf "hay" (American elm, as near as I could tell), and a pile of twigs that had been stripped of their bark. Then we looked up and realized that the critter had also been dining al fresco on the roof-top...chewing the bark off of a thankfully unwanted elm behind the shed.

A pile of poop solidified my suspicions as to the creature's identity, though since I don't know what woodchuck poop looks like, I have retain a shadow of a doubt. I DID once see a woodchuck sitting on the roof of the woodshed, chewing on a branch. But then the squirrels do the same. Popular dining spot. I've also seen a hawk perched there....Possibly why no one seemed to be home in the woodshed hideaway.

I am quite satisfied to have a packrat in the woodshed. If I am going to be host to packrats, I certainly don't want them in the barn, or under the hood of the truck making a nest among the wires.

When I mention pack rats, many people go, "ew, rats!" thinking of that vicious scaly-tailed vector of bubonic plague and scourge of sailing ships, the Norway rat. But hispid cotton rats are a bit smaller than a pet domestic rat, often a bit fuzzier, a pleasant grayish-tannish in color, with fur on their tails. Not so scary at all.

And obviously pretty clever at setting up house.

Coming Out of Hibernation

2010-01-31T01:27:00.003-05:00

Groundhog's day is just around the corner, and I don't know what the big rodent will have to say, but I predict that winter will end.

Sometime.

Eventually.

Whenever it wants to...after dithering around for a few months first.

I know it's been more than a month since I've posted, and you're all probably wondering what's up at the farm. Esp. since the last post showed a glacier on the roof.

Well, the good news is that I've been back to normal use of the septic system, and hence running water, for a couple weeks. That month with only sporadic showers at friends' homes renewed my commitment to having a home with a hot shower, esp. in the winter when it's sometimes the best way to get warm.

But where will that home eventually be? I've spent a large part of the last couple months delving into the arcane realm of urban planning, property development, annexation, re-zoning, etc. The time has come to formalize my 50-year plan for the farm, so that the farm doesn't gradually, regulation by regulation, lose the rights that are critical to that plan. A key question is the future of Dawdy House and Granary...including how they are taxed. Seems the taxes are based on some fictitious future land use that isn't legally possible right now.

There is a certain amount of confidentiality that is prudent in this process, up to a point. No sense getting the neighbors up in arms about something I'll later decide not to do...so I want to really have my winding road through the jungle of jurisdictions and regulations figured out before trying to explain it to folks that don't speak "regulese" as well as I do.

And since that adventure has tied up nearly every waking hour recently, I haven't taken the time to share with my dear readers the fact that I can't share with you what I've mostly been doing...yet.

But spring is coming, sooner than we think. WWOOFers are coming, volunteers are starting to pour in, it's going to be a busy season. So for a little while longer, bear with my wintery silence.

It has been an interesting exploration.

Speaking Frankly

2010-01-31T00:42:00.002-05:00

To date, I have refrained from telling bus customer stories in this forum, out of respect for my passengers' privacy. But this story wants to be told.

It was a slow Saturday. The customer who boarded was not one I remembered seeing before...which is mostly to say, I didn't recognize his jacket. I don't remember names and faces, as a rule...too many of them. Clothes, however, cue me in as to whether I've seen the person earlier in the day...an important piece of information in the type of customer service relationships I have both on the bus and at Farmer's Market during the growing season. I mainly need to know whether or not I'm supposed to act as if I remember a 2-minute conversation with them from earlier in the day, or if I'm supposed to greet them as if I haven't seen them for a week.

He boarded quietly enough at one of my layover points, but as we waited for my departure time he began to chat at me a bit. Typical slightly disgruntled out-of-towner stuff about how much better/faster/easier the busses are wherever they come from. I focused, as I should, on driving, while tactfully throwing in enough "Oh?"s to prevent offending him by seeming to ignore him. Years of practice have trained me to do this semi-automatically, based on vocal inflections and pauses, rather than on actually paying much attention to the words. I would far rather get "busted" for distracted listening than distracted driving.

When we arrived downtown, he ceased his monologue and rose to deboard the bus. As he passed by me, he paused, and alarm bells started in my mind. A female driver learns the warning signs--even one who wears a religious covering over evidently gray hair. Sure enough, he started to speak to me again, this time in a strained, nervous voice, as if it were hard to get the words out.

Even though I knew (I thought) what was coming, I am a highly trained professional customer service person. I am never rude to passengers, since that could escalate a situation and place me in danger. Staying calm on the outside, I mentally rehearsed the exact reach for the "panic button" for the video camera, waiting for the appropriate moment to trigger it.

"My name's Frank" he haltingly began. Yep, same line, different face. Normally they smell of alcohol, and I'm prepared for this script. This one caught me off guard because he hadn't seemed "impaired" when he boarded. He continued, turning away from me as he mumbled the next words so I could only make out part of what he said: "I was wondering if you mumble mumble me."

My tactic in this case is to pretend I didn't hear, and ask them to repeat. Either they will be ashamed of what they said, and say "Nothing. Never mind." and quickly flee the scene, or (if sufficiently well along in their celebration of the day) they will repeat it more loudly and clearly, and that's the time to trigger the Drive Cam.

He was halfway down the steps by this point, but he swivelled his head to look me in the eye for an instant (they never do that!) and started over. "Frank. My name's Frank. If you're the praying sort, would you pray for me, please? I'm in a real difficult situation right now."

He took the last step to the curb and walked on down the street without looking back, heading to the homeless shelter.

In case anyone wonders why I persist in wearing my funny rainbow prayer covering day in, day out...THAT is why. Because it told Frank that I was someone he could ask to pray for him. Would you ask that of someone wearing a John Deere cap? Or a cowboy hat? Or a fancy little number with feathers on it? Would you even walk up to someone with a fish on their car, or a cross around their neck, and ask them to pray for you? Probably not. But something about the covering invites people like Frank to take that risk, when they have nothing left to lose.

Yes, Frank, I will pray for you. And I will let others know to pray for you as well, by sharing your story.

White Christmas Day

2009-12-26T01:54:00.009-05:00

(as usual, I have no clue how to get Blogger to put these photos where I want them.)

Oh, my! Talk about snow!

I think this is the biggest snow I've seen in Kansas, at least for a very long time. It's certainly the first time I've REALLY gotten the car stuck...in the driveway, no less. AFTER DK and I did a lot of shovelling.

But so beautiful. I told DK that he couldn't go out until I got out first and took pictures of the pure, unblemished snow in all its sculptured drifts. He was pretty obliging. And I did take a few pictures, including a lot of the "glacier" that has been slowly sliding off the roof for more than 24 hours. It's so solid that when I whacked it with the storm door this morning, a chunk fell out but the main mass didn't budge. It just gradually drooped more and more vertical through the day. The photo above definitely gives me that "we're not in Kansas any more" feeling. Winnipeg, perhaps?

The drifts between the barn and high tunnel are especially impressive...at least 2' deep. I learned something about farm door design: have one door that opens into the building, so you can get in without having to shovel out the snow around it. This is NOT how I designed the doors for the barn or HT.

Shoveling out the HT was really going to be a chore, since the drift was so deep and broad that there was a LOT of snow to move. Just getting to it was a challenge. There had to be a better way.

One of my listserv groups is gathering in the flesh in February in New York, so there's been lots of talk about winter sports like snowshoeing and cross country skiing...both just made for days like today. Don't I wish I had snowshoes to get the barn and around to do chores? The deep snow is so hard to walk in, and over my boots means wet socks.

Maybe I could make something that would work like snowshoes? Something big and flat and lightweight, and some way of strapping it to my boots...like a couple of tote lids, and an old pair of slip-on ice grippers. Short bolts and washers would work to attach them...but a considerable amount of searching yielded many long bolts and no short ones. It did, however, turn up a package of zip ties...and I knew I was onto something good. A few minutes later, I had removed the studs from the ice grippers, yielding two boot straps. Drilled a few holes in the ball-of-the-foot area and zip tied them to the lids. Voila! Snowshoes! And believe it or not, they worked. Here's a photo of them inside the HT.

I've never snowshowed before, but it was pretty easy to figure out what worked and what didn't. The rubber boot straps turned out to be a good safety feature...while the lids flop around a bit, they did flex enough to avoid spraining an ankle when I stepped on my toe and fell over.

Working from the snowshoes on top of the snow, I was able to shovel out enough to get into both the barn and HT. The sky was clear by then, and inside the HT it was in the 40s. Nice! I picked a delicious fresh salad for Christmas dinner at a friend's house. The photo shows the silhouette of the snowbank on the east (lee) side of the HT, where it slid off the roof. The insulation of the snow will help keep the HT warmer tonight...at this time it's 26 degrees, while last night it got down to 22.

The snowshoes also made taking hay to the sheep much easier. We use a child's plastic sled to haul hay on, year round, because it's so much lighter than a cart, and easy to maneuver. So the sled and me on snowshoes made the chores into child's play.

After several forays around the farmyard, the plastic began to split and break, brittle from cold and from long exposure to UV. A better pair will be fabricated tomorrow. It was enough fun and function that I'll sacrifice two of my red "bulb crates" to salvage more substantial plastic, esp. since the forecast implies that this snow will be around awhile. Now to invent skis....

Dinner at a friend's house was scheduled for 12:30. Of course, I was just picking the salad about 11:45, after snowshoe fabrication, chores, snow shovelling, etc. So it was nearly 12:30 by the time I was all ready to go and headed out to the car. DK had been shovelling the driveway, as well as tromping it down by driving his car around...OK, by getting his car stuck and unstuck in a lot of places.

After getting the car all warmed up and brushed off, I started to back out the driveway. I got to the street, but that was it. I couldn't turn. The street hadn't been plowed, and the deep granular snow wouldn't pack or give any traction. It was like sand, nearly up to the floor of the car. I got stuck, DK and a passing neighbor got me back into the driveway and I returned the car to its parking space. Meanwhile another neighbor in a bigger car got stuck in the same place on the road. OK, it isn't my car and it isn't my driving.

I called my friends (again) to let them know I was delayed (even more).

Then, with the salad installed in my beloved frame pack from my Canada adventure a few years ago, and my feet snug in my "Winnipeg boots", I set out walking. It was a beautiful winter day, the sky was blue, nothing better to do than walk 2 miles to a friend's house for good company and good food. Besides, I needed to feed the cat I'm house sitting in town. So what's a good hour's walk but a pleasure on such a day?

It turned out I didn't walk more than half a mile. I decided to walk down 2nd St., even though the sidewalks were untouched, deep in snow. It was a good choice...the 4th or 5th truck stopped and offered me a ride. I didn't hesitate to accept. Evil people were surely not out looking for victims on such a day; I figured everyone on the road was either bound and determined to make it to a cherished relative's house for Christmas, or was out looking for good deeds to do. Or both, as it turned out.

It also turned out that my ride was an old friend of my ex-husband, though he didn't recognize me until I introduced myself. He had been at our wedding nearly 15 years ago. Small world, with God working in mysterious ways!

Good food, pleasant company...a good way to spend Christmas afternoon. As the day wore on, my host offered me a ride home along with her other guests. But the cat...? As luck would have it, the other guests lived near my cat-friend. I did chores while she took them the rest of the way to their home, and then she gave me a ride home.

The street had been plowed by the time I got home. So, what's to stop me from jumping in the car and going to my daughter's for her Christmas dinner? Well, nothing but the last (biggest, still unfrozen) puddle at the end of the driveway! Where the car remains stuck....

...Which I don't mind at all, since I enrolled in AAA last week, and my boss called me this afternoon to let me know that the bus system has been cancelled tomorrow so I don't have to go to work.

White Christmas Eve

2009-12-25T02:03:00.003-05:00

I poked my head out the front door to see how much snow was accumulating around the woodpile...and was surprised to see snow hanging over my head! The wind is really blowing, and though there's not much snow falling any more, it is certainly going places it has never gone before. I'll be interested to see what it looks like from out in the front yard.

This photo shows the ledge of snow drifting off the edge of the roof overhang. The grey band is the old-fashioned round gutter, about 5" in diameter to give a sense of scale. The snow is cantilevered about 2 feet out from the edge of the gutter! It reminds me of a giant shelf fungus.

Earlier this evening I stepped out into the garage for a tool...and noticed drifts of snow streaming across the floor from the edge of Luna's indoor kennel. The wind is just the right velocity and angle to funnel the snow under her lean-to "porch roof" and right through the door, filling up her indoor den. She's grinning from ear to ear in the entryway now...partly because she gets to be in the house, and partly because she generously the cat litter box for me (I know, you REALLY didn't need to know that little detail...but it's a good reality check for "oh what a SWEET dog").

In the morning I'll be out with the camera for more snow pics...and pop into the HT for some green relief. It's currently about 24 degrees in there...and that's right up against the plastic of the south wall. Outdoor temp. is mid-teens. We are still working out the best locations for the remote sensors for the thermometers. Lots of trial and error. The gray Springfield unit was sending all the way from the HT most of the time; when I moved it to the washhouse which is about half the distance, it only sends sporadically. The white Acu-Rite unit (thanks, RG!) seems to send reliably from the HT.

Cold Attitudes

2009-12-10T00:38:00.002-05:00

Mornings like this morning (Wed.) highlight the wide range of personalities and preferences in the people around us.

I like the cold...when I have proper clothing and access to a warm, dry, windless spot...and it doesn't have to be fancy. I LIKED winters in the school bus, with no running water or electricity or access to town for weeks at a time. So crunching around the farm in the crackly snow to visit the toilet at Dawdie, finish shoveling the walks, sweep off the car, etc., was pleasant and invigorating. The wind wasn't too bad, and the sun was bright in a cloudless sky. Pretty, pretty, pretty! A postcard or calendar photo view everywhere I turned.

Housemate DK practically laughs at the cold, as well...even more than me. When I'm wearing a wool blend union suit and heavy sweat pants with Goretex rain pants over the top, and a cotton turtle neck and wool sweater under my leather jacket, he's bound to be wearing shorts and a T shirt. He welcomes the cold as an opportunity to play with fire (in the wood stove), but you wouldn't really know it because his policy seems to be snide indifference for most external conditions. He was out the door to commute to his job in Topeka a bit earlier than usual, accounting for weather-related unpredictability...well before this night owl got up.

Because DK worked today, and I knew we'd be going in and out a lot before he got home and got the walks shovelled (one of his assigned chores, generally undertaken on his own initiative), I suggest to my temporary visitor that she do the walks. She was not enthusiastic, but dutifully (resentfully?) went out, bundled in suitable layers. She was back in about 10 minutes, huddled by the fire speechless for awhile, and then mumbled about how awful the cold was. About that time, an overdue volunteer returned my call, entirely perplexed that I would expect him to show up on a morning like this (he is volunteering here to establish me as an employment reference while he looks for work???).

I called the septic tank people to find out their ETA for our morning appointment, and they were aghast that I would even think they would work today. They promised to come tomorrow...which is slated to be significantly colder. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to predict the outcome tomorrow.... Someone was supposed to come pick up my visitor, but their locks were frozen (I bought a $1.29 package of lock de-icer at the grocery store on the way home last night, so I wouldn't have to worry about that).

But the gas company showed up in good time, business-like in their Carhartts and work boots. The gas was soon on at Dawdie House, the heater lit. While sweeping the front walk at Dawdie (important to get those walks clear of snow ASAP, before people step on it and turn it to ice. Then it brushes off easily, and the sun and the process of sublimation will have the walks clear and dry by early afternoon), snow plows, the cable truck, and other workers drove by, as well as other neighbors. It was a bustling morning on North Street. Around town, the trash trucks were working their routes, media trucks headed to the Field House to set up for tonight's game, the parking lot was full at the hospital, the park-and-ride lot for the K-10 Connector intercity bus was full.

Most bus drivers showed up, a few didn't. Those who didn't, if habitually absent or tardy, will lose their jobs. The morning drivers start about 5:30 a.m., and I appreciate them very much. I COULD do it, and I WOULD do it, but I'm glad so many drivers want their afternoons and evenings free, so that I get an afternoon shift.

Law enforcement was out, coping with the inevitable fender benders...with their side-kicks, the tow trucks. Semis and beer trucks made their usual rounds downtown and at the industrial park on my route. My regulars rode to work or rode home, according to their shifts. The fire engines and ambulances screamed around town as needed. My firefighter friend hates the cold, but evidently showed up for work anyhow, long enough to retire.

This evening, traffic for the basketball game was as heavy as ever, despite the cold. Bumper to bumper cars for miles, streaming in from Johnson County on K-10 to gridlock 23rd St. and 19th St., just to watch a game that they could view from the warmth of their own livingroom. Not too cold for them to participate in what seems to me to be a frivolous obsession.

My visitor asked to bring the outside dog into the house, because she was barking and howling a lot. I declined...she is an outside dog for good reason (potty training failure), and even a short stay inside upsets the equilibrium with the dog-phobic cat and the elderly dog. Not to mention, being inside un-acclimates her to the cold. "YOU ARE SO CRUEL!" my visitor said. "LISTEN TO HER BARKING AND HOWLING!"

When I realized the outside dog's food dish was in the entryway, I suddenly got the big picture. Visitor had let the dog in yesterday while I was gone (and probably many previous days while I was gone, even though I had told her not to do this), and my chore person had fed the dog where he found her. Then this morning DK probably didn't see the dish, so didn't feed her, thinking I had an important reason for this. Thus my "kind" visitor had arranged for the dog to go hungry, by disobeying the household's established policies for the dogs!

When I fed the dog, she was quiet the rest of the morning. She has a dog house, a plastic lounge so she can sit or lie without being on the ground, and a dog-house-size kennel inside the garage, so she's well-protected. It's true she hasn't much bedding...if given a blanket, she promptly drags it outside and leaves it in the mud. She does have a rug.

But the visitor continued to berate me, threatening to turn me in for cruelty to animals because the outdoor dog was contentedly napping in the garage kennel, snug in her fur coat, living the life she's lived most of her 5 years, the life her ancestors lived for centuries.

I suppose this visitor thinks I should bring the sheep in the house, too? The squirrels, the rabbits, the feral cats, the birds?

These animals were all created by evolution and/or The Creator to live outside in the harshest of weather. The ones that are in my charge, are provided with food, water, veterinary care when needed, and shelter. The ones that are not in my charge are welcome to take shelter in sheds and woodpiles and natural areas, so long as they don't have a significant adverse effect on the overall Community of Life around here. Ditto my visitor.

I do confess to giving myself a slightly elevated rank in that Community, including over any other humans who are here, because I and my paycheck and my stauch stand against development are what keeps this habitat available to ALL of us. My sandbox, I make the rules, but everyone else is welcome as long as they play nice and try to honor the rules and respect the rest of the community, including me. My visitor had repeatedly established that she disputed my authority over my sandbox...not a wise attitude for a guest on thin ice.

When I was ready to go to work and it came time for her to leave, she escalated the rant. She would turn me for abuse for not letting her stay. She adamantly balked at leaving, though we'd been discussing her imminent departure for several days. How could I throw her out on such a cold day (she could have left yesterday...or made other arrangements a week ago when she made it clear she wasn't going to follow the rules)? No one should have to be outside on a day like this!

But...

The sheep are content in their pen; the dog naps in her kennel.

The feral cats are sunning on the woodpile.

A less-common bird warbles in the woodlot, while sparrows chirp in the forsythia bush.

I'm smiling contentedly as I neatly shovel the rest of the walk clean, basking in the bright sun in the shelter of the south side of the house. I'd rather stay home and work outside than drive the nice warm bus.

The dizzying array of our human community continues to play its daily rhythms through the town, minus a few workers who didn't show up...who probably have blots on their records for their lapse in dependability.

The conspicuous absence today, all around town on the bus, was the homeless, the chronic complainers, people going to SRS, the panhandlers, the "bridge people". And the unemployed farm volunteers who said "It's too cold to do anything," leaving me to do everything it was "too cold to do".

I may have said "It's too cold" more than once in my life, but not while standing idle for more than a few minutes. And usually I'm laughing when I say it, proud of surviving no matter what, welcoming the challenge of rising above adversity. I don't use it as an excuse for bailing out on stuff. Even cold-related auto problems, by and large, are preventable with forethought an therefore not valid reasons for not showing up.

Busy in the cold warms me, in body, in heart, in soul. Busy in the cold builds my self-esteem and my sense of well-being and my generousity towards others. I think that's why a cold spell like this in early December puts us in the "Christmas spirit."

Taken all together, this day has really brought home to me that cold attitudes make a big difference in the overall course of people's lives. It may even be diagnostic, like the marshmallow test.* Those who show up anyhow, live life anyhow, no matter how cold (hot, wet, boring, dangerous, etc.) it is...get the nice things to make it easier, like cars and houses. It's not an accident that the unemployed and homeless didn't show up today, in whatever way they could have. It's a choice each of us makes one way or another: what kind of attitude we will have towards cold, and what the natural consequences of that choice could be.

To my departed visitor, I would love to say, "If you want what I have (bright house, warm woodstove, food, pets), do what I did (show up and work hard and don't complain about the weather or other conditions we can't control). If you would even make a reasonable effort to do what I did, I would gladly share what I have until you have your own, which won't seem like long if you're diligent. But if I give you what I have without you putting in a fair share of sweat equity, we both stand to lose everything. Why should both of us lose everything when at least one of us can keep it?" But she wouldn't be able to hear that wisdom. I can only hope that someday she'll "get it" and decide to show up for daily life no matter what the weather.

Is that a cold attitude?

* Somewhere I once heard that a remarkably reliable test for whether a child would succeed in life was to put a marshmallow on the table in front of a kindergardener...tell them that they can eat it now and there's no penalty, but they can also choose to wait 5 minutes and they will get 2 marshmallows. The tester then leaves the room for 5 minutes. Those who wait for the 2 marshmallows are by far more likely to achieve worldly success. I think I would have asked, "If I wait 10 minutes, will you give me four?" My worldly success, as yet, may be hard for most folks to see through the dirt and scrap piles and weeds. They haven't known me for 35 years. But I can see the pieces of the puzzle coming together faster each year, fleshing out a dream for my life that I had in high school.

Great Camping Weather!

2009-12-08T00:53:00.002-05:00

A friend's boy scout troop is going on their cold weather survival campout this weekend. So are we, only for real...and without packing...and we get to sleep in our own comfy beds

As I write, a light skiff of snow dusts the ground. Tonight I did before-snow chores: find the ice melt and snow shovel; put gas-line antifreeze in the truck, filled up the tank, bought water softener salt to use as ballast in the back of the pickup; check once more for things that might collect water, or might be lost in the snow. And peek under the tarps coveing the partially-uprooted septic system.

The saga continues to unfold...

At Dawdie House, I turned on the portable electric heater, made sure a slow drip was running in the bathroom faucets, flushed a bucket of hot water down the toilet, and checked the kitchen sink drain after putting a powerful draincleaner down it last night. Hallelujah! It drains better than it has in years! The down side is, there is seepage from the cobbled mess of plastic drian pipe underneath. That should be "easy" to fix. I haven't looked in the cellar yet to see any effect there....

The work on Dawdie House may be hurried along a bit faster than anticipated, because that may be our best place to wash dishes, take sponge baths, and use the toilet.

It seems that water is not moving from the septic tank to the lateral field, so we will need to minimize water use at Industry until that's $$$olved.

Frustrating, because we need to do a bunch of water-intensive work before the Farmer's Market Holiday Sale this Saturday.

But we are lucky. We have many resources that most folks don't have, even not counting Dawdie House. In addition to the regulation septic tank, we have a "French drain" that drains the basement sink. We can also run the washing machine into it. From past experience, its capacity is small...but still useful, with care.

We also have a sump in the basement with a portable sump pump...in fact, the same pump that a local water garden store uses to empty ponds. So the washing machine can run into a barrel, and the water be pumped out through a hose...somewhere far from the septic tank. I was thinking that would require opening a window, until I remembered the opening for the now-unused dryer. It's just plugged with a plastic bag full of wool, which has nicely insulated and water-proofed it for years. A hose can squeeze in with the wool and not have any air gap. The unused sheep paddock east of the house will be sufficiently far from the septic and other concerns.

The outhouse, once again, is a real blessing. There is no real security like KNOWING you have a decent place to poop, no matter what. The TP is in a coffee can to keep it from getting damp. Of course, there is that long, cold walk to the outhouse, out behind the barn...that's where chamber pots come into play. I raided the stash of plastic buckets, found some lids, labeled each one boldly "NO FOOD USE" and now we each have our own. Pee TP (for us ladies) goes in a plastic bag and into the trash, though I suppose we could burn it in the burn barrel with other paper waste.

We also have a wide range of water sources. In addition to city water at Dawdie House, the one pump in the basement supplies both unsoftened (farm hydrants, cold in the shower, drinking water in the kitchen) and softened (everything else) water. We can wash veggies in the high tunnel, and the waste water will be appreciated by the plants.

It IS a shame that this is unfolding just as the coldest weather sets in...low teens forecast on Wed.

It will be an interesting adventure (if we let it) to see how much we can change our water use habits for a limited time, and then to see what "sticks" after the system is back to normal.

We have never been highly motivated to conserve water here before. After all, we just borrow it for a little while and then put it back...and there's no monthly water bill. The cost of our water is hidden in the electric bill (to run the pump) and the grocery bill (to purchase salt for the softener). So it really wouldn't hurt to be more judicious in our use. It will be interesting if we can tell the difference.

Special Occasion

2009-12-01T00:47:00.002-05:00

I was led to reflect on "special occasions" the other day, when a friend mentioned that she and her S.O. would be out observing one at a time I'd hoped to drop by.

It got me thinking. I don't seem to have special occasions much any more, or at least not the conventional ones. I don't celebrate birthdays much, and haven't really given Christmas gifts for years. This year I passed on the family Thanksgiving gathering, in favor of spending the gorgeous day working on the high tunnel with some of my favorite volunteers. Thankfully my family understands and approves of my farming passion.

I'm not sure how much this lack of special occasions goes hand in hand with not having a ready victim at hand to share them with. When I had S.O.s in my life, I would celebrate things at the drop of a hat. I put lots of time and energy into special birthday celebrations for both adults and children; memorable Christmas and Thanksgiving feasts; marked all kinds of milestones with favorite meals or cards. How I loved designing and sending out invitations or announcements for special occasions (that was all before E-Vite, of course)!

So maybe the fact that there is no accessible S.O. in my life, and my family is either busy, far away, or both, has diminished my desire for elaborate celebrations.

I think it's also partly a natural consequence of my journey towards living "plain", even if it is a rather quirky, post-consumerism, radical stealth kind of "plain". I don't dress up much any more, so that makes a lot of "special" occasions barely distinguishable from ordinary ones. "Dressing up" has become simply a question of wearing a black turtleneck that DOESN'T have paint spots, and a pair of black slacks with no holes in the pockets and not very much cat hair (what little vanity I had left has been fairly well obliterated by Mike's lovely soft white fur...a small price to pay for such lavish unfailing affection. But cats do not seem to have a concept of "special occasions", only "occasions for petting" which are too frequent to be "special"). And real shoes instead of rubber farm boots or sandals.

I guess I would feel sadder about not celebrating much any more, about not having special occasions or anyone to share them with, if I didn't see in hindsight how long it's been since I had that, and I haven't missed it at all up to now, so why be sad all of a sudden?

Just daily life at the farm is enough of a special occasion...or really, a whole array of them all strung together, often happening all at once...and like the commonplace nature of Mike's "occasions for petting", there are too many for any to be really "special": An iris booming in late November, a wren warbling in the barn, an impeccable blue sky, a perfect dandelion seed puff, a gorgeous bed of lettuce nestled under row cover, a dog making a perfect catch of a tennis ball...so many special moments in my days.

And more mundane things, like the car starting after not starting the previous day. Life is good.

The necessity of dealing with a malfunctioning septic tank pushed me to take the day off work today, one of the last beautiful warm afternoons we'll have for awhile...a special occasion in and of itself, if you ignore the raw sewage oozing out of the tank. This afternoon and evening I pushed to get things finished up before today's early dark, before day-after-tomorrow's bitter cold.

Getting the inflation fan set up for the high tunnel was top priority, once things were at a standstill with the septic. This little fan blows air between the two layers of roof plastic, creating an insulating air space and steadying the plastic against the wind. The high tunnel instructions said "follow instructions in the blower kit if you are installing a blower." But to my dismay, the so-called "kit" included nary a word of instruction on the motor...only a few diagrams about connecting the support bracket. And there weren't even any wires visible on the motor! I finally found a cover plate that opened to reveal two wire ends.

As I walk slowly back to the house, absently taking in all the wonders of the spring-like afternoon, I feel a twinge of regret and loneliness. This is one of the times I feel wearyest in my solo life...when I have to walk all the way back to the house to call long distance to brainstorm ith someone far away on how to proceed on a project, instead of having a partner at hand to talk it over with right there on the spot. It takes so long this way. Not just the walk, but the describing with words instead of pointing. I actually thought about taking photos and emailing them, rather than try to find words to describe the bracket, mount, wires, etc...but my dial-up service is so slow to load photos, it would have been just as much of a challenge. This is when the farm seems like a burden too heavy for just my own boney shoulders. Yet the only way it can really be shared is if someone were here in my daily life, in my evenings as well as my days, and happened to be home at the time. Not a moment for which you can send out an invitation.

Those who know me well, know that dealing with electrical wiring (not counting the electric fences) is sort of the second-to-last frontier to me. (The last frontier will be when I ever come to terms with being up close and personal with sparking metal, such as in welding or grinding. I don't "do" sparklers for the 4th of July, either.) This, despite having taken a wiring class many years ago and having been instrumental in the rewiring of two entire houses.

So the fact of me going to the hardware store, getting the parts (fortunately we aren't so far into the Christmas shopping season that all the seasoned, knowledgable hardware store sales people have been replaced by temporary youngsters), and putting a cord onto the blower is pretty major. Esp. with the uncertainty presented in trying pair up the motor (two perfectly identical black wires) with the cord (one white, one black). Thanks, Dad, for talking me though it...including the priceless (if less than reassuring) protocol for checking if it's done right:

1. Mount motor on bracket. Be far away not touching it. Plug it in. See if the circuit blows or there are sparks.

2. If anything goes wrong, don't touch the motor. Or, if you do, just touch it with one hand. Actually, touch it with one hand behind your back. That way you won't have that hand grasping a water pipe or something like that. Then it won't be ALL of you that gets shocked.

3. It's only the equivalent of a 50 watt light bulb, so you aren't dealing with that much electricity.

This is hard to reconcile with the line drawing, indelibly etched in my mind at the impressionable
age of maybe 4 or 5, of a classic 1950's housewife in shirtwaist and apron rolling an unconscious child away from the broken lamp with a broom handle (that was before metal broom handles had been invented, of course), that was in the Red Cross First Aid Manual which was one of my favorite picture books, right up there with Animals Without Backbones and the Yearbook of Agriculture volume on Animal Diseases and the Field Guide to the Birds. (And how did my parents EXPECT me to turn out, given reading material like that at a tender, impressionable age?)

At any rate...I got it assembled, mounted, tested...it worked...little by little I watched the sheets of plastic lifting apart as the little blower whirred quietly, illuminated by the full moon beaming through the layers of plastic.

A special occasion, indeed. The clear winter night sky; the beaming moon; the twinkling stars; the fresh air; the world's bustle and buzz all at arm's-length for the moment; the moist, earthy breath of the high tunnel as I open the door to step back in after surveying the rising plastic....

As I walk slowly back to the house, taking in all the wonders of the winter night, I feel a twinge of regret and loneliness. THIS is a special occasion--a significant stage of "completion" for the high tunnel, as well as celebrating a further step towards wiring serenity for me. Yet the only way it could be shared would be if someone were here in my daily life, in my night as well as my day, and happened to be home at the time.

Not a moment for which you can send out an invitation.

Under cover!

2009-11-24T01:44:00.003-05:00

Yesterday (Sunday) we made huge progress on the high tunnel--with a great crew of 5, we not only got the second endwall covered inside and out with plastic, but we got the double layer of plastic put over the roof!

It looks more finished than it is, because the excess plastic from the roof nearly reaches the ground. This excess will be the subject of experimentation as integrated gutters to catch rainwater from the roof so that we can pipe it back under the tunnel. We don't want to go into the irrigation business just because we're putting a roof over the garden.

The big header across the north end, in the photo, will be the support for the roof of a tool shed along the outside of the north wall--only 2 feet deep, just enough to reach in and hang garden tools. The roof will be also serve as a permanent scaffolding to make roof replacement and repairs easier. And I'm looking forward to the view from up there!

This morning I was able to figure out quite a bit of the side curtain "theory"--I hope! Tomorrow if it isn't too rainy, we should be able to get those mostly in place, though the details of rigging the system to raise and lower the curtains may take longer. Many ropes and cables that have to link together "just so."

Doors are under way as well. I found some very nice new wooden screen doors at the Habitat for Humanity ReStore, slathered them with linseed oil to help preserve them against moisture, and covered them neatly with left-over plastic. Hinged on the outer sides, meeting in the middle, they will form a 6' wide opening when both are open--ample for the garden cart--or we can just slip in one and keep the other tightly shut in winter. In spring the plastic can come off for ventilation, while still keeping cats & dogs out. An old screen door that came with the Brown Barn will be installed in the north endwall, so we'll have cross ventilation and easy access to the garden and tool shed from that end.

The photo shows a bit of the crops we have already planted inside, peeking out from under row covers since the day was warm. All our various crews have been super great about leaping over beds of seedlings and trying not to damage the crops. It takes constant attention, and quite a bit of acrobatics. I really appreciate that no one has whined about it, at least to my face. I had expected grumbling on that account.

But maybe the beauty and tastiness of the crops have convinced everyone that I wasn't crazy to go ahead and plant. We've been harvesting Wrinkly Crinkly Cress, Upland Cress, baby Bok Choi and Broccoli Raab, huge sweet Hakurei white salad turnips, rainbow radishes, green onions, frilly burgundy and chartreuse baby mustard greens, purple orach, magenta spreen, Tampequino Serrano hot peppers, chives, rosemary, sage, and various wild greens from the high tunnel beds already, for our Farmer's Market booth and for the local hospital.

And there's more to come. The chard is still small, but due for thinning this week or next--sweet tender salad greens now, then big lush tropical-looking leaves to steam or saute later. The rows of seedlings are stunning shades of magenta, green and chartreuse, with white, pink, yellow, and beet red stems. I've managed to keep a patch of burgundy green beans alive under the white frost blankets, and just possibly we'll have beans for Christmas. The carrots--old heirloom seed--didn't germinate well, but there are a few coming. The Bok Choi and Raab should be ready for the Farmer's Market Holiday Sale in a couple weeks, and then we have some "regular" broccoli plants that will fill out the space left when we harvest the Raab.

And we'll plant more things once we get the tunnel really done. Out in the garden, we've actually still got basil plants hanging on under layers of row cover...we'll try transplanting them to the high tunnel soon, and see how long we can keep them going in there. As we harvest things, we'll keep planting, moving on to things that are even more cold hardy like lettuce, spinach, corn salad, etc.

Everyone is invited to nibble as they work--our motto is "Feed the workers!"

When It Rains, It Snows

2009-11-17T02:59:00.002-05:00

The geese warned me last night: snow's coming! At that point, the forecasts I was reading just called for rain all week. But the skeins of geese flying high in the evening sky, honking their long-distance travelling song, clued me in. Not too many of them, and not many today: I think the snowy weather will soon pass, and we'll have another spell of mild weather.

No accumulation of snow yet; it's too warm. It was beautiful driving the bus in it today: big wet clumpy flakes thick in the air, like a cartoon. At night, with them plummeting wetly onto dark pavement, I was reminded of the importance of focus. When I looked at the flakes swirling towards the windshield, with a short-range focus, I was suddenly blind to the roads and traffic around me--a dangerous perspective. All I could see was the whiteness, even though it was of little real substance--all day we had only a little more than 1/2 inch of precipitation. Coming at me at frightening speed, it was entirely dizzying.

A different kind of snowblind.

Alarmed at being briefly hypnotized (even though I was safely at a l-o-n-g stoplight), I blinked and shook my head, and refocused on the darkness beyond the tumbling snow. When I focused on the background, the snow became transparent again, faded from view, and I could plainly see the roads and traffic again--the things that were of real substance.

That's a lot like other things in life. When everything comes "thick and fast and more at last" (is that Lewis Carroll?), it's easy to get caught up in focusing on the little temporary "crises" hurtling at me, rather than the long-term, important things that will be there through thick and thin.

I found myself getting grumpier and grumpier this evening.

Well, it WAS late and I got little sleep last night. I stayed up late preparing my written comments on the Northeast Sector Plan which is being drafted by the Lawrence/Douglas County Planning Department with input from the community (http://www.lawrenceks.org/pds/draft_plans).

With Toss gone, it was a good time to catch up on cleaning. Threw in a load of wash (rugs), tackled the dust bunnies in the entry way with broom, vacuum and mop...oh, that little rug in the basement would work well here...I go down to get it just in time to hear the sound of water cascading from the washing machine drain, drenching the washer which is just days back in service after the motor board went out last week (about $300 all told). Stray water is a known enemy of this expensive part. Because the drain was backing up before it went out, I called the drain cleaner first, then the appliance repair guy. Now all of that seems to no avail. Which means it's probably time to dig up the septic tank...ugh.

Big bills, but small stuff in the grand scheme of things. I unplug the sump pump, shut off the washer, turn off the light, and walk away. Nothing to be done tonight.

Grumpier and grumpier. I try to sweep under the computer table. You would think all those snake-like cords would eat the dust bunnies, but no. They shelter the dust bunnies. Suddenly I despise electrical cords as much as I do garden hoses. Grumpy, grumpy. One of those times I'm really grateful to live essentially alone.

Talking with Mom and Dad earlier, they mention attending a memorial at their church for someone barely older than me, who was a somewhat removed role model for me...an environmental activist credited with some significant feats of conservation in the state. Someone who made a lasting difference for many, many species. I reminded them of another mentor of mine, someone who pushed me to grow and develop new skills as a shy high school junior, who died this summer. The obituaries are vague, of course, but it is clear that each took her own life.

And suddenly I realize--this is the source of my grumpiness. In the midst of little frustrations-- not being able to control a handful of computer cords, seeing my washing machine/drain repairs all to naught--reflecting on the lives of these strong, courageous women whom I personally knew for many years, and knowing that at some point they decided it just wasn't worth it any more. What does that mean for me, just a few years younger than they?

I can imagine something like that if I were ill to the point of no reasonable hope for meaningful recovery. But these creative, dynamic women were still creating, still active, still making meaningful contributions to their communities.

We can never stand in another's shoes and know what they were thinking or feeling. But in this moment, I remember my experience with the falling snow. If I focus on the little, insignificant things coming at me thick and fast, I will lose my sense of perspective, and I will be overwhelmed...and I could come to a point where it seemed just too difficult and pointless to continue.

So I renew my resolve to keep my focus on the big, important things beyond the little daily burdens of plumbing and appliances and phone companies that keep billing me for services I didn't order.

The important things are, I think, these: God, and my faith in Him; my family and friends, and my relationships with them; the farm, and my relationship with its Community of Life.

But these things can come thick and fast too. I tiptoe away from the edges of the the thoughts, "What if they decided that all this ground around me can be developed into industrial parks and tract houses?" "What if they annex the farm?" That way lies madness.

Comfort comes in a quote someone posted on a listserv:

"Not one of us will live long enough to see a fraction of the difference we make, but it is essential that we pursue our ideals anyway. Many of the first Quakers never saw freedom of religion come to England. Most of the original suffragists never got to vote. The murdered civil rights workers did not get to see racial tensions ease. Few idealists live long enough to see their dreams made real, and yet their influence lives after them, and their dreams do, sometimes, come true for others."

— Kate Maloy in A Stone Bridge North

I have to look not just beyond the falling snowflakes, but beyond the traffic as well, to the larger community of which the traffic is but one manifestation. The traffic appears to me as a different hypnotizing flow, one that has more substance than snow, but is equally detached from me. Yet from within itself, it is far more than a river of cars. It is others like me, working, dreaming, planning supper, meeting loved ones. And I must always remember, I am part of it. What I do as a driver affects the flow of the traffic, and that affects the lives of each fellow member in ways I will never, ever know.

Faith is knowing that it is so, even though I will never, ever know. Faith is my lifeline into the future, beyond myself.

Toss Travels Solo

2009-11-16T01:37:00.002-05:00

Well, not really. Someone else was driving, of course.

But when the opportunity arose for her to sojourn at a friend's home for a few days, basking by a wood stove with a frequently-played grand piano nearby, and someone who loves her spending a lot of time at home, I was quick to gussy her up with a--gasp!--bath, and pack her overnight things.

I didn't really feel a difference this afternoon. I was working on the high tunnel and barn, in a cold drizzle, and Toss would likely have been lounging alone in the house anyhow, by choice. In her advancing years, she enjoys the comfort of her own personal PWF machine-washable sheepskin, and doesn't feel compelled to be front and center in every project out on the farm.

But tonight, coming home after an evening with friends, I notice that the house is perceptibly quieter. It's after midnight, and she hasn't come padding into my room to lay down with a slight huff, as if to say, "Aren't you going to bed yet?" In her working days, I called her the "beddy-bye dog" because she got so drowsy around 10:00 each evening, like clockwork. She would still follow me around the house as I moved from room to room, but she would flop as soon as she caught up with me, give me that little huff of disapproval at my wakeful ways, and close her eyes until my next foray into another room.

I suppose the cessation of the following behavior was an unnoticed casualty of her increasing deafness, as well as a touch of stiffness. She didn't so easily notice, with her eyes closed, when I left the room.

But missing her is ok. Practice for the inevitable. When Ambrosius passed away, I found I was grateful for his habit of "going walkabout" for weeks at a time, because I was used to him being absent. It makes his permanent absense more familiar-feeling.

And I think Toss well deserves some of the finer things in life that I can't give her, like lots of free concerts on her own private grand piano, and someone with more time to take her for walks and pamper her.

The house isn't quite empty, though. Mike the cat is curled on the bed. His buddy Stanley went back to his old home after spending a couple months here, the same place Toss is sojourning. They will all come here when my friend travels, giving everyone a little change of pace.

Although Mike had been quite nasty to Toss, and never really accepted her presence in his new world, he wandered around the house as if looking for her.

A Question of Scale

2009-11-08T15:08:00.002-05:00

Catlady's comment jogged a few brain cells just now. They are having temps in Winnipeg (85 miles straight north of Pinwheel Farm) that are 10 degrees--CELSIUS--above normal!

Based on what little media stuff I hear, the climate change scientists have been looking at long-range variations in the average temperatures: a few degrees average increase will cause melting of polar ice packs, etc., etc. Well, that's all well and good, and meaningful in a broad way.

But if you're a plant, things look a lot different. Averages from year to year may not make much difference if you're an annual. Averages within a year can make a HUGE difference.

Location is important too, as anyone gardening in a low spot can tell you. The frost comes days earlier to certain microclimates, even across the farm. One of the guessing games I play in siting any new infrastructure or planning my crop arrangement is trying to guess at all the factors affecting microclimates within the garden.

I'm sure our average temperature this year is WAY below average. But the current week of extremely unseasonable warm weather is likely shifting that annual average. A mild winter might make this a more typical "average" year. Yet, no hard long freeze could enable pests to overwinter that usually don't--as well as extending my gardening season nearly around the calendar.

In many instances, it's the daily fluctuations that set the limits for plant growth and reproduction. Tomatoes allegedly won't set fruit above a certain temperature, even though the plants will thrive (mine haven't seemed to mind the hot days, as long as their roots are in soil kept relatively cool by heavy mulch). One hour of frost is the boundary for the squash plants, no matter what the average for the day, week, month or year is. What date contains that hour of frost is what determines the length of the growing season....

For some plants. Some simply need a total cummulative number of hour or days of warmth (corn) or cold (apples and tulips).

Some plants thrive on day/night temperature differences...either large or small.

Some really only care about the hours of daylight--something that will be largely unaffected by climate change.

What I've seen in the day-to-day weather at the farm these past few years is increasing drastic swings and unseasonable temperatures--cooler as well as warmer than usual. This makes it a very, very challenging "climate" for production farming.

I think the successful farmers in this coming time will be those who are willing and able to try new things, take risks, and follow "gut feelings" about what to plant and when to plant it. The calendar printed on paper won't work anymore. Paying attention to and understanding the seasonal rhythms and complex interrelationships of the natural world will be critical to making day-to-day farming decisions.

Perhaps it is ridiculously obvious that in order to notice the complex interrelationships of the natural world, we have to first allow them to exist--stop the herbicides and pesticides, stop cutting shelterbelts, etc.--and then we have to nurture them through every means we can. That means allowing habitat to shelter a diverse array of creatures, and food for them as well. Sometimes that means growing parsley for the butterflies, instead of for the table. And resisting the temptation to make every corner of the farm neat and tidy.

In our corner of the world, neat lawns and tidy trees are the norm. They do look nice this time of year. It's tempting to "subdue creation" at this time of year, to get everything clean and tidy and "put to bed" for the winter. But the untidiness is the home of our climate change indicators, in their various and diverse forms.

I'll poke in a few (hundred) spring flower bulbs in the front yard to pacify the neighbors--at least a little. But a lot of leaves will lay where they fall, and a lot of weeds will stand through the winter, keeping the mantis nests safe, hiding the sparrows from the little hawk that hunts here, slowing the wind and trapping whatever snow may fall, securing the blowing leaves so that they mulch the soil and keep it warmer.

Besides, if it stays generally as warm as it's starting out, we may be too busy picking vegetables to get the farm cleaned up this winter.

Climate Change Craziness

2009-11-07T22:10:00.002-05:00

I don't call it "global warming"; I call it "global weirding".

When we had a run of hard frosts and cold, wet weather on the early side of normal--early October--I heard a lot of mumbling from folks predicting an early, long, hard, cold winter. But I didn't bat an eye...I just had this hunch that it would warm up again and we'd have a gorgeous "Indian Summer" with weeks of bright, warm sunny afternoons.

And so we have it. I'm very glad I followed that hunch and planted a bunch of crops in late Sept. They are growng very quickly now, and we're starting to harvest new beds of arugula, kale, tat soi, mizuna, and salad turnips, with bok choi and lettuce soon to come.

How did I know the weather would do that? A little bird told me--or rather, a lot of birds of all sizes.

In August and Sept., I didn't see the usual huge flights of migratory birds, either while driving the bus or while working on the farm. No vast miles and miles of starlings and grackles and blackbirds, swirling from fields to trees to telephone wires in fascinating amoebic clouds. No thousands of brilliant gulls soaring high in the sky, almost invisible, so that the more you look the more you realize are there. No stately undulating V formations of hundreds of white pelicans, drafting each other like bicycle racers, flap-flap-flap gliiiiiiiiiiide. And no geese.

When we had the cold spell, there were no geese flying south in front of the cold weather.

When I mention this to other people, they stop and think a moment, then say, "You're right--I haven't seen them either, I just didn't pay attention or think about what it meant."

I pay attention to things like that. It's an effortless, ingrained habit now, after several years in the distant past of living in very primitive conditions, and after the past 12+ years on the farm. I give the same attention to the various aspects of the natural environment that most folks give to television or radio. It's in the background; mostly you're not even really "paying attention" to it...but sometimes something catches your attention, and you shift your focus there without even thinking about it. But the whole time, you're aware of it, and if something is unusual, or if it stops, then you notice the change right away.

It is a very strange season, actually, right now. It seems more like spring than the conventional Indian Summer. The plants are confused; insects and frogs are confused. The "spring peepers"--Boreal Chorus Frogs--were actually calling their spring call not long ago. There are violets blooming in the sage bed, and the little plant I call Veronica is strewn with gleaming blue flowers. I've seen some Shepherd's Purse blooming, and other small spring wildflowers. The robins sound like spring robins, singing their song for April sunsets but it's November. I saw a nest of winged ants today...usually an August thing, though usually it's the red ants that I see fly.

Confused? Or maybe they know something we don't. Could there be a winter without winter?

Distractions

2009-11-06T00:30:00.002-05:00

The best thing about farming is the distractions, sometimes.

Today, like every single Thursday since mid-spring, I spent picking and packing the vegetable order for the hospital. The past few Thursdays have been cold and rainy, not ideal weather for this kind of work. You know it's about time to quit for year when the wash water (straight from the well) feels WARM.

Not today. Glorious, bright, warm cloudless day, a day fit for May or even June! Just enough breeze to be annoying--blowing row covers back at me while I picked from under them. Warm enough that the veggies were just a trifle soft as I picked them, and perked up a lot in the rinse process. Yet cool enough that they stayed nice and crisp after that as I packed them.

Ah, distractions! First, it's always tempting to pull that annoying weed while I'm picking. but then I want to pull the next one, too...and the next...and there just isn't time on a picking day when I'm doing the whole order myself.

Then there are all the edibles. I snack my way through the day, both "weeds" and crops.

Sometimes I just have to sit and look around at all the beauty. It's different now that things are under row covers--I can't so easily admire the luminous beds of red and green lettuce. And the winds of the past week have stripped most the colorful leaves from the trees. But the neat rows of white covers have their own beauty, and the dog's coat glistens in the sun, and sky is so incredibly blue, and the willows are so graceful in the breeze.

There are still enough insects about to be distracted by them...and in this season the distraction is in admiring an unusual pygmy grasshopper, rather than swatting a thousand mosquitos.

Those are just the ordinary distractions.

After I showed apprentice E. how to screw in the hooks that are part of the high-tunnel side curtain "rigging", I wandered off towards the lemon balm to pick a few more sprigs to make the needed weight for the order. I noticed something moving in the lane north of the sheep sheds. A skunk! We often see their diggings along the lane, but I've never actually seen the skunk there. This one's tail looked pretty thread-bare, so it may have had mange. It was entirely unconcerned when I called E. over and we walked as far as the gate...about 50' away from the skunk. It just wandered on down the lane away from us, occasionally stopping to dig-dig-dig-dig-dig like a very quick dog. Skunks hunt for grubs and worms by digging little holes and rummaging under things. If we had cows, we would know skunks were at work when we saw all the cow pies turned over.

The Hip Board's Connected to the...

2009-11-03T00:17:00.002-05:00

...bow, which is connected to the purlins, the roof braces, the other bows by way of the purlins, etc.

So getting the posts to be VERTICAL meant loosening a lot of the screws that had been accidentally tightened too much in putting up the side purlins Saturday.

But by the end of a couple hours, we had all the hip boards up. These are the 2 x 8 boards at the top of the walls, to which many things will attach: pulley system and winches for the drop curtains, retaining cords to keep the curtains from billowing, gutters, and eventually the c-channels that will hold on the 2-layer plastic cover.

The instructions for the greenhouse say in bold type at the top: WARNING! Use of AQC ["treated"] lumber will void the warrantee on the greenhouse film ["plastic"]. So we bought beautiful Western cedar boards for 3 times the cost of regular treated lumber. THEN a last glance over the section on hipboard placement brought to light an inconspicuous note that mentions as an aside that treated lumber can be used for the hip boards...sigh.

I have to say that the cedar was wonderful to work with--much lighter to handle than treated would have been, and probably straighter and less knotty. And smells good. And more environmentally benign.

A couple tricks really made this task go smoothly. One was to start by cutting the 2 x 4s that will serve as nailers on the corner posts, fitting between the base board and the hip board. These gave us our standard measurement for placing the hip boards...we tied them onto the posts we were going to attach a hip board to, and then they held the hip board at just the right height while we attached it.

For posts that needed to be adjusted to be plumb, I leaned a long 2 x 6 against the side the post was leaning towards, with the other end resting on the ground near the baseboard, wherever it ended up. Then I pushed a piece of re-bar into the ground at the end of the 2 x 6 to keep it from sliding along the ground. Leaning or hammering on the 2 x 6 easily pushed the post into adjustment and then held it there while we fastened. BUT--first we had to make sure the purlin wasn't attached too tightly, or it would prevent the bow from moving into proper position. One of our last tasks will be tightening EVERYTHING.

Pictures would be a nice touch, wouldn't they? But for a construction project like this one photo just doesn't seem to cut it, and multiple photos won't load, and even loading one photo is terribly tedious. I need a computer person to figure out a system for this and teach me! Or better yet, just DO it for me!

HT Progress

2009-10-30T00:05:00.004-05:00

Mom and Dad keep asking for photos of the high tunnel construction project, so here goes. Getting Blogger to load the photos may take almost as long as building the HT...well, not really. But it's very slow with the new camera, for some reason.

Progress on the HT seems slow. But it keeps proceeding, and the weather is cooperating at least in terms of not freezing yet. Not setting deadlines helps keep tempers in check. Mainly, it's hard to fit in time around all my other schedules for market, picking for the hospital, and driving the bus. Mon., Tues., and Wed. mornings from about 9:30 to noon, plus Sat. afternoons and some time on Sunday, are about the only time I have. Various friends and strangers contributed a few hours here, a few hours there. Feel free to drop by!

The first photo (if all goes well) shows various framing members loosely connected to the second bow. The directions are along the lines of "Now install purlins." Install WHERE, exactly? the novice wonders. One vague drawing shows the approximate relationship of the roof braces, diagonal braces, and side purlin, so we "sketched" them all in to try to figure out how they need to fit.

Note that the purlin is very bendy along its length. This makes it quite annoying to work with. I assembled it on the ground and attached it to each bow with slightly loose baling twine. The twine, with the weight of purlin on it, will bind against the bow and support the weight of the purlin at any height...most of the time. Three ropes provide a check against backsliding. This method allowed us to work the purlin up the bow little by little, many trips back and forth along the tunnel pushing it higher and higher. Primitive and slow, but effective and safe and do-able working alone.

The second photo shows the technique I devised for attaching the roof braces, which span the upper part of a bow to make a sort of truss. The long-nose vise-grip nicely holds the band in place on the bow, then I have both hands to put the brace in place and jiggle the bolt through the band and brace and get the nut started.

The last photo shows all roof braces hung on one end, the other end resting on the ground. After initially assembling them low on the bows, I supported the far end on a milk crate (so it could slide) and then "walked" the band up the bow to approximately the right spot. Fine tuning those roof braces so that they are level enough to not drive my printer's eye nuts will be an interesting project with one ladder and one person...though probably they can be adjusted down the road sometime, after the cover is on.

These tunnels do not have to be built perfectly plumb and square; they can roll along a hilly site and everything about them flexes with the contours. But my site is nearly flat, and my garden layout is geometrical, and I like things to look nice. So we are taking pains to measure and level things as best we can.

Next will come placing the ladder just so, tip-toe among the seedlings already thriving in the beds uner the HT, and hoisting the other end of the roof brace and attaching it to a similar band...times 7.

Thinking of trying this at home? Don't even consider it until you've mastered assembling one of those cheap metal storage shelf units without cussing or yelling at anyone, or losing all the nuts in the gravel driveway.

If you decide to try anyway, let me know. I'm trying to keep track of some of the fine points & methods we've figured out along the way.

One is to start out with the right tools. That means cobalt drill bits for drilling pilot holes...the pipes are very stout. When I tried drilling the 3/8 holes for the baseboard at the end bows, I thought I'd just use my regular multi-purpose bit that came with my bit set. After all we only have to drill a dozen holes that size. After drilling approximately forever on the first hole, I went and forked other the 14 bucks for the cobalt bit, since we have to drill 11 more holes that size. It took less than half the time.

Magnetic nut drivers that fit in a drill...one of each size of fastener...er, make that two so that two people can work at once...er, make that 3 or 4 as they end up in pockets and other odd places. Long enough extension cords or cordless drills are vital, as well. When we were assembling the bows, having a drill bit for the pilot holes in one drill, and a nut driver in the other, saved a lot of time. A bucket hanger designed to hold water buckets in lambing jugs fit nicely over the back of the ladder...and held the drills safely within reach of the person at the top of the ladder.

Still waiting for those photos. Apparently something timed out and "Internet Explorer cannot display the web page." Sigh.

2009-10-24T23:23:00.002-04:00

Toss followed me over to the woodlot to visit with the "tree guy" who brings us wood chips and firewood, as he parks his truck at the end of a long autumn day. When he left, and I headed back to the farm, she was checking out the smells along the front of the brown barn.

I walked towards her, but she was intent on her investigation, her face turned away from me. Finally, a few feet away from her, I rapped the wrench in my hand against a nearby trash can. She looked up, as if I'd called her name. She is so deaf now, she only hears the loudest voices. But a big sound like the echoing empty plastic still gets through.

Relaxed and slow at the end of a long day, we strolled side by side along the wood-chipped lane under the tall arching trees, feeling like a calendar picture. I thoughtfully watched her walk beside me. We have walked together for a long time, nearly 4/5 of her life.

She is the same weight as she's always been--no middle-age spread for her, nor any wasting away. She is fit and trim, though calmer than her younger days. She walks by my side with practiced, comfortable ease. She is glad for me to have these extra days off, to be in my company more. The bus job takes me away from my beloved creatures too much of their time. These busy years seem much shorter to me than to my short-lived furry friends.

In years past, though, I would have seen just the faintest tilt of an ear towards me, monitoring my direction as we walked with her slightly ahead. Today, she bends her head towards me ever so slightly, casting a glance out of the corner of her eye to gage my position every so often. Attentive as ever, but with a different sense.

I walk a little slower than I used to. Her visual checks are intermittant, and I realize that I've relaxed into a silent, responsive dance with her. I unthinkingly wait until she is making her scan to change my path, when I decide to go back to the building site instead of the house. Otherwise, she brushes against me, or even trips me. I respect her dignity too much to cause her that embarrassment.

At fourteen, she is as beautiful to me as she has ever been. Not just her lustrous, thick black fur with stunning white trim. Not just her slender figure, balanced tail, alert little foxy ears, trim muzzle frosted with white hairs. Far more than that--her very being. Honest, gentle, timid in some ways but bold in others. A relationship that is beyond mere dogged loyalty--rather an easy cooperation, a partnership of two independent minds.

Eider, my oldest sheep at 12, communes with me in similar, but sheepish, ways. She looks over the fence, chewing her cud, gazing into my eyes. She is content, skin and bones though she is. If she were in need of anything--water, mineral, better feed--she would let me know, and I would understand. We have been in one another's care for a long, long time.

The beginning date of the farm is a fuzzy date. What marks it? The purchase of the land? My first step onto it's soils? My first sowing, or my first harvest, or my first lambing, or my first slaughter? When DID I become a farmer? I tend to count my age as a farmer the same as Eider's age as a sheep. We have grown up together, but the farm is young, and I am middle aged, and Eider is old.

They are all good ages to be, in this way of life.

Baby steps

2009-10-24T23:08:00.003-04:00

After picking vegetables for the hospital Thursday....

After dealing with the stuck-in-the-mud truck, the no-show helper, the changing departure schedule, the most chaotic day ever at work, thus not getting many vegetables picked for Farmer's Market....

After the washhouse fridge froze the salad turnips overnight....

After waking up to frost on everything, deep darkness in which to set up the booth, frozen fingers (but not toes, thanks to my Winnipeg boots), no sales at all until after 9 a.m.....

After various visitors coming by for various reasons in the sleep-deprived daze of Saturday afternoon after market....

FINALLY we buckled down to work on the high tunnel. Or I should say, putter on the high tunnel. A bit of dirt moved here, a board pushed there, two things connected, a few holes drilled...tiny steps gradually move us closer to a fabled indoor paradise. A sunny afternoon speeds the work while teasing that it might not be necessary.

So much vocabulary. Tek screws vs. carriage bolts vs. lag screws. Nutsetter, drill bit, socket wrench. Purlin, hip board, base board. As much teaching as building in this project, while I learn on the fly and try to stay a jump ahead of my team. Some volunteers know a lot about building but have no knowledge of greenhouse terminology, construction or concepts. Some are starting at the basics of how to drill holes and tie knots. I have a smattering of all of it, and an overall concept in mind, both for its construction and use. And a vision.

When I explain some of it "professionals", my farmer's market colleagues, they look skeptical. A high tunnel without irrigation MUST be impossible.

But I look to the testimony of the 12 foot tall sunflowers flourishing in the compacted soil of the barn, and my vision holds steady. They aren't even mulched.

Soon, I promise, I'll post photos.

Taking Sheep to Bowser's

2009-10-22T00:50:00.002-04:00

It's always a long day, a day long anticipated but never, any more, explicitly planned. It happens at such odd hours that it's a strictly auto-pilot affair, any more.

Yesterday I was off from the bus job, and we spent the day sorting sheep. The first half, probably, was putting together the year's data in its various forms to form the foundation of breeding match-making choices, as well as deciding who would take the one-way trip.

First we ran all the lambs through the chute and weighed each one. Any over a certain weight, that had not been pre-selected for the breeding flock, went into the small sort pen. I was very pleased to see the gains they've made in the last month, just on pasture and hay.

Then we scrutinzed the bloodlines of the females in that group, to decide whether I might want to keep one of them. It's tempting to save lambs back by default--to market the biggest ones when cash flow is a concern--and to thus slaughter our best genetic potential. I have to keep my focus on the future, not this week's bottom line.

In this case, a further consideration was logistics. There were a couple extra uncastrated ram lambs in the market flock, and I didn't want to have to handle them separate from the breeding flocks. So those two really-two-small lambs took the trip today. The extra labor would far outweigh the small economic benefit of feeding them for another 6 weeks until our next slaugher date. And the increased size of the lambs whose places they took should eventually offset any losses.

I just kept all the lambs together this year, instead of separating out the ram lambs to keep them from breeding the ewe lambs. Either the ewe lambs have been too small to breed up till now, and the lambing dates will prove the sires, or their first-born lambs will not be kept for breeding, since we won't know who the sire was before a certain date.

After selecting the final 8 for the one-way trip, we sorted the rest of the lambs yet again, to divide them into breeding groups. There are two ram lambs this year: Annie's son Fancy, black with bold white crescents all over his body; and Eider's pure white son Aslan (the shearer left a big puff on the tip of his long, mobile tail). These are some of the finest ram lambs I think I've had, in terms of appearance and breeding. It will be fun to see what we get in the spring.

Then when we had the lamb flock split, we brought the older ewes up and divvied them out between the boys.

Then we went to the urban farming meeting in Kansas City, and didn't get home until after 10:30. Set the alarm for 5 a.m., then started getting the truck ready. OOOPS--low tires, and I still haven't fixed the cord on the "new" air compressor. So I had to go find an open gas station with a working air hose.

Eventually it is 1 a.m. and I'm still puttering at this and that, getting the truck ready, backing it in place against the ramp, etc. But it's a beautiful night, and I know this by heart, and I don't EVER plan to do anything after taking sheep to Bowser's. Presumeably I'll load lambs in the morning. But I decided to hang the headlamp in the front of the truck bed, behind the cab, and open up the chute. Miracle of miracles, they all immediately ran up the ramp...but only until the first one got to the truck bed. Then they stopped--stood motionless for a long few minutes--and cascaded down the ramp again. In order to fit the big ewes when needed (the ones that greatly outweigh me, that I DEFINITELY can't load without a ramp), it is wide enough that the lithe lambs half their size can turn around. But--I have an opposable thumb, and I can open the barn door. A flake of alfalfa hay thrown in the back got everyone loaded in a remarkably short time. Then I whisked it out again. Sheep with relatively empty rumens are less likely to have the hides torn during skinning.

A bit of sleep, and then a long, quiet ride to Meridan. The customary greetings, the questions we ask one another every time. And the sharp snap of the captive bolt stunner begins the ending of lamb lives, one at a time.

And I am always so glad to bring them here. I never have regrets, not for the lambs. The alternative death they could have died, death by parasites, as so many did last summer, is so awful and senseless compared to this pragmatic, quick demise.

Fleshing hides on the back loading dock at Bowsers, in warm humid morning air that feels like spring more than fall. They have new people training to assist on the kill floor today, preparing for deer season, so for a change they are ahead of me all morning. I stay to finish the fleshing, and feel like it takes for ever, but really we are on our way home--or rather to Rees Fruit Farm for the obligatory Apple Cider Slushee and Apple Cider Donuts--by 10 a.m.

The rest of the day is dreamlike and surreal, lack of sleep mingling with contentment with my singularly odd life swirling with psychedelic autumn colors on every tree.

Weeding a bed of lettuce in the late afternoon helps me reconnect with life here at home, after an evening and a morning on the road.

Pic of the Day: The Next One

2009-10-20T23:55:00.005-04:00

I have only seen a member of this insect family ONCE in my entire half-century...and I spend a lot of time looking at bugs. I NOTICE bugs, wherever I go (thanks, Mom and Dad!).

This one was pretty hard to miss: the brilliant Day-Glo green of a safety vest, perched on the fleece of a black lamb while we were sorting sheep to go to Bowser's in the morning. Even though it's much smaller than the photo (only 1/2" long overall), the distinctive silhouette triggered instant recognition.

It's clearly a member of the Mantispidae family, order Neuroptera (which includes lacewings). Mantispids are predatory on insects, and lay their eggs in spider egg cases where the larvae are parasitic.

But the Mantispids shown in "The Book"--Salsbury & White, Insects in Kansas--are brown. My first Mantispid sighting, on Roger Andres' farm in extreme eastern Wabaunsee County, was obviously Climaciella brunnea--beautifully patterned in brown and yellow, it looked for all the world like a paper wasp that had dressed up as a preying mantis for Halloween, and was about the same size, more than an inch and a half long.

So what is this one? The only other species listed in the book are Mantispa interrupta and M. sayi--both apparently grayish-brown, with wings bordered in brown. It doesn't give a size. In body form, this one seems quite similar to the photo shown for these two Mantispa spp. Obviously the development of the wings in this speciman is aborted; they look like the wings of a butterfly that was handled too much during the terribly sensitive time between hatching and hardening. Maybe the color is also not fully developed, and it will "ripen" to brown? It has not appeared to change significantly in any way from the time we found it mid-afternoon until now, about 11:30 p.m. I doubt that my capture of it did any more harm than its ride on the sheep's back. In fact, I suppose that lanolin from the wool might have interfered with its natural development process.

It will be spending the night in a quart canning jar, and I'll post an update if anything "develops". I'll also try to get it to the Biological Survey folks for a definitive ID if possible.

My favorite part of it is the 1960's "flower power" eye pattern quite distinct in many of my photos. In manner, it is a calm but alert little creature, continually turning to eye me like the frog did. It woggles its antennae alternately.

Pic of the Day

2009-10-19T01:23:00.002-04:00

I'll put off posting the high tunnel construction progress pictures (all bows up!) to share this incredibly beautiful little creature. It was under the floating row cover on a bed soon to be in the high tunnel.

I always seem to make the mistake of catching a critter like this in my right hand, leaving my left hand to operate the camera. The camera is, of course, designed to be operated by the right hand, so it's pretty awkward. This darling was a good sport about the delays, but very curious. Hoever I turned my hand, it would turn to look at the camera! I had no idea frogs' backbones could be so flexible.

The photo simply fails to do justice to the color of this tiny frog. It shone like polished metal in the bright sun--irridescent metallic, like a metal flake paint job on a car.

If anyone knows the species, please share it as a comment, ideally with a link to an online photo. It's much smaller than our usual gray tree frog.

I hope it will have a happy winter in the hoop house.

Posting updates

2009-10-15T01:21:00.003-04:00

Yet again, I find myself well into a major, important farm project without having documented the first stages.

Baby step by baby step, we've begun the work of putting the hoop house together. Each step changes how the size of the future structure "feels".Today was a major milestone: the two south corner posts are pounded into the ground. Somehow this made it feel both smaller AND larger than the string lines strung between the formerly tentative corners. On the other hand, the sketched-in baseboards make the area seem huge, larger than the garden beds, even though it is lopping off a foot or two of garden bed on each side (we'll plant the margins outside of it with sage for one of our customers).

The instructions with this "kit" are very sketchy. But as we dig through our brains and the boxes of pieces, it begins to make sense.

The WWOOFer and one of my long-time farm buddies have been working on salvaging and laying out the base boards for the long sides. How will we splice them? They puzzled while I was at work one day, not knowing that there was a pile of special splicing brackets in the bottom of one of the boxes.

A summer or two ago, a co-worker asked if I wanted the lumber from a deck they were tearing off to build a new addition on their home. I said sure, before thinking about all those nails to pull. It's been stacked by the brown barn ever since, a nagging long-term "to-do". It's good wood--mostly sound despite more than a year of outdoor storage, because it was treated wood and had not lived out its useful life. I feel better about building with reused materials, even if it's more work.

One of the challenges of a project like this is to avoid frustration with the endless "prep work". It seems trivial, but it is such a huge part of the project. Gathering tools and parts. Clearing the site. Cutting the metal strapping that binds the groups of structural members together. Moving the posts from the trailer to their locations, and marking them with masking tape to indicate soil level as a rough guide when pounding them in.

We polled a number of experienced growers, and decided to take our chances with just pounding the posts in, rather than setting them in concrete. For one, it's faster, cheaper, and WAY easier. For another, we CAN pound them in--no rocks or heavy clay soil. Also, I like not being committed to it being right here forever (some would nod and roll their eyes knowingly at my general reluctance to commit to anything, in any area of my life). I had already made this decision when I went to get the giant post setter from the rental center. "Good call," they said. "So many people set them in the wrong kind of concrete, and it just eats the galvanized posts right off."

The risk we take is the lift created when high winds rush over a curved surface, creating a suction on the far side that could pull the posts out of the soft soil. Our hoop-house could become too much like a butterfly, and take off! But I think our site is obstructed enough that this is unlikely. The winds will be too confused for any such shennanigans...we hope. Gambling on the farm, again! Though probably I will prudently deploy a few of the anchors used for mobile homes, by and by.

I will try to remember to take pictures tomorrow.

National Coming Out Day

2009-10-13T01:45:00.003-04:00

I didn't particularly observe this occasion (yesterday) in any planned sort of way. But as I heard others mention it towards the end of the day, I got to thinking I should mark the day somehow, even if a bit late. This seemed like a good way. I'll leave coming out to my Old German Baptist friends for a day in the future when we've had more time to learn to know one another. That is a process that I will leave to God to guide; it's an odd journey I'm being led to.

On one of the spiritual listservs to which I belong, someone posted about his experience at church. He mentioned that he'd come out more than a decade before "National Coming Out Day" was established. Someone in the congregation approached him later in surprise, and said that they hadn't known. My friend was surprised--he thought everyone in the relatively small congregation knew. Someone else responded, "It's a never-ending process that we do day by day."

I resemble those remarks. You would think that wearing a rainbow on my head at all times when in public would sort of clue people in, but it often doesn't. They can't reconcile the rainbow message (fringy radical "out" non-heterosexual) with the prayer covering message (conservative Christian "women are to be submissive" heterosexual), so they dismiss one or the other...and it's generally the rainbow that goes unseen.

But bisexual/Christian isn't an either-or situation, for me. It's both-and. I don't know why. It's just where I've ended up. It's not an affectation, a pretense, a chosen self-image. Certainly not anything I've specifically tried to be. I looked long and hard at my experiences, my actions, my relationships, my values, my beliefs of 30+ years--and the rainbow covering pretty well summarizes who I am, through and through.

The most amusing situation was a couple years ago when I took a short break from the driver's seat of the bus, leaving a couple passengers waiting to resume our trip. When I returned, the woman (whom I'd chatted with on many occasions) came to meet me, obviously concerned. "That man said your covering means you're a lesbian, but I told him it means you're a Christian." She seemed proud of herself for having had the courage to defend me, and wanted me to know she wasn't going to let anyone insult me. I laughed lightly, and gently told her both of them were correct. She looked startled for a moment...I could see her re-evaluating all our past interactions, and everything she thought she knew about me. Evidently the equation worked out ok--after a few moments she shrugged, smiled, and said "Not that it matters".

But this can certainly be a lonely place. One day at work, I listened with a long sinking feeling as co-workers went on and on about lesbians they had known, evidently not recognizing my identity. Not that they were being negative or discriminatory--just that they kept talking about "those lesbians, they..." as if they were "other", as if lesbians (etc.) were foreigners or zoo animals, not the co-worker standing there listening to the conversation. Within 10 minutes, I was walking into the "women's" Valentines Day dance. I visited with some women I'd never met before, and they quizzed me about the covering. "Oh, Mennonite! I knew some Mennonites once, they...." and she went on and on about "those Mennonites". Not bad stuff, just as if they were "other", as if Mennonites (etc.) were foreigners or zoo animals, not the woman next to them at the lesbian dance.

I've learned to take such things in stride, to trust that people are not trying to be rude, that really their clumsy interest is a positive thing. But it's a struggle to not feel like a bug on a pin.

At times like those, it's a relief to get home to the dog and the cats and the woodstove, the untidy kitchen and the beckoning chores, and just be a farmer and simple-liver. I can relax and be all of me, in my comforting little world that doesn't need to name things and put them in boxes.

Or, at least, if I AM naming things and putting them in boxes, it's fleeces from a dozen sheep being labeled and packed to send off for carding and spinning!

Pest control

2009-10-09T01:32:00.003-04:00

It must have been just a few days ago. I knew I shouldn't say it, but there the words were coming out of my mouth and I couldn't stop them, and there was no wood handy to knock on.

"...so far we haven't had any sheep in the garden this year. That's progress!"

-----

We heard the strangest sound while picking vegetables in the steadily pouring rain this afternoon. It sounded like a small animal being killed, or like a car engine being cranked when it was already running. It was loud.

And it was coming from Freckleface the llama, we discovered after investigation. He was very not happy about something, but I couldn't tell what...unless he was just voicing his extreme disleasure with the weather.

So I checked the sheep. All present and accounted for. No predators that I could see. Water tanks were not an issue. I rearranged an electric fence so the lambs had some fresh grass, and I opened up the lane to the green sheds so that the ewes and llama could seek shelter in the sheds as well as the barn. Then I went back to picking, until nearly 5:00.

The WWOOFer and I went out at 11:30 p.m., to replace the frost blankets we'd moved for picking. "Sheep," he said, in a voice of mild surprise. I don't know him well enough to know the exact nuances of his voice yet.

"Yeah, I let them into the lane earlier, and they have access to the chicken pen from there," I nonchalantly replied, still focused on the frost blankets.

"No, I mean in the garden!"

And so they were. Four of them, briskly moving towards the door to the chicken coop which we'd left ajar last week. They knew very well that they weren't supposed to be in the garden, and they knew exactly where they'd come in at.

I closed the gate behind them. That was easy...but only 4 of them. Where were the others? I scanned with my headlamp, looking for their glowing eyes in the dark. There they were, on the other side of the chicken pen, bedded down by the gate to the shed lane.

I posted the WWOOFer with scary headlamp between them and the beds of salad greens, went around to the shed lane gate, opened it up, and they all stood up and marched in, nice as you please.

Sigh. I knew I shouldn't have said that, about them not getting in the garden all year.

It does not look like they've done too much harm, other than deep pits from their hooves in the soaked ground. In time the worms will fluff up the soil again. The kale may take awhile to regrow, but they didn't touch the lettuce in the next bed, and their other favorite crop was covered with frost blanket.

The frost blankets--a heavy floating row cover--are designed to protect the crops in several ways: from wind, heavy rain, falling leaves, cold air, and insects.

But they also seem to offer some protection against sheep.

Steel Blog Co.

2009-10-07T03:44:00.003-04:00

Actually, the name of the business, in huge block letters, was "STEEL BLDG. CO.", but the square corners and round corners were barely distinguishable.

It was a fitting laugh for the end of a long day. We drove to Morgan County Seeds, deep in the green rolling hills of central Missouri, with Dad's 16' trailer to pick up our new high tunnel kit. One of those road trips where if there was a way to miss a turn, we did. But we werent' watching the clock, and chose not to stress over it. The point was to get there and get back, safely, and hurry and worry wouldn't have contributed much toward that goal.

We returned with an odd assortment of strangely small bundles of steel pipe. Somehow, like a butterfly unfolding its wings, this will soon become a passive-solar-warmed greenhouse to aid in growing later into the cold weather.

Just in time. Maybe too late.

When, at midnight, I saw the forecast was for upper 30's, with possible frost pockets after 4 a.m., I went out to cover the basil. Basil turns black at about 36 degrees.

But the night was clear, the stars were bright, and the crickets were scarce. Soon it was eerily silent, and I knew: the first frost was upon us.

There is a special feeling for this night, a gentle surrender, panic at the end of a certain chunk of cash flow woven through with gratitude for the past season's bounty. A gathering up of remnants. Acceptance.

I could have returned to the house and roused the WWOOFer from his warm bed to come help measure out row cover, stretch it over the new wire hoops I bought today, pick tomatoes, etc. But I didn't. Partly out of courtesy. But mostly because this is an intimate time in the yearly cycle of the garden. A passing of thousands of plants that I've watched grow from tiny seedlings. Stephen is a wonderful willing worker, but he hasn't known these plants since infancy. It would be like having a stranger at their death bed.

The solitude of first-frost-night is a special, contemplative place in the universe. An active meditation: I am moving about so steadily that it seems hard to believe the gathering frost on the leaves and materials. I'm not the least bit cold, even my fingers in soaked gloves. That will come later, when I'm resting indoors and realize how weary I am after a long day and a long night.

This year, only a few half-empty crates of tomatoes remain on the few plants that we managed to gro this year. A blessing, I suppose--less work, mess, smell of rotten tomatoes in the coming months.

Next year will be better.

But this year, in its own strange way, was good. And it has significantly laid a strong foundation for next year.

Time of Change

2009-10-02T01:10:00.002-04:00

I noticed in early Sept. that sunset was coming earlier and earlier. But in late September of a wet year, with temperatures perfect--day and night--for the human body, amid the scintillating green legacy fo a wet summer, each moment in the garden sometimes seems like it could go on forever.

Now it's a week and then some past the Equinox. The sun sets earlier and earlier, still...wait! I want more day! I'm not tired yet! There's work to be done!

But autumn comes, tree by tree this year. Nearly all the leaves on the ash by the front door have turned brown and fallen. A neighbor's hackberry is beginning to glow yellow, starting at the top and working down the green branches day by day.

And the surest sign of a waning season: I begin checking the weather forecasts nightly, not in hopes of rain (enough already!) but to judge the odds of a first frost, or just the cool temperatures that basil hates. At first I gaged a "cool night" by whether it went below 60; now I realize I'm satisfied with mid-50's, elated by 60's, and dread 40's.

I start fussing with all manners of row covers, trying to maintain warmer conditions for the lucrative favorites like basil and hot peppers. Then the wind blows, and all fall down or blow off. Sigh. Someday I'll figure out a fool-proof system that works with my no-till vegetable methods?

The rate of growth on many things slows noticeably. Other things seem to grow so fast I can see them. A big challenge for me is predicting how much salad crops will grow during the next week. Will they be too big by then? Should I pick them now? Today we decided that mizuna and tatsoi need picked every week for salad greens.

Seeds germinate so quickly, with the soil still relatively warm and moist. We've been planting as much as we can, reclaiming huge areas of the garden from fallowness.

Sometimes I'm not sure how to end an entry like this. It just keeps rolling on, little details following one on the other. But that is the way of this season....

Just like any other season on the farm, I suppose.

Lost and Found

2009-09-28T01:41:00.003-04:00

The enigmatic ad in the weekly "Trading Post"--a classified ad tabloid, available free around the area-- read:

We tried before but didn't succeed. Let's try again and then you'll see that after all this time we were meant to be.

No name, no phone number.

I wonder how many people read that ad and felt a faint flicker of hope for a long-lost love...or a glimmer of horror that the bad old boyfriend they ran into a few weeks ago was fishing for a re-match.

My own heart did a couple flip-flops in both directions, and then heaved a sigh, with an ironic smile on the side. My own lost beloved would never say anything like "you'll see that we were meant to be" (that's part of what I love so much) and the BOB who DID and WOULD say that is delusional if he thinks I've forgiven or forgotten his unpaid debt$.

But my mind wanders to other disappointments, like housemates who left in a huff, running away from demons that seemed personified in me, but in reality were within themselves. Some have returned to own their part in our strife; some haven't yet and may never. I sit in my life as if beside a river, watching other people's lives flow past. Watching them try to run from their own ghosts reminds me that when someone trips my trigger, I need to ask myself "What is it within myself that I'm running from, by running away from it in others?"

My life before these recent years was a tumultuous rapids, thrashing through rocky passages, rarely a calm place. A deeper, slower river flows more serenely now. But it's the same water.

Along the banks of that river lie the driftwood remains of any number of relationships broken and not mended, or not mended well, or mended more times than I want to admit. Small shames and sadnesses. I can't make anything whole again, but I can cherish the driftwood. Where these relationships are ongoing, the original thrill may never be recovered--there may always be an ever-present awareness that we have hurt one another; a certain innocent trust may never be given or received again--but a gentler, deeper, wiser love evolves that I've grown to prefer. At every possible opportunity, I affirm such mended friendships as the twice-precious jewels they are. Family relationships that have been strained over the years are also the more precious for their fragile renewal, even if it's just knowing that a kind word was said to a third party.

Not just people. I tenderly play the piano for Toss, who's nearly deaf but still loves to hear the piano. But there were so many times my words to her were harsh and unloving, beyond the need for correction in her sheepherding. How did we ever learn to trust one another again, after she bit me in the face and I pelted her with cardboard boxes in return? Yet our love would not be so rich if it had always been easy. I sat in the pasture for a few peaceful minutes today, while checking fences, and Eider came up to me, gazing into my eyes with her sheeply wisdom, breathing into my breath like a horse. My errors with her were more subtle, but real. Days here and there when the water froze, the mineral box was empty, the pasture gate didn't get opened, breakfast was late, I wasn't there in time to save a weak lamb, I tried to force her to mother a lamb she didn't want. And Mike reminds me, ah, the wrongs I've done the cats...asking them to eat a different brand of cat food, bringing them to a world full of hideous dogs and sheep that surely eat cats for lunch.

They forgive me, again and again. I forgive them. Our friendships grow deeper--sadder, in some ways, but richer as well, and more comfortable, more resilient. We have learned that beyond all the little wrongs, we trust one another implicitly in the big things, including the biggest thing of all: that we belong to one another, no matter what befalls. We acknowledge the intertwining of our lives, irrevokably.

It does not take a lot of time or effort to affirm our true loves, only a heart broken and mended enough times to be humbled and chastened by our admitted imperfection. A heart softened, cleansed of expectations and resentments.

How many times must we forgive our neighbor? Seventy times seventy, Jesus says. And I add to this, how many times must we forgive our beloveds? Seven thousand times seven thousand, at least. It is so well worth it. A lovely tenderness, an exquisite gentleness, is woven deeper in my heart each time I renew my commitment to journey together with all these beloveds through this mortal life, a serenity and acceptance that this old poem always seems to capture for me:

I sat at the edge of a dark place,
Casting my nets at the far sky;
Fished for a spell in a deep sigh
That rippled and raced.
......

I sifted my thoughts through the night air,
Mended my nets by the still cove;
Knotted the strands of an old love
That ravel and tear.

I slept by the lake of the dark sky,
Curled on my nets for a safe bed;
Searched in my dreams till the waves said
That you care
and I.

Behind Open Doors

2009-09-26T00:19:00.002-04:00

I stopped by my daughter's this evening. She couldn't wait to pass on the gossip. "My massage therapist said she went to your farm on the Permaculture tour. She was really impressed! She liked your farm best of all--she said it was the most neat and tidy, and all the tools were put away, and there were beautiful crops growing...."

Music to my ears, even though we looked one another in the eye and burst out laughing.

I try. I really do. And partly, I schedule events at the farm every month if I can, just to give myself an incentive to get it tidied up on a regular basis. To see it through other's eyes, for it's esthetics, rather than through my own jaded practical eyes that tend to see unfinished projects and undone work more than any irrelevant clutter. The "event effect" DOES make a difference, over time.

But also, I get better at preparing for such events. I understand more and more what casual visitors notice, and what they don't. So I can impress them with less work.

This evening, that was brought home when I went to show the new WWOOFer his way around the bike shed. Well! We couldn't get in the door--and it doesn't even have a door! The bike (hm, I guess the last I rode it was BEFORE the Permaculture tour) was somewhere under and behind: A scrounged 1950's step stool (I sold my red one like that before I went to Canada), two garage sale bar stools (for a friend to make kumihimo looms out of), a box of extra coat hangers (someone said they wanted them, but hasn't come by for them yet), an almost-empty (but not quite) antifreeze jug, a stack of flower pots....

THAT'S why my daughter's massage therapist thought the farm looked so neat and tidy!

I commented to the WWOOFer, "If you ever see a farm that's all neat and tidy, you can be sure they have a shed somewhere that looks like this."

The secret is putting it out of the direct line of sight, and knowing when to distract your visitors. What tourist is going to notice the contents of the dark shadowy inside of the open-front shed, when I'm regaling them with stories about the bee colonies as we walk by? Much easier to tell good stories than to figure out better places for all these odds and ends, most of which are in transition anyhow.

If tools look like they've just been laid down, and will be picked up again any minute, it looks like work in progress instead of clutter. Therefore preparation for an event includes putting away all the tools that are lurking under vines and grass--and leaving out those that look like someone just walked away from a project 10 minutes ago.

But the grass under them has to be neatly mowed. Neatly mowed lanes make any surrounding anarchy look purposeful and under control. Especially if you refer to it with high-falutin' words like "fallow" and "wildlife feeding area".

I know the truth. So do those who know me and the farm well. But it's still nice to know I fooled someone. And, in truth, I do think the farm looks better than usual this fall.

Prey for Piece

2009-09-25T11:23:00.005-04:00

There are things you just never, ever in your wildest dreams even think about seeing. One female preying mantis trying to wrest a fellow female mantid's prey out of her "hands" is one of them.

Yes, I've seen the females calmly devour the males when everyone's job is done, and senescence is at hand for both anyhow. That seems like a logical suicide pact. The ultimate consummation of a brief, yet intense love affair. Parting is such sweet sorrow, you know.

What I just chanced to witness was just plain RUDE! Uncouth, heartless aggression at its most blatant.

The green mantis--obviously a female nearing her laying time; note the distended abdomen--caught my eye as she strolled acrossed the weathered boards of the shed. I ran out with the camera, wanting to document this species since I got some good shots of the larger one a couple weeks ago. They are fast and hard to photograph when they are on the move!

As I turned to leave, a tiny motion at the bottom of the wall caught my eye. Another female mantis of the same species, but in the gray color phase, calmly munching on a cricket. Forgetting the first mantis, I started trying to get a good angle on this one. What luck, to catch both color phases at once!

Then to my surprise, the green one appeared and began attacking the gray one, clearly trying to wrest the cricket away for her own dining pleasure! After two fruitless lunges, Green gave up and stepped aside a few paces.

I've got to figure out how to get this camera to take repeat shots, for fast-moving action like this.

Too Much!

2009-09-25T01:47:00.004-04:00

I'm not the swiftest of farm workers, by any means. There are so many distractions!

Chief of those distractions, on a bright early-autumn day like this, is the sheer beauty that surrounds me at every moment.

Just...too...much...beauty!

The images you see here are a beetle (Insects in Kansas shows this to be a Locust Leafminer, probably on vacation from the many locust trees west of the garden) on a lettuce leaf; a pea blossom* (an heirloom variety, Desiree, that self-seeded itself from the spring planting); and the sublime pattern of fig leaves silhouetted against the sky.

Not in that order. Blogger has a mind of its own.

Snug as a Bug in a Bug

2009-09-25T01:10:00.003-04:00

If you tend to be squeamish, you should probably glance at the photo and say to yourself, "Nice cocoon!" and move on to another blog or a computer game or something.

The original title was "Snug as a Bug in a Rug", when I found this cozy cocoon rolled up inside an endive leaf as I was picking greens today. I snapped a photo.

Then I did a double-take. You see things in a photo that you don't notice with your bare eyes, esp. using the macro feature to take closeups. Sometimes I snap a photo just like I'd take out a magnifying glass.

What I saw in the photo was legs. A cocoon doesn't have legs, and despite the cozy nest of webbing pulling the leafy blanket around it for protection, this thing had legs (and pseudopods, which is what you see in this photo). But it was as still as a cocoon.

Stiller, in fact. I realized there was a dull, heavy deadness about the thing, instead of the sleek liveliness inherent in a cocoon. I looked more closely, and saw a granular look beneath the translucent skin.

This is no longer a caterpillar. It will never be a cocoon. It has been parasitized, and the entire body except the skin has been consumed by thousands of tiny maggot-like larvae. Unfortunately, in the photo of it broken open to show the larvae, the camera decided to focus on the leaf instead of the broken ends of the parasite hotel. But you can kind of see the odd texture under the deathly white skin.

The world of bugs is an alien, cutthroat place, full of life and death drama and everything in between. Sometimes I'm glad to be a human.

Cattle-ist

2009-09-24T00:19:00.002-04:00

One thing leads to another, in unexpected ways, especially as my lifetime of random diverse routines, systems and lifestyles has accrued such variety that anything can trigger a chain rection.

This past spring, I downsized my ewe flock by "selling" a number of ewes as a started flock to some new friends who farm organically. The whole nine yards: Jersey milk cows, beef, heirloom hogs, chickens and ducks for meat and eggs, veggies. We actually didn't exchange any cash...we set a price, and we're keeping a tab as I enjoy farm-fresh variety my rather focussed farm cant' provide.

The other day I brought home my first gallon of farm-fresh Jersey milk in about 33 years (that was before my daughter was born). Granted, I've had other REAL milk since then, but still none since moving to Lawrence 15 years ago, and not for awhile before that, either.

Slowly the reaction began.

Cream! Even after the long ride home, there were several inches of butter-yellow cream on top. I could barely wait to skim it off. Somewhere in the back of the utensil drawer lay a long- idle gravy ladle that nicely fits in a waide-mouth gallon jar, bought just for skimming cream. In a few minutes, I had nearly a quart of thick, rich cream! The remaining "skimmed" milk tasted as rich as store-bought whole milk.

Several days later, it was still untouched. My current foodway doesn't include cream, and I kind of forgot about it. But then Beth and I had a cup of tea, and I remembered--cream in tea!

Then I was perusing the fridge this evening for a light supper. Cream...?

Dim memories began to gather and take form in my mind. I moved through the kitchen as if hypnotized, slowly at first, then gathering momentum.

THIS pan.
Set THAT burner to THAT temperature.
Water up to HERE.
Raisins first, a handful.
Sunflower seeds.
Nuts--all I have on hand is almonds, not my usual pecans. But they'll do. And here's some coconut--a special treat.

And then barley flakes.

Many MANY years ago, I noticed a correlation between eating oatmeal (with all the extras) for breakfast and getting cold sores by lunch time. When I switched to barley flakes...which taste and cook very much like rolled oats...no cold sores. Since then, I stick to barley. Apparently my body is especially sensitive to the balance of amino acids--oats have the least lysine of any grain, and lysine is an effective remedy for curbing cold sores.

After the water is absorbed into the flakes, the nuts are softened and the raisins are plumped, it goes in a bowl. Well, half of it...I had started with a little too much water, added ingredients accordingly, and it looked like more than I could eat.

Then what? It's been years since I've done this.

Oh, maple syrup, of course! Another ingredient that's been languishing in the back of the cupboard, used only when some guest makes pancakes. And then, finally, two big scoops of fresh golden cream.

It was so good, I went back for the other half.

Beth

2009-09-23T00:40:00.003-04:00

One thing I relish with my time off from the bus job is being able to talk to the neighbors. It's not so much about having time but about being around when they are, being available to just run into them in the natural course of our days.

I was on my way over to work on Dawdy House early this evening and took a moment to appreciate the ornamental sweet potatoes that are flourishing around the farm sign. So I noticed my neighbor in front walking to get her mail. I said "hi" and we exchanged a few pleasantries, plus a reminder that she really would like me to get that tree trimmed. It will have to wait...chatting with another neighbor at a garage sale last weekend brought me the news that my tree trimmer guy is currently biking across India, which would explain why he hasn't returned my phone call.

As we talked, I noticed something odd at the neighbor's garden across the street, and I saw his garage door open, so I wandered over there to make sure he was aware of it. He was, of course...and filled me in on all the details. And then some.

While we were chatting, the neighbor across from HIM wandered across and we chatted some more. Local politics, local history, local gossip. We are quite a motley crew, spanning several generations and several income brackets and the whole spectrum of political and religious beliefs. But first and foremost, WE are the 500 block of North Street.

The evening production of the North Street News ended when I noticed a strange car pulling hesitantly into my driveway. I bid farewell and ran to see who it was. I wasn't expecting anyone.

And of all the people I wasn't expecting, I most wasn't expecting Beth, who I understood to be either in California or being an airline flight attendant--not leaping out of her car to give me a big hug.

Beth is one of those people who came through my life (as a housemate at the farm) for a very brief time, but is here to stay in my heart. Part and parcel of the farm, forever.

Beth, the C.S. Lewis fan. Yesterday Eider's ram lamb finally found a name, Aslan, because the shearer left a tuft of wool on the tip of his undocked tail, making it rather lion-like, and I had just Sunday found the whole Narnia series in hardback at a garage sale (see paragraph 2 above).

Beth, the creator of the meditation swing on the edge of the wilderness area at the farm. Beth, seeking God and sharing her faith through every sense, through dance and music and drama and journalism and listening and just being there.

Beth, the photographer who captured the timeless black and white image of my quirky laundry hanging on the line (note to self: hang laundry tonight). A few days ago my current housemate presented me with a wonderful color photo of...my quirky laundry hanging on the line. OK, so I have photogenic underwear. There's something charmingly nostalgic and non-sexy about long johns flapping in the breeze in a disembodied dance.

Beth, one of my dearest and sweetest Christian friends, who is undertaking to become a full-time missionary. Her dream is helping of women and children who have survived sex trafficking--an issue most Americans have their heads in the sand about. I learned a great deal about this issue during my stay at Holy Names House of Peace in Winnipeg when I lived there in 2005.

Beth. Younger than my daughter, a mentor, a minister, a forever friend. A gift from God.

A visit I will cherish in my heart until our paths cross again, in a year or 5.

I gave her a tomato as she left, after a couple too-short hours of singing, piano playing, laughing, story telling, hugs, tears of joy and amazement.

"Here," I said. "You must eat this. Then the calcium in it will be in your bones, and you will carry that little bit of the farm with you whereever you go. And you really must visit at least every seven years, so that there is always the farm in your bones."

"Saving Lives"

2009-09-21T18:10:00.003-04:00

Blood pressure alert: This is bound to sound heretical to some folks, and generally push a bunch of buttons for a diverse array of reasons. I'm not expecting anyone to agree with me on anything, just sharing what my understanding is at present.

The longer I live in close company with the whole Community of Life at Pinwheel Farm, the more intimately I find my understanding of living intertwined with my understanding of birth and of death.

And the more I study the Bible, and listen to other Christians harangue other non-Christians (yes, I claim both categories; I believe God's understanding of me encompasses all of me at once--past, present and future--and though in some ways I've been following Christ since high school when I first started reading the New Testament, "officially" I've only been a baptized Christian for about 8 years.), the more I realize that I really don't "get" the whole thing about being with Jesus in Heaven, and life after death, and all that. It just doesn't grab me as anything that should be an immediate priority in my day-to-day life. It's all just so...so unknowable. And pitiful fallible little mortal that I am, I don't feel I have a right to assume that I know the Mind of God when it comes to the Judgement Day. Maybe I'll be with Him, maybe not. Maybe some folks are right about my misdeeds of the past (and present, and future...); maybe other folks are right about God's mercy and forgiveness. I don't know who to believe, among people, so I'll put my faith in God...and be content that I can't be any more sure of my eternity that of tomorrow's weather.

For me, letting God do the worrying about eternity is a huge load lifted off my shoulders.

On the other hand, following Jesus...looking to him as a mentor and teacher and role model...trying to do what I think he would have done according to the stories we have of his life and ministry...THAT seems worth doing. And helping others by doing that, and helping others to do that themselves...THAT seems worth doing.

The more I see/hear media promotions about "Saving lives" through health care, pharmaceuticals, prevention, etc., the more that phrase just sounds like a bunch of nonsense. Doctors and nurses don't save lives. Firefighters and EMTs don't save lives. Seat belts don't save lives. Breast cancer screenings and Pap smears don't save lives. Because no one's life is going to be saved. Period. We are all going to die. Why not?

Then what happens? Some Christians tell me that Jesus saves, that if I confess Him as my personal savior then He will take me to heaven when I lay this body down for good, and I won't really die. Well, OK, whatever you say, but I don't really need to know.

I guess Heaven is just on that long, long, list of places I've never been and therefore really don't mind not being there. I'm too busy here in this little corner of God's Kingdom on Earth to worry about all the places I'm not, and might not ever be.

As I said, I'm content to leave my fate for God to let me know when the time comes. If He thinks I should roast like a marshmallow (mmm, crispy toasty brown black and a little charred glowing coals and flecks of ash on the outside, delicate crack stretch then ohsohot sweet gooey on the inside and maybe a rich piece of bittersweet dark chocolate and a graham cracker to lounge around on...), then it will be my Christian duty to try to do so without whining, because I imagine He will sternly and lovingly show me exactly what I could have done to have a different outcome, and it will all make perfect sense, and for my God I will do anything in my power, even burn in a hell I don't believe exists.

But right here, right now: As far as I can see, with my poor mortal "wisdom", life can only be prolonged. And it can be enriched. And those are worthy endeavors, when carried out in balance with an awareness that our lives are so intertwined with so many other lives, of all species, and what extends one live may shorten another...and how can we value one life relative to any other life? No life can be saved, yet one life arises from the passing of another life in endless circle, endless recycling of atoms and elements. If my protein returns to nitrogen and ends up incorporated in the wing of a monarch dangling from a foggy October tree branch in the chilly dawn, is that not enough of Heaven?

If, whether through my life's brokenness, through my stumbling in the twilight, through my quirky and incomplete grasp of scripture, through being a Bad Example and demonstrating What Not To Do...if somehow, I can offer comfort to others in life and help them have hope for God's mercy in death...if someone else gets to their Heaven through some aid of mine...that's is enough. Someone else can have my share of certain salvation. There are others who need it more than I, because they have less faith.

I expect to live in this body for a long time, and I enjoy it though it has its inconveniences. Yet if my life were cut short tomorrow, it would all be enough. I have given and been given comfort, I have had faith, I have forgiven and reconciled with most of those who have hurt me, whether they know it or not. I am at peace with my life...enough, at least. Maybe not with fleas but with everything else; is that enough? Well, except....

If God keeps me this well in this life, why would it be worse after this life? So in life or in death, God is with me. Nothing else matters. And nothing can take that away.

Yeah. That, and handful of lemon balm, will make you a nice hot cup of locally grown tea.

In my favorite translation (Witter Bynner) of the Tao Teh Ching, the first chapter ends

"If name be needed, Wonder names them both:
From wonder into wonder, existence opens."

Untitled

2009-09-19T00:32:00.000-04:00

What is it?
When I first saw this image, skimming through a camera full of photos, I couldn't remember. Driftwood? I hadn't been to the ocean. Something in an ancient forest or desert? I've only been here on the farm.
The next image put it in context: the base of my olderst giant pumpkin plant, mulched with dry leaves. The squash bugs and squash vine borers have destroyed it, but the vines have put down so many adventitious roots at the nodes that the outer ends of the vine continue to grow, bloom, and produce pumpkins. So far I think there are 7 on this plant, not counting the one the sheep ate and the one that rotted when nearly ripe.
The spray of giant foxtail grass gives a sense of scale: the pumpkin stump was nearly as big around as my wrist. The vine covers an area nearly as large as my livingroom.
These two insect pests are a key reason I rarely attempt to grow squash of any kind, because of this sort of damage. This year, the volunteers have given me an important clue: Pumpkin vines like to hide in the grass, and they seem to avoid the insects somewhat by doing so.

New Residents at Pinwheel Farm

2009-09-18T01:25:00.002-04:00

I think I forgot to mention that once again, Pinwheel has a feline resident...or actually, two. Maybe it takes two cats to replace the unique cat-for-all-seasons, Ambrosius. One that's a hunter, and one that's a cuddler.

Mike (large, round, mostly white with gray tabby markings) and Stanley (smaller, lithe, mostly gray tabby with white markings) came in early August from a long-time friend, to board during her travels and longer. "The boys" and I have known one another for years, and are great friends, which helps ease the overwhelming change in their life. But their transition to life with a DOG has been a bit grudging.

Mike quickly claimed the prime spots: my favorite swivel chair (whose arm he's mistaken for a scratching post), the computer desk (where he rolls on my hand while I type, or lies between me and the keyboard), and the foot of the bed. He can circumnavigate my room without setting foot on the floor, where there be dragons, or at least a dog.

Stanley hides, either in the kitchen cabinet or the far shelves of the garage. It's hard to tell how much is hunting mice, and how much is avoiding the dog, and how much is simply visualizing himself somewhere else. But in the past few days, he's started coming out more, morning and evening. And for the first time ever, he is being demonstrably affectionate with me, purring louder and louder and head-butting my hand more firmly. He had always been very stand-offish with me at my friend's house. I'm liking the new Stan more and more.

Toss is a perfect lady about the whole thing. She is very circumspect, giving them lots of room and yielding instantly to any confrontation. Not like another Border Collie whose rescue I declined, on account of a habit of treeing cats on the nearest tall piece of furniture and keeping them there.

Early in their sojourn here, when Mike was still quite emphatically vocal in his disgust with there being a dog in the room, I witnessed a comical interspecies miscommunication. Toss entered the room at the far end, and Mike, sitting next to me, began his very expressive singsong growling and snarling. Despite being very deaf now, evidently Toss could distinguish the musical tonality of Mike's curses and threats. And she responded with her own song--she "rooed" at him! "Rooing" is a vocalization some Border Collies make, that isn't a growl or howl or bark, but something else entirely. Toss loves listening to music, and she enjoys making her own. From the context of her rooing, I've come to translate the emotional content of it as something along the lines of "I love you!" or "You're so wonderful" or "I'm so excited!". So the dialogue of happy rooing and angry growling, with several repetitions back and forth, was very funny.

Toss, as I mentioned, has become quite deaf. It is a real loss to both of us. She can't hear the commands for herding the sheep, so I have to leave her in the house when moving sheep, or she guesses wrong about where I want them to go, and I can't explain otherwise to her. We often startle her by "sneaking" up on her when she's resting, which she does a lot more than she used to. Other than fading hearing and fogging eyes, she is in good health for a 14-year-old Border Collie.

Toss has always loved music, and her passion continues. Apparently she can hear the piano, Gilbert, that lives in the garage. Whenever I start to play, she'll appear after a minute or two, no matter where she's been napping. She has a favorite position to lay, just beside and behind me a little, on either side. One night there were obstacles in the favored places, and she paced and puzzled over them for several minutes until I got up and moved one for her. Sometimes I play the piano just for her, because it's one common pleasure we can still share. The narrowing of options makes each shared moment dearer and deeper. I know that we are together somewhere on a long slow walk which at some point will be mine alone. I don't know if we're just starting or nearly there. I want to savor each step as best the demands of daily life allow.

One thing I really miss in her deafness is something that the cats somewhat make up for. She and I would carry on intermittant non-verbal "conversations" consisting of little acknowledgements of one another's movements and sounds. She would sigh in her sleep, and I would sigh in return. I would shift in my chair, and she would groan and flop over to rest on the other side for awhile. In this way, we exchanged constant little affirmations of our attention to and love for one another. She doesn't answer my noises now, and seems to make fewer herself. Before the cats came, the house seemed emptier and emptier.

Now I hum back at Mike's snoring.

"Everyone Will Win At Least One Prize"

2009-09-17T22:10:00.002-04:00

I found a sort of materialistic utopian charm in this phrase, extracted from a friend's email about a fundraising "walkathon" she's encouraging folks to join. Imagine. EVERYONE wins! And not only wins, but wins SOMETHING! And maybe MORE!

It's all about "yes, you CAN have a happy childhood, no matter how old you are, starting now." "A prize in every box" of caramel corn and peanuts. "Prizes" that used to be real magnifying glasses, metal or plastic figures, actual toys.

Now those candy-box "prizes" are invariably stickers or temporary tattoos. The grownups get the "real" "prizes" now.

But if everyone wins a "prize", what have they really won? Is it just a race to get to the bottom of the candy box? Once upon a time, "prize" meant a token of recognition for some particular excellence--not merely a random chance (as in "door prizes") or a certainty ("everyone will win at least one prize").

The very fact that not everyone got one is what gave real prizes their meaning. A prize didn't mean that others hadn't done well, it just meant that the one with the prize had somehow excelled. There was a certain delicious anxious excitement (rapidly becoming an endangered species) in waiting to learn who would get the prize...a blend of carefully guarded hope mixed with a feeling that was all of Kubler-Ross's 5 stages of grief mixed into one, ready to be deployed at the MC's stumbling over someone else's name...followed by an opportunity to show good sportsmanship when the winner--once again--wasn't you. Not much opportunity to feel that feeling any more. You know you're going to "win" from before you even pay to play.

When one person at the party receives a memento of their outstanding performance at pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, THAT's a prize. When everyone gets a memento of the party, it's called a party FAVOR. And they don't "win" it. They just get it, just for showing up. Like being part of a fundraising campaign.

Inversely to the deflation of candy-box prizes, I see a trend towards the inflation of "prizes", gimmicks and complicated incentives towards fundraising for charitable causes (not to mention my off-farm employer's corporate safety incentive progam, which has a gambling theme. Gambling on safety? I don't get it). More and more prizes are needed to gain the same level of motivation...oh, wait, that's not inflation, that's ADDICTION.

Once upon a time, people knew a neighbor needed help and they went over and pitched in and helped with their time and energy. If a stranger needed assistance, they gave them some food or clothing or spare change. If there was a larger cash need, they passed a hat, or the church(s) took up (a) special collection(s).

Then causes became broader, and appeals became broader as well. Instead of supporting a neighbor who was suffering from some dread disease, people put their resources together to try to find a way to prevent the disease. That's a good thing--we've learned a lot about the bodies God's given us on loan. But when people are giving to a Big Cause, are they still giving as much to their neighbor and to the stranger on the street? And why aren't our public institutions fulfilling this public need with our tax dollars, instead of (or in addition to) reinventing the food pyramid, building roads that go nowhere, or other projects of dubious value.

We used to give out of a noble human impulse called "altruism". We shared our resources simply because sharing felt good, because our community and our church expected it of us, and because it says so in the Bible (and other scriptures as well). We shared because we knew others would share with us if we needed help, or because they had already shared with us, or because we were glad we didn't need to be shared with.

At some point, though, something changed. It is no longer enough that their children won't face the health risks their parents did. The relief of someone else's suffering does not motivate people's charitable giving any more. People want something tangible in return for their cash, and they want it NOW. A big, fun party. Or a competition. Or food. Or all of the above. At the very least, "everyone will win at least one prize."

So instead of writing out a check for a nice sum to the current cause celebre, a bunch of volunteers plan an event, for example a walkathon. They have to print brochures, entry forms, etc. The printer gets some business. Local media provide advertising, but probably not all of it is free. They have to provide snacks and prizes so they ask merchants for donations. The merchants get a tax deduction. The participants have to pay an entry fee and collect donations from their friends, family and co-workers. People expect tax deductions for their donations. Participants go home with "prizes"--another t-shirt, another water bottle, maybe they won the drawing for the grand prize and got a digital camera. But they came to the event with those things already!

By the end of the event, everyone's exhausted. The gross proceeds look good, but all those expenses must be deducted.

Then there are the hidden costs. Time away from families (and pets! says Toss and the kitties) to stuff envelopes and man the check-in table. The fossil fuels consumed in transportation related to the event, in the life cycle of the "prizes". The long-term health effects of the stress added to already stressful lives.

While the participants are walking the walk (getting some exercise for their donation dollars), they may be also paying a commercial service to mow their lawn (diverting funds that could go to altruistic causes, and foregoing another form of exercise--one that might put them face to face with the neighbor whose name they barely know. Who might be suffering from the very disease they are walking to cure. Who might feel terribly isolated because all the able-bodied are out raising donations for good causes, and don't have time to visit shut-ins.)

I've witnessed one fundraising event that was different. One that was truly energy-efficient, family-friendly, sustainable, and do-able for everyone. It was called a "non-event", put together by the enterprising peace and justice committee of the Canadian Quakers (if I remember right). They gave away--for a donation--tickets to this fundraising event--very simple, photocopied tickets. And what was the event? Nothing! Or--anything! No scheduling hassles--they were good any date you wanted to use them. The deal was, when you wanted to clear out a night on your calendar to just stay home, or do something with your family or friends, and folks kept asking you to do other things, you could simply and honestly say, "I'm sorry, but we already have tickets for that night." Tickets for what? "For a fundraiser for (whatever the exact organization was called)". A perfect opportunity to share about the work of the organization was thus created...diverting the conversation from the exact nature of the event. And possibly an opportunity to sell more tickets. No need to let them know that the benefit dinner was mac-y-cheese at home with the kids, followed by a romp in the park. What an inspiring way to simplify our lives!

Do we really need to be bribed into giving? Have we truly lost the character of altruism, of generousity?

Jesus only mentioned giving alms in private. He never mentioned anything about wearing the promotional t-shirt afterwards.

Mulch ado about something

2009-09-17T01:06:00.003-04:00

Day by sunny, mild day, I gain on the weeds...things get planted...little improvements get made. It often does not seem like much. But it shows.

The farm is looking like a farm again, after a couple months of wild abandon to foxtail far above my head, crabgrass waist-high, extravagant smartweed sprawling sprays of white and pink through the neglected beds. Lettuce gleams jewel-like in tidy beds of chartreuse and burgundy; green onions march in happy rows; the experimental assorted hot peppers look like they've found their niche, forming a veritable hedge through one of the blocks; the seven varieties of radishes are promising to meet or exceed their labeled "days to harvest"; the lanes are velvet mown lawn (where they haven't been smothered out...reseeding is high on the to-do list).

But not enough mulching happened this spring, and we've paid the price. This time off from the full-time job had been mainly rescue work, work that should have been prevented. But I'm learning a lot from it.

In several areas, I've gone in with the BCS sicklebar mower and mowed everything down as best I could. It doesn't maneuver well in small places. That resulted in a thick mound of dry grass. Over time a few green bits have bravely pushed through, but overall I've been impressed with the effectiveness of this mulch grown in situ. Beats hauling mulch around the farm.

One area that seemed pretty hopeless was a block (50' x 50') that had been intended as alternate beds of tomatoes and potatoes. It had been partly fallow for several years, with lots of fescue and brome growing in it...essentially becoming pasture. As time wore on in the spring, and I kept not getting the area mulched, I finally in desparation mowed it very short and laid a band of waste hay mulch along the beds for the tomatoes, and stuck the tomatoes in. It was pretty dry and some of them didn't make it...also we have an annoying plant hopper that targets the "bark" of baby tomato plants at soil level, girdling them and usually killing them. Probably our most economically significant plant pest.

A gardener friend who's helped me in the past showed up a bit later and offered to mulch for the potatoes. He did, all right--except he left the "paths" between potato and tomato beds unmulched. Did I mention we never did get the tomatoes caged? We didn't get the potatoes planted, either.

By last week, it looked like a solid field of crab grass, some of it above my waist. I was in a pleasantly destructive mood with the BCS chugging under my hands and another hour of pleasant evening, and it caught my eye. The rows were marked with re-bar stakes wearing cheerful little orange hard hats, easily visible through the feathery froth of crabgrass seed heads. I could see a leaf or two of tomato plant here and there. Maybe if I tried just mowing where the unmulched lanes would be? What was there, under the jungle?

So that's what I did. And I found that the mulch had actually worked very well. Most of the weeds were growing in those unmulched "path" areas; the field looked solid because the grass was forming "tents" over the mulched areas. The surviving tomato plants were actually doing pretty well under there, some even beginning to ripen fruit.

Once things had dried for a few days, it was clear that only a little more handweeding was needed to be able to plant into the forlorn potato-less rows. So we are planting potatoes there. It's pretty late in the season...but we can put a heavy rowcover over them when the weather gets nippy, and maybe get at least some late new potatoes. Or, tubers too small to harvest may overwinter, and be pre-planted for next spring. We've harvested several nice batches of potatoes from "volunteers" like that this year.

If nothing else, we seem to have succeeded in ridding the area of the perennial grasses, and it should be in prime condition next spring.

I also seem to be haying the backyard, but it's the stuff the sheep don't even care for fresh and green. It, too, seems to make good mulch. The BCS lays it down in neat rows, and in a couple days they can be pulled together into piles with a hay fork and tossed into the cart.

Up until now, I've been importing most of my mulch materials in the form of brome hay and autumn leaves. I'll still use these sources, esp. the leaves which last a long time and bring a lot of deep nutrients into my soil. But I'll keep exploring techniques for grow-and-mow mulches. This will help to "detach" the garden operation from the sheep operation: my garden size won't be as limited by how much waste hay I have for mulching.

Grammar Lesson

2009-09-12T00:50:00.002-04:00

Pinwheel Farm.

Lots easier to spell than "Natalya Lowther", right?

But actually, more frequently misspelled...as "Pinwheel Farms".

Let's get this straight once and for all (I wish!):

Pinwheel Farm (noun, singular) is where Natalya farms (verb, present tense, singular) with the occasional help of farm (adjective) volunteers who help her farm (verb, present tense, plural) in accordance with the farm's (noun, singular, possessive) established policies and practices which are a bit different than many other farms' (noun, plural, possessive) policies.

There is no such place or business as "Pinwheel Farms." And one of my unwritten policies is that there will never be such a thing as "Pinwheel Farms." One farm is enough...nay, more than enough...for me.

So what's up with this egregiously common error? Where does the persistant "s" come from?

It is an artifact of the globalized, incorporated, consolidated, multinational "food" system which has evolved mostly within my lifetime. The "Xxxxxxxx Farms" abomination means literally that several farms have been consolidated or incorporated or have formed a cooperative under a common name. They are no longer a family farm. They MIGHT be several family farms...or not. There might not even be any one farm bearing the singular version (e.g., Xxxxxxxx Farm).

"Xxxxxxxx Farms" is inevitably a marketing device. It's a brand name. To me, it's a red flag indicating that if you spend your food dollars on products bearing this name, your money is not all going to the production of food or the support of the workers producing the food. Instead, a portion is going to public relations and advertising people, graphic designers, ad sales people and media mongerers of all sorts, printers and publishers, IT people of all strata from R&D to manufacturing to programming to repairs.... The list goes on.

And they all have one job. To convince you to buy "Xxxxxxx Farms's" products on no merit except a familiar name and reputation...familiarity and reputation mainly based on other people being mesmerized by the same ads you were.

The really insane thing about such "farmses", from my point of view, is that ALL these people who are creating the marketing image take home more money and lead more leisurely lives than the farm workers or even farmer owners, who are the ones actually taking soil and sunshine and seeds (and in my case, sheep manure) and adding some water and stirring until they end up--miraculously--with FOOD.

I would like to challenge my readers to undertake several small reformations:

1. Stop putting an "s" on the end of farm names unless it is clearly a collection of distinct farms or an established brand name. If you aren't sure, ask...and make singular your "default setting."

2. Try to buy food from farms that don't have an "s" at the end of their name. A good place to find these is your local Farmer's Market, and that's the best way to make sure nearly ALL of your food dollar goes to support the people who are mucking about in the dirt to produce your food.

3. When you see "Xxxxxxx Farms" on a sign or label, try to find out why they have an "s" on the end. Sometimes it reflects a true cooperative effort among farmers, but often it's just a marketing ploy to conjure up an image of a wholesome, small, family business--but it ain't necessarily so.

4. Educate others about this.

Thanks! Stepping off the soapbox now....

Upcoming Event: Sheep Shearing Fall 2009

2009-09-08T11:03:00.002-04:00

We've been a bit behind on calling the shearer to schedule our fall shearing, with predicatble results: all Saturdays...indeed all weekends...are already booked.

Therefore, our fall shearing will be held on Monday, Sept. 21 beginning sometime around 10 or 10:30 a.m. It will be a small shearing, just two ewes and a handful of lambs. But we'll open our farm as always to anyone who wants to come join the fun or just watch.

There is always plenty to do on shearing day for volunteers, and it isn't hard work. Often child/parent teams work together on various tasks.

A bedsheet is weighed for each sheep. Then it's spread on the ground (to keep dirt off the wool), and the sheep is sheared on top of it. The wool is bundled up in the sheet, the sheet is tied, and the bundle is weighed to calculate the weight of the fleece. The bundles are stacked. A list is kept of all the fleeces and their weights.

Volunteers may also help shoo the sheep into the shearing pen.

With so few sheep being shorn, hopefully we'll go ahead and skirt the fleeces after the shearing.

There is plenty of off-street parking for this event, and the farm is especially green this September. Feel free to stay and picnic, or walk the wilderness trail.

Just don't forget the mosquito repellent!

For directions or more information, contact Natalya Lowther, 785-979-6786 or email natalyalowther@hotmail.com.

Happy Purr, Tired Purr

2009-09-07T22:55:00.005-04:00

OK, so I tend to be a bit obsessive about things.

I may procrastinate for hours, days, weeks, years....decades? I'm afraid so. But--once I start something, and get in a groove with it, there's no stopping me sometimes.

Even long after overcoming my terror of all power tools, (a terror rooted, perfectly logically, in a childhood spent holding the other end of the board for my father in his workshop, sawdust blinding my unprotected eyes, while he utter dire warnings about how dangerous the tools were) I have nurtured an extreme distaste of small internal combustion engines for decades.

Very successfully, I might add. Few children of the suburbs make it to age 45 without ever having operated a gasoline powered lawn mower, but I did. I considered them an abomination. I also tended to have very "natural" lawns, and arranged for them to be mown only under duress.

A dear friend who had worked for years as a handyperson, including doing a significant amount of lawn mowing, tree trimming, weed eating, etc., bought me my first power mower. Initially she got it to do the mowing herself, unable to stand the sight of my scraggly lawns and lanes, jealous of the "happy purr of lawn mowers" at the neighbors'. I used to adore volunteers like her who liked to mow...and provided their own equipment. I still despised the noise. But she won out: eventually, I, too, began to appreciate "the happy purr of lawn mowers".

(Actually, the farm had had a mower at its very beginning: a Dixon ZTR that was my then-husband's pet. I used it a couple times, with extensive persuasion, but not much. When it died, we replaced it with sheep. They were cheaper, cuter, friendlier, in every way superior...but didn't turn out to be the best lawn mowers, after all. One of those Mother Earth News "it's a nice theory" things that doesn't prove out. I WILL say that they do an excellent job of keeping the trees trimmed up to a perfectly even level. Try finding a machine to do that automatically on a large scale.)

When my friend's life took her in other directions, I bought the little green mower from her and took on the mowing myself. For a long time, it was a dreaded task, made worse by the inevitable vicious cycle of a job disdained. By putting it off, it became immeasurably worse, longer, harder, hotter. But gradually I got better at it, less fearful of something going wrong, more pleased with the results.

The first mower had a very inconvenient bagging system. Even so, I discovered the wonderful resource of grass clippings for mulching the garden. Now this made sense: mowing not to beautify the farm, but to produce a useful and necessary product. A string of other mowers followed: a couple riding mowers (which I barely became comfortable with before their owners took them to greener pastures), and a nice red self-propelled mower with a very effective and convenient bagging system.

Then, the ultimate in grass control equipment. Dad conceded that his shoulder replacement was never designed to run a rototiller or similar equipment, and offered to give me his BCS "walk-behind tractor" which has both rototiller and sickle bar mower attachments. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I promptly accepted, despite my terror of the huge beast and my scorn for rototilling this farm's particular soil.

It has taken a couple seasons to really become comfortable with its operation...though "comfortable" isn't quite the right word. There is nothing physically comfortable about running it, except for the blessed silence when I shut it off and remove my hearing protectors. It easily outweighs me--probably close to twice my weight, including the sickle bar attachment. Two big tires with tractor tread move in absolute lockstep--so turning it is a matter of brute force and leverage. The combination of power and traction mean that it is going to run over anything in its path, if it doesn't go through it. The sickle bar is powerful enough to cut through chain link fence, cattle panels, just about anything smaller than a T-post (you don't wanna know how I know). The handles are designed for someone with huge hands, so the only way I can operate it at all is to override the safety cut-off with a section of plastic pipe. Otherwise, my hand isn't able to reach the clutch lever at all. This means it won't automatically stop if it gets away from me, until it runs into a tree (a large one; it will cut down trees less than 3") or a building.

The hand agony comes from two quirks: First, on the right hand, the throttle lever tends to drift to the slowest imaginable idle speed unless constant pressure is applied to keep it at full throttle. I haven't tried to tighten it, because it does provide a small measure of "safety"--I should say, less frightening danger--if it is unattended, since the cutoff is overridden. So the small lever wears into the palm of my hand. On the left hand, I must keep a constant slight pressure upwards to prevent it from rocking back and running along with the blades clattering uselessly (and dangerously) in mid-air. And I'm forcibly guiding the behemoth with both hands the whole time. It truly takes everything I've got, physically and mentally.

But, I've discovered some good qualities. It moves slowly enough that critters can easily escape...frogs and garter snakes were leaping in all directions today, well-warned by the sound that they could safely flee. And by going under the vegetation and only cutting it once, most insects escape damage as well. If it cuts something, it will be much easier to mend that something cut with a brush hog (and I'll leave any details to your imagination on that.)

I ran it for three hours today. I didn't mean to, really. First I had to mow the area where we are going to stretch a new permanent fence. Then lanes to put up temporary fences for rotational grazing in the pasture. Then while I was out there, I figured I'd mow down the weeds in one corner of the paddock they'd just finished. Once that corner was done, I decided it would be best to mow the rest of the paddock for good measure.

I brought the BCS back to the area near the green sheep sheds, thinking that tomorrow I would tackle mowing the quadrant with the bad infestation of Japanese Hop Vine. But after an early supper, it was such a nice evening I thought I'd just get started on that quadrant. I knew I was tired already, so I decided to see how much I could get done in an hour. And I did quit after an hour.

But then wouldn't it be nice to finish the job the sheep started in the northwest corner of the garden, get that all mowed down and be able to start planting there soon? So...you guessed it...I lit into that corner...mowed it down...and then touched up some areas I'd mowed a few days ago...

...and thus I passed another hour. And it was getting quite dark. My hands had long since realized that complaining to me about their discomfort was pointless. Not that I ignored them entirely. I frequently checked for actual damage. No blisters, no numbness, fingers still work--safe to ignore the pain and just go on.

I cleaned up and met some friends in town for a late supper. As we strolled along the sidewalk, I had the uncanny sensation that I had merged with the BCS, and was still thrashing back and forth rapidly at every step, a three-foot wide deadly blade blazing a trail ahead of me. Something out of a horror movie, for sure.

Maybe I overdid it?

The hot shower, food and light conversation revived me, for the most part. I only feel like I'm still vibrating...the BIG tired purr of the BCS...but not propelling the sickle bar ahead of me.

Just Off 'Dead Center'

2009-09-07T12:45:00.005-04:00

I plopped into my very favorite chair with the cordless phone when I heard the voice on the line. It was a old acquaintence whom I'd given up hope of hearing from after my call last week went unreturned. She only had a few minutes between trips across the continent, but for a few minutes I dropped the day's farming perplexities from my mind as we caught up on each other's lives and realized that we just simply were too busy for too long--past and future--to hope for more than that brief call. I'm not sure what we have in common, anyhow--other than perhaps we are fellow eccentrics, just enough to appreciate that we are each so different not only from each other but also from "the norm".

As we talked, I swiveled the chair to view the glorious wild sunflowers outside the window. I like rocking chairs--I like them very much indeed, and somehow have accumulated at least 5 of them in diverse styles. But I like this chair even better: it smoothly swivels with the least push of a toe against the wood box or the floor. It's a sideways kind of rocking.

The call ended; I sat there reflecting for a minute; I glowed back at the sunflowers; I stood up. The chair behind me continued to swirl on its own, gently, back and forth, until it found its proper resting place. You see, it is ingeniously designed so that it always returns to face its original direction. And this, for some reason, is a big part of why I love it so--over and above its sweepingly cozy shape, just right for curling up cat-like to read or sip tea (not that I'm doing much of that these days--but its presence is a promise that I will someday), or its wonderfully soft microsuede fabric that seems to repel pet hair and other dirt, or its brilliant turquise color that lights up the room.

This chair, in this moment, reminded me of another favorite piece of engineering: the cast iron treadle base of antique dentist's drill which I intend to convert to a spinning wheel--someday when I've accumulated the necessary understanding of fabrication options, hardware, etc. to be able to complete the rough design that's been rattling around in my head for more than a decade. Aside from the ornate scrollwork on the treadle, the delicate casting, the arched spokes...this mechanism, like the chair, is designed to dynamically return itself to a certain condition when human intervention ceases. Only this treadle and flywheel, instead of returning to dead center like most treadles/flywheels (esp. conventional spinning wheels), returns to a spot just off dead center. This creates the "magic" that no guiding touch of the hand is needed to start the wheel in motion again after it stops...and no help is needed to ensure it turns in a consistent direction. The lightest tap of a toe on the treadle will begin it rotating in a constant direction. It is always ready and willing to work, always heading in the same firection.

Moreover, the treadle and shaft are fitted with an innocuous small spring that is stretched--energized--by the downward stroke of the treadle each time, so that the upward stroke against gravity is enhanced by the spring. It almost treadles itself, once set in motion. It is effortless to operate. I delight in showing it to mechanically-minded people, folks who I know will appreciate the ingenuity of the design. "There," I said to my last show-and-tell victim. "Doesn't that make your foot happy?" And it did...and it delighted us as well, along with our feet.

Reflecting on just one of these mechanisms--either one--I reflect on the brilliance of the specific design, the practicality, the vision, the "extra mile" applied to the invention that could easily have been foregone while still resulting in a useful object.

Reflecting on both of them at once, I go beyond the present objects to the physics they share--revolving around the dead center of rotational motion, playing against gravity--and turn to my inner life through the lense of that metaphor.

Centeredness. So desperately sought by so many people (including myself). Serenity, inner peace, equanimity...many allied concepts and words. A spiritual place. The goal of popular yoga and other meditation practices, of 12-step programs, of many religious paths. Oddly, this is a static state, a state of little inherent potential for change. There's a randomness about it--any point on the arc can end up pointing any direction, there's no predicting what direction the wheel will start to turn. And stationary, when a resting position is achieved--a pendulum hanging straight down, unmoving. Completeness, perhaps...but then what? Perfection, of a sort--how boring! Can I really serve God and Mother Nature and fellow humanity by acheiving a state of profound inner peace? Could I even really enjoy my own existence if it were that easy? REsting is good, surely--but as a passing state, not a constant one.

Eccentric. Off of centered. Mechanically, an eccentric wheel dynamically returns to a certain orientation on its own, naturally, when other influencing forces are relaxed. As a type of human being, someone who comes back to the same place each time? But does not always follow a regular path to get there, and appears to wander relative to those caught on the centeredness of the merry-go-round...or the perfect orbit of planets and stars. Not so random as we might appear, after all. And inherent in this, a certain power and energy and direction that can work toward many ends.

When I find myself stuck in a rut, spinning my wheels (?!?) and getting nowhere--(no, I'll resist the temptation to apply that sentence to my state of the moment, lounging in the house at the time-eating computer instead of doing more "productive" work out on the farm) I think of it through the metaphor of a mechanical "dead center"...that place where gravity (i.e., forces outside myself) just won't do the work for me, where I have to apply some force to oppose the force of inertia to get things started, and I have to give some guidance to ensure things don't start out in the wrong direction. I think of needing to jump-start myself, or pick myself up by the scruff of the neck and throw myself outside....

But maybe all I need to do is cultivate my eccentricity--to keep me coming back to a constant direction no matter what outside forces are applied--and resiliance--to give the springiness that draws each motion into a self-energizing countermotion, making me the "energizer bunny" that I tend to be.

OK, I can hear some of you rolling your eyes out there. Yes, I've been doing that for a long, long time...and it's working...because you keep wondering how I can possibly have the energy to be doing all this by myself....

Though never quite all by myself, because God and Mother Nature and the whole Community of Life of the farm and all the volunteers and friends are certainly doing their parts. But no one else rotating around the same shaft here. Just other eccentric gears that mesh for a little while in the course of their own motion about their own shafts.

And an old (1980's) poem weaves through my head, half-remembered but I'm not inclined to run after the notebook and lose myself in the un-indexed pages for an hour to find it.

Coming back to centeredness,
Accepting where--alone--I am
.....
My life, complete, becomes a cell;
My heart becomes a shrine again.
.....
And what we've shared, and, sharing, found,
Of course I'd like to find again--
But no new hopes shall spin me 'round;
Enough, for now, these distant friends.

Two--going on three--decades of maturity lend a new resolution to the extra emptiness of daily life after a close friend has spun off in other directions in their life, or a sojourning visitor has continued their travels. This can be an energizing time; instead of shunning new hopes and seeking a calm center that will remain unperterbed by outside forces, I can appreciate my eccentricity that allows me to always come back to my own direction after enjoying a time of meshing with others, and be sprung onwards in my own revolution by the release of the small friction that is the inevitable down side of joining forces with another.

The down side of my eccentricity, of course, is that it takes an unusual other to mesh instead of clashing, even for a short time. But then I am inclined to value that meshing all the more....

Take Heart...

2009-09-07T01:15:00.003-04:00

......out the freezer. Thaw, chop, add to a bunch of sauted garlic and onions and fresh tomatoes; makes a good "'red sauce". Throw in some penne pasta to soak up the juice...or, it would be good on spaghetti squash.

One of my goals for this time off work is to revamp my foodways, which have gone from bad to worse during my bus-driving years. So far I've identified several different "threads" to this project, in the spirit of "killing two birds with one stone".

Not going to the grocery store (until I run out of some essential like chocolate) is encouraging me to eat what's around the house, thereby rotating stock that has become a bit elderly on things like canned goods and things in the freezer. It's also saving a lot of money. And I'm eating less junk food.

Eating what's in the fridge first has gone a long way towards cleaning out the fridge...a project who's time came long before this "vacation". It also prompts creativity.

I'm bringing home leftovers from market, despite generous donations to my daughter's and helpers' families, and Just Foods which coordinates produce donations for the local food pantries. Can you believe I was selling tomatoes for weeks before I ever took the time to slice one for myself, and top with cottage cheese and homemade celery seed dressing? I'm trying to eat the leftovers more...which means I'm eating more fresh, local food than I have for a long time. The two-job routine invariably nudges me towards Burger King for quick meals on the go.

Then there are all the leftovers in the freezer. That comes next, after cleaning the fridge. I'm going to either eat them or throw them out, one by one. No need to tackle it all at once...just one meal at a time. I have a tendency when I do cook, to get bored with a dish after a few days, and freeze the rest of it. Sometimes the boredom exceeds the "best if used by" date. So if I let myself start cooking before I tackle the freezer, there won't be room for the new leftovers....

A long-time goal has been to learn how to cook organ meats from my lambs. Often customers don't want the heart, tongue, kidneys, etc. so they end up in my big freezer. I love the liver, but haven't figured out good recipes for the other items. That makes it hard to recommend them to my customers...and a vicious cycle ensues. Anyhow, I've commenced experimenting.

Hopefully, by the end of Sept. I'll have a clean fridge, space in the freezer, a wonderful repertoire of recipes for lamb variety meats, and will be eating almost entirely homegrown food.

Then the challenge will be to keep up with all that after I go back to the full-time off-farm job.

Permaculture

2009-09-07T00:29:00.004-04:00

I spent quite a bit of time this week--the first week of my month off from driving the bus--cleaning up the farm for a permaculture farm and garden tour that was this afternoon. A good excuse to tidy up and get around to dealing with a few eyesores and inconveniences I've been stepping around for months (or years).

I've sort of re-invented "permaculture" independently, and I tend to resist using that name for what I do. But I don't mind showing off the farm a bit and helping out the local permaculture folks. I don't really care for the name or the hype and structure/process I've come to associate with the permaculture "cult".

I've just taken my lifetime of camping, being raised by biologists, gardening, various life experiences, and observation, and applied it all to how I listen to God and to the piece of land He plopped in my lap about 12 years ago. Mostly, I've just let Nature have its way with the land, most of which was a corn field when I bought it. The rich, diverse ecosystem is a wonderful testimony to the difference that 12 years of leaving things alone can make.

Not entirely alone. We did plant trees (redbud, walnut, pecan, others) and seed the tallgrass area with native grasses (big and little bluestem, Eastern Gama, Indian grass, others) and forbs (pitcher sage, Maxmillian Sunflower, penstemon, rattlesnake master, others). And I've pruned and weeded and "edited" a bit. The pasture (in better condition than ever) is shaped by the sheep and my gradually improving grazing management.

I haven't really even read much about permaculture...and much of what I read seems economically not viable to me, or else pretty general. I also see people thinking they can replicate stuff from one region to another, and I've learned that some of what I'm doing here can't even be done a mile south on the other side of the river! As I looked at one diagram of how a swale can be built to help store precious water, I laughed at first. In my soil? When I wanted to build a pond instead of the wilderness area, the soil experts who tested the soil said, "Wow, you have great drainage! No way can you get this soil to hold water...you'd have to line a pond with rubber." And water's no problem...all the groundwater I want at about 17 feet.

But as I thought about it a little longer, I realize I do use a swale...a pre-existing one...one not built by human hands. The Kansas River Valley is a super-sized swale hoarding water for me from the hills on either side. Now THAT's permaculture!

Around 20 people enjoyed a walk around the farm. Unlike most "lamb visits" and "garden tours" that I do, I decided to take this group for the grand tour...around the west edge of the farm to the north pasture gate, then back up the main lane under the Torii, through the sheep pens and garden, and back to the yard. Partly, it was a good morning for mowing with the BCS walk-behind sickle bar mower, which I've gotten proficient enough with to feel comfortable taking it for a long hike. It took just under an hour to mow a trail along the west margin lane, throught the shady pasture north of the neighbor's horse pasture, along the slope between Maple Grove Tributary and my CRP (USDA Conservation Reserve Program) Riparian Protection buffer strip, through the Baby Forest (now very woodsy), acrosss the tallgrass prairie, through the north pasture gate, along the fences to the "keyhole" hub of the rotational grazing system...and just under an hour to walk it with the tour group, pausing to note the various ecosystems and improvements, and answer questions.

Now that the trail is mowed, I invite my readers to come follow it sometime. But is it a permaculture trail? Not really. It's a deer trail where the grass has been cut back to accommodate human passage. The grass will grow in again, if it isn't kept mowed, and no trace will be left. I'm not planning to build a boardwalk or pave it with wood chips anytime soon--it would be nice, but way too labor intensive...not just the building, but the maintenance. The life expectancy of 4 inches of wood chips on this soil is less than a year.

I think the term "permaculture" is actually a bit misleading. Even I was fooled, thinking that eventually I would get the farm "built" and it would stay that way. But there is nothing as sure as change. There isn't much that's truly permanent in the natural landscape, except sky and earth. All else changes with the years, the seasons, the days and nights, the wind. All this I've planted, pruned, built, placed on the farm will pass away.

And that is as it should be.

Fire Update

2009-08-27T01:13:00.002-04:00

Update on my British Columbia friend's forest fire situation:

Today the evacuation order came, and she, her grown son who works with her, and one of her interns decided to defy the order and stay at the farm. Other workers and her son's family left. It's the peak of harvest season, and with the continuing hot dry windy weather she has to dole out every precious drop of irrigation water she can to thirsty crops. She can run the well for 30 minutes, then lets it rest again and refill, then runs another 30 minutes...sometimes round the clock.

Tonight she called to say the hill on the other side of the railroad track that borders her vegetable fields is burning. THAT'S REALLY CLOSE! At times they've been able to feel the heat of the fire over and above the heat of the weather. They are standing watches tonight to look out for sparks on her parched land.

If they cross the barricade at the end of the road, they can't come back. Friends have arranged to meet them there with trucks, and pass boxes of produce over and do their best to get her orders out. The income is essential to her operation--and many veggies don't keep, and even so her small on-farm cold storage would soon be inadequate.

She has sent all her valuable papers, computer, etc. "outside" already, in case she would need to flee in a hurry, so she has no email contact with bank or customers (or friends). I'm really glad that we've been talking on the phone a lot more this summer, so that line of communication is already established.

Her great sense of humor is intact, so far. Someone asked her "What will you do with your pigs if the fire comes to your farm?" She replied, "Throw them some apples and toss in some barbeque sauce!"

Problems I DON'T have

2009-08-23T09:57:00.002-04:00

During my sabbatical year away from the farm, I spent quite a bit of time at a wonderful organic vegetable farm near Sorrento, British Columbia. We've kept in touch since then, and it's always encouraging to talk to someone who's facing the same challenges I am...challenges that non-farmers (and non-single farmers) just can't imagine.

But her incredibly scenic location, nestled in a fabulous mountain valley, has some down sides that my humble semi-urban location doesn't. This morning she sent me the following:

We are under evacuation notice because of the fire behind us. It went from about 65 acres to triple that as we watched last night. Was the best fireworks display I have seen in a while but so sad as all I could think about was the critters being terrified and trapped. This morning the smoke is heavy and I can feel it in my lungs. I don't feel in any danger and it is hard to imagine fire getting across our open fields so haven't packed anything but passport etc... Can't even think about the animals, have no way to load them and where would we take them?

Forest fires in the mountains are sort of the equivalent of our tornados--a part of life that touches many, on average, and does a great deal of damage when it does, but rarely knocks on your own door. Something that you keep a radio around for the emergency broadcasts, but generally go right on with daily life.

I called to find out more and to let her know I'd keep her in my prayers. She paused our conversation to listen to a radio update.

The fire is now 10 times larger than it started (in a magnificent dry thunderstorm last night), and has moved within just a few miles, right to the end of their road.

But she's a vegetable farmer. She's headed off to organize the harvest crew for the day's work, come what may.

Post-Internet Society?

2009-08-21T22:42:00.004-04:00

Reflecting further on recent technology/life interactions, the concept of a future post-internet society occurs to me.

Basically, I think--I hope--we (as a society) will sooner or later get over our current infatuation with Everything Internet/Wireless/I-Whatever, and we'll start rediscovering reality--not "reality TV" (talk about an oxymoron!), but the real reality right on the other side of our skin/eyeballs/eardrums/etc.

And I'll already be here, patiently (or not) waiting.

I can't find where I've written out this story before, so I'll write it out here. It's a very important story.

A young boy, perhaps kindergarten or first grade, visited the farm for the first time. Early in his visit, he noticed that there was no TV in the livingroom, and commented on it. What did we do without television, he wondered out loud.

We adults kind of brushed him off and continued on the tour with him tagging along.

As the end of their visit drew near, and we were all standing in the driveway for goodbyes, the little boy piped up with great certainty. "I get it now. You don't NEED TV! You have the cat channel, the chicken channel, the sheep channel...."

And we do. We have it all, in real time, complete in all 5 senses and maybe a few that science hasn't named yet.

We (me, dogs, cat, sheep, etc.) don't miss TV. Ever. Nor Facebook nor Twitter nor an imaginary farm. We DO miss our old friends (and potential new ones) who have disappeared into those virtual realities, and who have lost the ability to hold a conversation about REAL reality.

But I'm almost certain that sometimes those with TVs, You Tube, Facebook, Twitter, a virtual farm, etc., have an inkling that they miss real chickens, real sheep, real gardens, real friends. Even real bugs, real weather, real work.

There lie the seeds of post-internet society. I want to water them, help them germinate, weed them, rejoice in their growth.

We (as a society) will find a balance, I hope--not throw out the baby with the bathwater. Cell phones are great for emergencies, email is great for keeping in touch with friends on conflicting schedules, many web sites certainly provide useful information.

And I DO see it coming, I see seeds sprouting. I see it coming in the renaissance of knitting. I see it in the second wave of environmentalism (took long enough...I grew up in the first wave) and the new energy awareness. I see it in the Slow Food Movement, Locavores, the upsurge in home gardening.

Meanwhile, though, is there some way that those of us who've opted out of the personal technology arms race can connect and start practicing for that wonderful real future? Support one another in our sidelined state as the heydey of personal devices and online social networking rolls relentlessly on, not yet at its climax? How can we roll out the red carpet for those who begin to want more than the glowing screen has to offer?

Should we figure out a Technology 12-Step group to support those who realize their electronic connections have reached the level of addiction?

On the local National Public Radio station a few weeks ago, I heard a blurb about Therapeutic Lifestyle as a treatment for depression. Research showed that living a more traditional life such as the Amish or some equatorial tribe actually treated chronic depression better than conventional medication or therapy. Some of the components of this Therapeutic Lifestyle were rising and going to bed with the sun, meaningful physical work outside, a simple diet of local foods. Makes sense to me. When I wasn't working off-farm, and could actually live the lifestyle the farm wants me to, my own mild long-term depression certainly abated. Especially, I realized right from the start that having to go out and do sheep chores and deal with firewood daily in the winter kept me (mostly) cheerful and up-beat right through the winter--usually a tough time for me.

Maybe the farm can be a treatment center for recovering technology addicts, and a haven for those wise ones who have stayed off the bandwagon to begin with, at least in part.

Dark, Ludditious Musings

2009-08-20T23:33:00.002-04:00

I have a microwave, a rice-cooker, a bread machine, a cordless drill, a new rechargeable battery-powered lawn mower, an electronic stud finder, a sporty little car and a full-size pickup, a BCS walk-behind tractor, an air compressor, LED flashing lights on my bicycle, a satellite-calibrated digital watch, a laptop with internet access and all-in-one scanner/copier/printer and cd/dvd player, 2 phone lines, digital camera, high-efficiency washing machine, .....so how could I possibly be a Luddite?

I recently received a most sweet and thoughtful gift from an acquaintence made at a Quaker retreat last winter, whom I've kept in touch with sporadically by email since then. He sent me a link by which to access a free set of farmer icons.

After much thought, I "penned" the following response:

Thanks, M----! The gift will be your thinking of me.

One of my "invisible handicaps" is ssslllooowww dial-up internet access, which has the happy side-effect of encouraging me to carry out my testimony of simplicity online, by avoiding anything other than a default font, not using icons, and not visiting websites that are primarily for fun.

It is odd, because my field was Graphic Design at one time. But I had a leading (before I knew what leadings were) to not follow the design world onto the screen...all my training was with phototypesetting, and even some letterpress. I still like the old ways, and am content to let the world of visual embellishment pass me by in much the same manner as my personal dress has become plainer and plainer.

That is not to disparage such things, nor to say they shouldn't be created and used. And excellent graphic design is still a wonderful thing....

It turns out this was just the beginning of the "lesson" from my Higher Power. And maybe I'm not as content as I let on in my response to my friend.

At the Safety Meeting at work, there was a lot of discussion on the new cell phone policy. I fidgetted. I don't have a cell phone any more, so it didn't affect me. But I find myself handicapped by that lack at times when a discrete call to a supervisor (instead of the semi-public 2-way radio) would gain me guidance on a sticky customer situation, or when the bus engine and radio malfunction simultaneously. My options are much narrower than those of folks with cell phones, and the result is I get slammed for making "poor" decisions and for not communicating.

Why no cell phone? I used to have one, and my main phone number is still a cell phone number that's been transferred over to "land line" service. But the reception at the farm got worse and worse with my original service provider. I not only often couldn't make calls in the house, I had to walk way down the driveway to make them. THEN I could go back to the house...at first...but even that option waned over time. With winter coming, I couldn't effectively use the cell phone at home, even though it was ever-so-handy for communicating at Farmer's Market or about town or when travelling out of town.

Eventually I tried switching providers, and got even worse service. Changing phones MIGHT have eventually helped (I chose the second company because a friend had GREAT reception with her phone from that company), but the logistics were insurmountable. No one will tell you which phone will work; you just have to buy them, try them, and take them back. How can you call THAT "high-tech?" It's random trial and error, plain and simple--not even an educated guess to it! With the job, farm and cell phone stores about as far apart as 3 locations can be in Lawrence, it was inordinately difficult and time-consuming to try to get this resolved. The best I could do was switch back to the ever-reliable (in an archaic sort of way) "land line."

That means I can reliably make phone calls from home, and reliably receive messages. I also have unlimited minutes, long distance AND free calls to Canada. The catch is, I have to be in the house. Which I rarely am, except after 9 or so at night. So my phone conversations are mainly with my family (we're definitely birds of the night-owl variety) and with old friends on the west coast.

But going back to a "land line", I begin to see--ever so slowly--the ways in which the world has moved beyond such a quaint notion as a "home phone", esp. one that might be shared by several people.

People call, and just start talking. I have no clue who they are. They assume I have Caller ID, which I don't. They are impatient and a little angry when I try to get them to pause long enough for me to ask for their name, then a little more frustrated at my "slowness" because I have to then ask them to go back to the beginning, now that I know who they are, and begin their request or offer all over again now that I have a context and can make sense of their words.

If I'm inside and answer the phone, then at least we get to have that conversation. If they get the answering machine, it's even worse. They ASS-U-ME that my phone will tell me who called from what number. It doesn't. My message even TELLS them it isn't a cell phone and that they need to leave a number. They STILL don't leave a number. That makes it really hard to return a call. Then they call back again, days later, angry that I haven't returned their call.

I've also gotten, "What? You didn't receive my text?" Even when I had a cell phone, I didn't do texting on it. I just couldn't figure it out...too slow for me; I'm used to a full-size keyboard. I didn't suffer through learning proper typing technique (on manual typewriters that probably outweighed the new lawn mower) in 9th grade (oh, the tears and wailing and gnashing of teeth to get that miserable "D") just to abandon it for a phone keypad...and I didn't sweat through a zillion spelling* and grammar tests, and that notorious Lesson 2 (Punctuation) of KU's Comp I by correspondence 30+ years ago in order to abandon it all for a new "shorthand" of one-letter words and TLAs.

Please, just email me. I'll hit "Reply" at 11:30 p.m. and you'll wake up at 5:30 a.m. and have your answer.

Ah--but email's becoming passe as well. I noticed I wasn't hearing from some of my favorite correspondants much any more, and gradually I've realized why--MySpace, Facebook, Twitter, etc. have lured a lot of my friends away from old-fashioned one-on-one correspondence and mailing lists, even on-line.

"MY space" is Pinwheel Farm, 12+ acres of reality. I've never been into photo albums or scrapbooking. I don't Tweet, Twitter, Twit or whatever (how IS that conjugated? English has such irregular tenses to begin with....)...I thought that was for the birds? I saw an indigo bunting and three flycatchers today....

In part, I continue to avoid these "social networking sites" because there isn't that much that I really want to share with just anybody. I have such a diverse circle of friends (or had) and such diverse interests that I don't really want all that mixed up together in a semi-public format, out of context. And I don't want to set myself up as multiple personalities online...my personal goal is towards integrating the various aspects of myself.

Someone commented early on in my blogging that to be readable, I should keep to just a paragraph or two. But life on the farm is complicated, and full of details and nuances that can't be condensed into a half page, let alone a Tweet or a text message. Partly because the context of my life...the vocabulary of my life...is so foreign to most folks.

Then there are the horror stories of the ill-advised things that folks have put up online, only to be haunted by them professionally at a later time.

Then there is the time that I would probably end up wasting as an on-line social butterfly, when I should be farming or doing paperwork. At least when I'm talking on the phone, I can do something with my hands at the same time, and still be productive. (And then there's the time I spend blogging....)

But a significant reason I remain aloof from "social networking" is the same as for my icon-free status: ssslllooowww dial-up internet service. Also why I don't "surf the web" or watch many of the wonderful educational on-line video clips that friends send me. No You-Tube, of course. A three-minute video clip takes about 45 minutes to download on a GOOD night, IF I keep a connection (the one that I actually took the time to download was, bizarrely, from someone who was raised Amish).

Why the dial-up? Well, it remains my only accessible internet option.

The "city-wide" wireless service omits to serve the part of the city north of the river, where I live. Isn't this false advertizing?

There isn't a cable line into the house, and having one installed would, first, damage my fruit trees (and then what would the squirrels eat?) and then open up the tiresome argument with housemates over why they can't use it for TV.

Satellite is unaffordable.

Poor cell phone reception precludes any options through cell phone providers (the irony is I can see a tower less than 1/4 mile from the house)...which would be fairly expensive, too.

Well, that leaves DSL. Which the neighbor in front of me has. But I am in a tiny area not served by DSL. I am too far--by a few feet--from some virtual "central office".

So what are my choices?

I can spend hours and hours of precious time, time that should go to more lasting efforts, doing things on dial-up that dial-up was never designed to do (or more specifically, that weren't designed to be done on dial-up). I can wage war against the injustice of internet inequality. Or I can just be an unintentional Luddite. Except I'm not TRYING to be a Luddite, really.

But the end result, sadly, is that I feel as if I'm not-so-gradually slipping into isolation from the world of humans around me, as all avenues of communication move out of my reach. Society is changing rapidly to reflect these new ways, and I can't keep up. I still try to reach out, sometimes, but it takes more effort and is less and less effective.

I attended a real-life social networking event this evening. I've attended this particular group for several years, and have come to really enjoy the diverse group of folks even if we don't have a lot in common. I've enjoyed hanging out with this crowd on bowling outings, costume parties, white elephant gift exchanges, going to bars, other things that I wouldn't normally just go do for the fun of it. But tonight, the conversations were about what folks had seen on one another's Facebook sites, or what they'd seen on You-Tube.

And then a new horror reared its head: The online "farm" game fad.

After a long day "off" spent harvesting lettuce and herbs, preparing and packing them for a customer, making the delivery, pulling noxious weeds on pasture, trying to beat back the goose grass enough to get a seldom-used gate open...soaking wet shoes filling with grass seeds threatening to rub blisters under the straps...I found myself surrounded by a table full of people talking about their online farms. Planting crops. Building stone walls. Buying things for their farm. Putting in paths. "You sold your house? Where do you live?" "Oh, I don't live on my farm, I just vacation there."

I left the networking event feeling WAY more disconnected than I did when I had arrived.

It's only just now that the eery sense of familiarity about the nature of the farm game conversation has come into focus. It's the same quality of conversation we had as children, playing with paper dolls, imagining lives that were devoid of realistic detail (no bugs or bills), had no consequences, didn't have to consider or interact with neighbors, and could be started over at any time.

My parents were the mean ones that never let us have "store-bought" paper dolls. We had to make our own...and we did.

I guess things haven't changed that much, after all.

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* I have made a conscious choice not to attempt to proofread these entries to any degree of perfection. Also, many typos are due to a chronicly malfunctioning keyboard.

OK, I'm back

2009-08-20T23:19:00.002-04:00

Not too sure what happened...partly too busy, partly too frustrated with not being able to get the new camera's wonderful new photos to load, partly ?

Several folks have mentioned recently that they miss my "reports from the farm", which was some feedback I've really been missing. So keep in mind: I'm happy to put a lot of TLC into writing about my farm experiences for you. All I ask in return is LET ME KNOW YOU'RE READING THEM via a comment on the blog or an email to natalyalowther@hotmail.com.

I'm not going to try to catch you up on much that's happened in the last couple months, but just jump in piecemeal with new events.

I'll be taking the entire month of September off from my bus-driving job to catch up on things at the farm. So this coming month--when the weather will most likely be gorgeous--will be a great month to come visit. I'm hoping to renew old firendships and build new ones...my social life has been severely diminished by never being available in the evenings these past 3 years. Volunteers are great, but so is just hanging out and talking while I work on something. I'll be missing the social interaction of the bus job.

So, give a call (785-979-6786) or email or catch me at Farmer's Market, and plan a time to join me at the farm, or plan some fun excursion OFF the farm that isn't driving a bus.

Even if I'm "home" most the time, I may be hard to reach because...dare I say it?...I'm outstanding in my field!

Whistling in the dark

2009-06-01T23:37:00.002-04:00

Or dusk, at least.

After holing up in the house sorting papers during the heat of the day, nursing a case of poison ivy that would have been a serious safety hazard while driving, I ventured out to the pasture in the late evening to move electronet fences and give the sheep a new patch of red clover. It was a lovely evening, everything went smoothly, the pasture is clearly beginning to recover from the abuse it suffered during my sabbatical absence nearly 3 years ago.

In the waning light, I did one last stint at cutting dock seed heads, to prevent them from scattering a whole new crop of seeds. They are starting to fill out and turn a deep reddish brown, so the window of opportunity is closing fast. We've already cleared nearly all the pasture, however--just the north part of the northwest paddock remains for this task.

It's a satisfying task in several ways. For one, each snip of the pruning shears yields a nice big stalk, and the basket fills up fast. Also, the stalks are very prominent, towering above the red clover even, and so progress is very obvious. And it's a good mindless excuse to wander aimlessly around the pasture, traversing most of it in the process, and really having a chance to see what's growing in each little area.

This particular field has bands of red clover, mostly. The soil there is a Eudora/Kimo complex, which has been described to me as subterannean "drifts" or "ridges" of more clayey soil with sandier soil leveling out the valley, so the surface is flat but the profile is varying layers. I'm curious if the clover marks a particular portion of the "complex".

I was delighted to notice a grassy newcomer to the plant community there--tall spidery plumes of florets delicately dangling pale stamens in the sunset glow, a foot above the other blooming grasses. I had despaired that any of the brome seed we painstakingly boradcast on that field winter-before-last had take root, but these flowers demonstrated a nice patch of it. I'll monitor the sheep's grazing and pull them out before they eat these stalks (not nearly as tasty as tender clover), so that this little bit of brome will increase itself. The leaves seem a bit lost among the dense stand of blugrass going to seed, but the bluegrass will be more resisgned in the heat of high summer, and give the brome a chance.

Meanwhile, the sheep were joyously grazing in the paddock next to where Iwas working, happy to be back on the red clover again. Since they've been off it a few days, I'm letting them work back onto it slowly by re-grazing some recently grazed strips that are growing back nicely. That way they'll work onto the tall, as-yet-ungrazed clover gradually, and not bloat or founder from the sudden change.

An odd sound tickled the edge of my awareness, nestled into the backdrop of city traffic noises. It happened several times before I became really conscious of it, and even then I didn't make the connection. So when I began to be curious about it, and looked up, it wasn't a startled look, or I wouldn't have seen anything but the closing of brush after something large had passed through.

The soft "whew"--an exhalation, more than a vocalization--came from the other side of the perimeter fence, in the wilderness area. My glance caught a large brown form shifting in the grass and shadows beyond, and as the sound came again I caught the silhouette of two huge ears and long muzzle, and the source of the sound suddenly registered.

A deer, snorting. The first deer I've ever actually seen on Pinwheel Farm land, though I've seen signs of them, and seen them at the neighbor's.

I squelched my excitement enough to calmly lower my head and pick a couple more stalks of dock. It instantly occurred to me that my movements were like that of a grazing animal, from one bit of food to the next, and that I was in close proximity to the sheep and they were obviously not afraid of me.

I decided to continue my grazing pantomime, and see whether the deer might be more curious than afraid. Monty Roberts, the "horse whisperer", tells of actually taming wild deer by communicating with their natural body language which is similar to that of horses.

I also began a kind of whistling that an old friend, R, used to use to "charm" deer when we were out driving in the country. He would softly whistle a series of slow, random, two-note sequences, some rasing, some lowering. Once when we were driving out into a farm field to fish in a neighbor's pond, he stopped the truck and actually whistled the deer right up to the truck, no more that 10 feet away, staring at us with intense curiousity, trying to figure out what we were.

I am exceedingly poor at whistling--can barely make a sound at all most of the time, and never a clear note (to my lifelong chagrin)--but this "deer whistling" is something I can approximate if I set my mind to it. The poverty of my whistling actually makes it even more reminiscent of the deer's wheezing snorts.

I whistled, and grazed, and gave sidelong glances in its direction. It moved around, clearly curious, puzzled, not quite alarmed but a little anxious. I zigged and zagged closer, slowly, clipping dock heads and adding them to the "bouquet" cradled in my arm. It watched me more than I watched it. Eventually it decided to turn tail and run off into the woods--but it did linger for quite awhile, and I was able to get within 75 feet of it.

I'm glad I didn't have the new camera with me--or the old one, for that matter. It's a picture that will have to develop in your own imagination: the head of a deer silhouetted against back-lit early summer trees, peering between two nearer trees silhouetted along the fence line. This is a case where pulling out a camera would have foreclosed on the wondrous sense of, for a few minutes, being allowed to be a member of the deer's world.

An honorary deer may graze with pruning shears, but pointing a camera would surely be turning a predator's eye on the scene.

2009-05-27T01:36:00.005-04:00

Here's a classic photo of the sheep returning from the pasture through the Torii. The thin one in the lead is our beloved 12-year-old Eider, a Very Wise Sheep known for her distinctive bass voice.

The Torii is in many ways one of the most permanent and unchanging elements of the farm. The seasons may coat it with rain or ice or snow, blast it with sun or buffet it with wind. It stands, growing ever so slightly grayer.

The trees bud and bloom in spring, flourish in summer, autumn leaves fall, branches shatter, roots give way and trees topple in storms. The Torii stands firm.

Fences are stretched by leaning livestock, sag in the hot sun, the posts lean in the soft soil...the Torii stands as straight as it was on Ross and Jeanne's wedding day, when it was erected as their processional arch.

Buildings decay, the temporary ones are moved, the permanent ones are remodeled. The Torii requires no maintenance, its Osage Orange posts will last a hundred years.

It truly sets aside a sacred space, connects the farm to a spiritual dimension of life to which no ordinary gate could lead.

It is a good place to dig graves for beloved pets, and to scatter ashes of beloved people. We will always know where their bones blend with the soil. It's hard to lose.

But to sheep, it is a nice solid thing to rub against, and a cool space among the willows to rest in the heat of the day.

Passing through it at mid-day, the lambs must jump as high as they can, just in case the dark shadow it casts on the ground is a cliff they must leap.

It is hard to believe, looking at this photo, that I-70 is just 1/4 mile beyond the trees in the middle, and the Juvenile Detention Center, a motel, and busy 4-lane North 2nd Street (Hwy 24/59) all lie just west of the trees on the left. 12 years of intensive carbon sequestration have paid off handsomely in screening our property from the hustle and bustle of modern "life". My kind of development plan, coming into fruition!

"Building" biological "structures" like these living, weather-control, sound-barrier, light-blocking walls of trees can be painstakingly slow on such a large scale, but it's exciting to realize that it WORKS! Of the 80 lights that could once be seen from here, only about 5 are still visible at night when the leaves are on the trees.

May Flowers, courtesy of April Showers

2009-05-25T23:51:00.002-04:00

My camera has been out of commission for a couple weeks, and I'm just getting going with a new one. Meanwhile, the garden is blooming!

Many of the blooms mean that the plants are bolting, which means they have traded in vegetative growth for reproduction, and in most cases that means the market crop is done. BUT many of the flowers are beautiful in the garden...edible in their own right, and eye catching on the market stand or in a salad...hosts for beneficial insects...and will produce seed that I can use for future plantings (or as a spice, in some cases like cilantro which produces coriander seed). What's not to like? There's arugula, overintered Bok Choy and Improved Siberian Kale, all varieties of radishes, tat soi, mizuna, cilantro, and peas.

And then there are the "weeds", in colorful (and in many cases edible) splendor. Dandelion, red clover, white clover, hairy vetch....

Now you can figure out which is which!

I dispair of ever figuring out how to actually LAY OUT a page of photos in Blogger, or put in captions. Sorry for the randomness.

Ant Farmers, Aphid Farms

2009-05-15T22:35:00.003-04:00

Sometimes I think we are ant farmers more than anything else--they certainly seem to comprise the largest population of "livestock" on the farm, by sheer number of individuals. They make a vital contribution to the health and well-being of the farm by constantly building aeration and drainage structures. They clean up weed seeds and dead insects and all sorts of stuff.

But THEY are farmers, too. Or maybe ranchers or dairy operators would be more specific.

Many folks are familiar with the phenomenon of ants "farming" aphids. The ants feed on the "honeydew" secreted by the aphids as the aphids feed on the host plants. In turn, they manage and protect the aphids. It's an interesting relationship, but not so happy for the vegetable farmer if the host plant happens to be a valuable crop.

In the past couple years, I've become aware of a new aspect of ants "farming" aphids that I had not realized, perhaps because I don't spend a lot of time pulling dandelions. The sheep eat them out of the yard and pasture, and I tend to tolerate the few that grow in the garden. But the garden population has increased in the past few years, and we have a real bumper crop this spring. That's not all a bad thing, since they are a nutritious and tasty salad green or cooked vegetable when expertly selected--a skill I've been honing for years.

But today, I had to pull a bunch out of a fallow bed where I wanted to put in some perennial herbs. Several of them had ant hills around them--our classic small golden-red ants. When I pulled those dandelions, the long tap roots--some over a foot long--came up easily due to the loose soil of the ant nests. And those roots were covered with white specks--aphids, growing underground on the dandelion roots, up to 5 or 6 inches below the soil surface. With ants tending them.

No hard science here, but it sure looks to me like the ants have created artificial underground living space for the aphids, where temperatures and other conditions are more constant than above ground, and the aphids (and their keepers) are protected from predators, wind, rain, etc. Sort of a CAFO (Confined Animal Feeding Operation--i.e., feedlot) for aphids. Without the drainage and aeration provided by the ants, the root zone would be inhospitable for the aphids. The roots provide all the food the aphids need.

I think I've seen these ant-run "aphid farms" on other plant roots, but not very often and not at this early season. That makes sense--the dandelion certainly stores a lot of nutrients in its roots, and pushes up leaves to replenish those stores early in the spring.

Needless to say, the dandelions seem to be unperterbed by their status as feed supplier to these extensive underground CAFOs. It actually looks like an incredibly sustainable farming system. I'll be watching and pondering this phenomenon more closely, looking for the lessons it has to teach us about making our own farming more sustainable.

Many mantids

2009-05-15T00:46:00.002-04:00

Housecleaning is not a high priority this time of year, to say the least. With the rainy spring we've had, the entryway has been a constant repository of barn and garden mud, along with boots, shoes, wet socks, dripping raincoats, buckets of tools that ran in from the rain with us, etc.

Over the past 12 years of farming, I've learned to turn a blind eye to dirt, when I'm on a mission, which is just about every time I go through the entryway. OK, OK, you're right, I'm ALWAYS on a mission of some sort. So since I don't just hang out in the entry way, I definitely don't pay attention to the dirt building up on the floor.

Unless it bleeds--like the time a friend's dog transported a million tiny seed ticks to the house, which promptly fell off and crawled s-l-o-w-l-y all over the floor, looking like little dirt specks until you stepped on them. Then the engorged little monsters popped like water balloons, leaving a trail of bloody spots across the white floor wherever a foot landed. One GOOD reason for a farmhouse to have white floors. On dark speckled floors, we would never have noticed the hoard of ticks until they hatched out a size larger in a few months, and devoured us in the middle of the night. What a horrible thought! A vacuum cleaner and mop took care of the problem, though that episode still gives me the heeby-jeebies.

Or when the little bits of grass clippings start walking, as they did tonight. HUH?

Apparently some bucket or pocket held a praying mantis egg case. I often find them (probaby a dozen or more just this spring in the garden) when I'm cutting down dead weeds in winter. They seem to like Lambsquarters, but will nest on trees, fence posts, or anything else. If the area where I find them is liable to get trodden a lot, or otherwise disturbed, I take them to safety elsewhere. This often means the barn, since I really never quite know where I want them. Thus the lambsuqarter patch in the barn is now home to dozens of tiny mantises.

On closer examination, the moving grass clippings were actually tiny mantises. I tried to get a photo, but my ancient digital camera seems to be dying a slow and painful death. I'm not sure it would have magnified them enough, anyhow. They are shaped exactly like the adults, but without developed wings, and only 1/2 inch long. Very, very cute.

But liable to starve in the entry way, not to mention being in grave danger of boots, shoes, wet socks, dripping raincoats, buckets of tools, etc.

Obviously they must go outdoors. But how? Watching the beekeeper move the swarm gave me a clue--I got the broom and dustpan and swept them up. They scurried around on the dustpan unharmed. When I tried to just pick one up in my fingers, I couldn't--they were so tiny and active.

These are the large triangular egg cases. There are also less common (or better hidden) oblong cases that are much smaller. Hopefully someday I'll be able to identify the cases and the mantises by name.

Bird and Snake, 2009

2009-05-10T01:26:00.003-04:00

We found the two baby wrens--they WERE still in the bag of wool, buried deep down, miraculously dry after several intense thunder storms pouring on the bag that had been casually thrown out the door to clean for the Soil Quality Workshop. We found them by following the cheeping. They seemed unconcerned to be rousted out of the bottom of the sack and exposed. They are each about the size of an English walnut--so tiny! We arranged the top of the sack to shed rain yet allow the parents to enter. I later saw them duck into the pile, unconcerned by our meddling. Wrens are much more tolerant of human neighbors than other birds.

While we were cleaning, we also found a black rat snake that was preparing to shed its skin--it was coiled under some other bags of waste wool, with milky eyes. We just left those bags in place and put something on top of them so that no one would disturb them. Moulting, the snake is likely to not go very far.

How lucky for the baby wrens that the snake was in a different wool pile! J. found a black snake with "lumps" in the hens' nest box the other day. The hens are laying better, but we have to check for eggs frequently in order to get them for ourselves.

Glimpses of Spring

2009-05-06T00:48:00.002-04:00

The first firefliy of the season was sighted a few days ago, right on schedule compared to last year.

A wren built a nest in a bag of waste wool in the barn. We think the dog tore it all up, but a wren is carrying worms to some cheeping thing hidden somewhere near the tool shed, according to J and A.

I watched a thrush on a dead branch near the garden for a while this morning. S/he watched me squatting in the garden.

We put seeds in the ground and less than a week later they are up. Of course, the weeds are growing just as fast...likewise the grass. But we are actually getting the upper hand here, and the garden looks WAY better than ever before. Planting marches on, several beds a day.

We clipped the feathers on the hens' wings tonight, because one hen (the white one with reddish blush on her breast) keeps jumping up on top of the shed and then working her way onto the top of the fence and flying out into the garden. From past experience, this probably means either the sun is beating too fiercely into their little shed in the morning, or she is trying to hide a nest to hatch somewhere. But we certainly don't want her in the garden! J and A put up a shade cloth over the front of the chicken house.

A friend offered for us to dig wild gooseberry bushes in his woods, and J (who LOVES gooseberries) went and dug with a passion. We now have a 75 foot row of gooseberry bushes! We have assured J that we will airmail gooseberries to him next year if his Master's program keeps him in the East. Gooseberries should ship well.

But--the special mulberry tree behind the brooder house is loaded with tiny green mulberries, getting bigger each day, and J is looking forward to picking them. We'll get him hooked on those, and he'll HAVE to come back--they are so fragile, shipping would be out of the question.

It's a bountiful year for 4- and 5-leaf clovers, all over the farm. A hint of 2-4-D in the air, perhaps? Or just an odd season? Someone at Farmer's Market said they had been finding an unusual number, as well. It has been a bumper crop year for dandelions everywhere, too.

Someone commented that their carrots weren't germinating well. I noted that the volunteer carrots from last year's carrot flowers were just starting to come up. When I mentioned this to another Farmer's Market friend, he said that he'd talked to a fellow market gardener who had been monitoring soil temperature. Between late winter and mid-April, the soil temperature actually DROPPED 5 degrees due to a string of cold nights. Other growers have commented that things are generally 2 weeks behind.

No June bugs yet, at least...when I searched the blog for last year's firefly date, I noticed that we'd had june bugs in April. I did find two Colorado Potato Beetles today, though--hopefully not a sign of things to come.

Several of the praying mantis egg cases on the desk in the barn have hatched recently, since the barn is a good bit warmer than outside. It is always fun to see the tiny babies scurrying around. Not sure why, but they remind me of baby guppies.

And so forth. It's the season at the farm where just a moment of stepping outside on a softly drizzling evening, or a market morning at dawn when the birds are just plumb shouting, is somehow worth everything.

Someone said the other day, "It's Eden!" as they looked around at the green grove that had sprung into lovely leafiness in just a week. And so it is...at least a glimpse of Eden.

Same Song, Second Verse

2009-04-30T02:40:00.002-04:00

And what a lovely, lilting, luscious song it is! The joyous rising of new green from earth, a concert of many voices!

We--AP, JK, and I--have been working steadily, and making great progress at getting spring planting in despite the rain. We console ourselves that though we wish we'd gotten more done sooner (like before they arrived!), we're getting a lot more planted than most folks are right now, with all this rain. With our perfect soil and hand tillage, we can plant very soon after a rain and not ruin the soil or bog down in mud. Heavenly!

So the garden is sprouting forth profusely with all colors of lettuce, kale, spinach, peas, Asian greens, radishes, etc.

But there's more--there's crops we haven't planted yet, already coming up.

Huh?

My favorite variety of any crop: volunteers! Potatoes and Jerusalem artichokes left in the ground last fall are sprouting up to grow a new crop with no help from us. And in a couple beds where carrots from year-before-last went to seed last summer, bright green ferny foliage is popping up all of a sudden.

We encourage these volunteers. For one thing, they give us our first crop for some vegetables, like potatoes. I don't plant potatoes until I see the volunteers sprout--then I know that growing conditions are ideal, and don't plant so early that the seed pieces rot. This year we'll have Pink Wink, Kerr's Pink, and several other varieties.

Yes, the volunteer potatoes are in the lettuce and onion beds. That's ok. Since we harvest by hand, we'll just work around them. They are important: the plants that are hardiest, store well in the ground all winter, are healthy and disease resistant. The Kerr's Pink really looks like an entire bed--lots of sprouts, since we never did a final dig on that bed after several "rummaging" harvests. Pink Wink is doubly precious since the variety has never been in our seed supplier's atalog--it was sent to us as a substitute for something that was sold out, and was an instant favorite at Farmer's Market. One overwintered tuber stewarded this variety when we learned that we could not get it from the grower, even when we asked for it by name. We've now had it 4 years.

The carrots are in unplanted beds, so we'll just work around them--a little awkward, but again, we want to encourage the strains that require little fussing, and these that seed themselves are best adapted to our conditions. The plants would have had to winter over in order to bloom and set seed, since carrots are biennial.

There will be more volunteers in a few weeks, when the soil is warm enough for the tomato volunteers to germinate. These aren't always true to type, since some were from hybrid parents, but we often find some fun "off" types if we let them grow out.

There are also "strays"--seeds that didn't germinate last year, but decided to grow this year instead. A lone lettuce, a single elegant Red Russian kale. We'll probably transplant these to some odd corner, so we can plant those beds unimpeded.

And then there's things seeding--overwintered radishes, bok choi, arugula, tat soi, turnips from ones that grew from overwintered bulbs winter before last. The seed-saving bug seems to have bitten.....

Best of all, though, is all the wonderful wild edibles. Each year we get to know new ones, and learn to use and appreciate them. Dandelions, lambsquarters, chickweed, garlic mustard, violet, and more--welcome easy salad mix!

Do you hear a faint hum? That might be me purring with contented pleasure in the abundance of the spring garden.

Raindrops Keep Falling....

2009-04-27T00:36:00.002-04:00

Rain and more rain, last week, yesterday, tonight. Tornado sirens sounded over and over last evening, while I was at work--answering beyond the shadow of a doubt J's question of qhether he would be able to hear the sirens from the farm. (The siren tower is visible from the garden, barely showing above the trees.)

So one of tonight's adventures was going up on the roof to clean the gutters, so that hopefully rain will stop leaking into the entryroom ceiling and thence onto the floor. Maybe it's a carryover from sailing as a child--I love going up on the roof in the rain and wind; being out in the elements, up in the air; seeing the reflected lightening flashes glistening off the sheet of water covering most of the farm. As close as I'll get to seafaring on the farm.

Speaking of love, I love Goretex. I came in after about 1/2 hour outside in the downpour, with only one wet sleeve where I had my hand up the downspout when the clog broke through....

One of my tasks was to trek out to put the rams back in their pen, after grazing on an odd corner of future garden.

And then there was caring for the bees. When we walked out to the Torii mid-afternoon, as we approached the sheep pen area, I thought someone had thrown a bulky brown sweater over the red side gate down the lane. How odd--I couldn't think of anyone who had been out that way for awhile. As I walked nearer, I realized it was moving more than a sweater ought to move. It was--writhing?!? It was, in fact, a swarm of honeybees draped over the gate and post.

I called and left a message for the beekeeper, but never heard back from him. As I drove home from an evening meeting across town, suddenly I thought of the bees on the gate--the intense, inescapeable thought that I needed to go provide them with shelter on this stormy night. I've found that when I am near the hives, I seem to sense what they are feeling--generally an infectious, boundless, bubbling, contented joy. There is a certain "voice" to the the wordless sense they seem to be conveying to me, one that is very different from the "voice" the sheep use to psychically remind me they are out of some necessary feedstuff. It was unusual to hear it so clearly from so far away.

When I got home, I mentioned this to J. and A. They pretty well had my head convinced that bees would have sensed the storm moving in, and better shelter than the fence post. But my "gut feeling" kept saying they were still there, and would appreciate cover.

So along with my other rescue efforts--the rams, the roof--I took a bucket and put it upside down over the post. Then I draped a piece of shade cloth over it. The swarm had consolidated since the afternoon, and instead of each insect moving at random, now each bee was carefully aligned, motionless, with its head pointing up, arranged like shingles. They didn't move at all when I put the bucket over them. Probably it squashed the bees on the very top of the post, but that's life, to a bee. They give up their lives at random, whether it's due to an accident or deliberate murder.

Why did we walk out to the Torii in the first place? To scatter some of Dad's parents' ashes there. My sister from New Mexico was visiting, for the first time in years, and had brought the remains with her from my uncle. So Mom and Dad and G. and I had a simple, straightforward, impromptu ceremony at the place on the farm where the very most special creatures are returned to earth. Me, too, someday, I hope.

G. quoted a poem that we had all memorized when we were children, just because we liked it. It's by WWII poet Don Blanding, from his book Pilot Bails Out. I had entirely forgotten it, but as G. spoke the first few words it came rushing back.

Here marks the place where a good friend stood
And did the things that he said he would.
Scattered my ashes, the wind diffused them--
But while they were me, God knows I used 'em.

My atheist Grandfather would have appreciated the casualness of this event, just as he would have appreciated that my sister drove through the town where they had lived for years on her way here with the ashes. They loved to travel.

They died many years ago--soon after I first moved to Lawrence. So it was not a ceremony of loss or grief, but of simple remembering. There is probably no one reading this who knew them, except my parents. But just as some newspaper somewhere probably reported the fact of their death, it seems appropriate to record the dispersion of their ashes--some to the wind, and some buried in the living soil of the farm they never saw, but which they would have loved to visit.

Good, Clean Fun

2009-04-24T00:17:00.002-04:00

Today marks A's 2-week anniversary here. She and L, her 2 1/2 year old daughter, moved here to learn about living with sheep--a learning experience now officially called Sheep Boot Camp.

It is a truly a joy to live and work with someone who is enthusiastic, hard-working, intelligent, a quick learner, and good-natured. We know there my be some lumps and bumps along the way, but we're off to a great start, with good, relaxed communication.

So after a long, intense day recently, we relaxed in the comfy chairs in the living room for a little while. Somehow in the course of conversation, a commonplace "cuss word" slipped into an exclamation she made, as we were swapping vignettes from our lives.

"SORRY" she said, clearly embarrassed and afraid she's offended me. "I'll be more careful."

We had had a long chat earlier about her frequent apologies and use of the word "sorry," and we'd come up with some more positive acknowledgements that she hadn't lived up to her expectations of herself.

"You mean, 'we're learning'?" I prompted.

"Yeah." She laughed at herself for continuing to exercise the long-ingrained habit. We smiled at each other. We laughed together at ourselves. Laughing felt good.

People always assume that because I'm obviously Christian, I'm offended by strong language. Actually, I'm pretty $%^& fluent in "French", myself--having hung out with construction workers quite a bit in my younger days.

"Not a big deal," I replied, amused. I began, at a leisurely pace, to explain my attitude towards language.

"It isn't particular words, it's how they're used. They're just sounds, after all. The intent is what really matters, to me. If you are intending to use words to shock or hurt or offend me, then I don't like that. But if it's just the language you use, no big deal. I can understand it well enough to translate into language I would prefer, in my head. "G--D---M-----F-----" is just another way of saying "I smacked my thumb with the hammer and it really, really hurts. Why would that offend me?

"I used to have a really foul mouth myself, but I don't use those words much any more just because I've gotten out of the habit. I don't even try to not say them. I just try to really THINK about what I say, about the words I use. About what they really mean. Do they really express what I'm feeling? I mean, like, what the "sex" am I really trying to say?"

She started giggling again.

I continued, "So I try to figure out what I really mean and say that. I've learned to be much more creative and specific. When you stop to think about it, most foul language is really just laziness--not taking the time to figure out what we're really feeling, and not taking the time to find the exact right words to clearly express it."

"You're right," she said. A thoughtful pause. "I do want to clean up my language, because of L. I don't want her learning to use those words. I hadn't thought about the meanings. I just usually try to substitute a word."

"You mean like saying...hm...like..."Clorox" instead of the f-word?" It just sort of popped out of my mouth, without thinking it through. But the connections started forming as soon as the word was out. There was no going back.

Now we're really laughing! Part of the day's learning and labor was extensive details on sanitation procedures for the equipment we use in post-harvest handling of the produce we grow for Lawrence Memorial Hospital. Bleach plays a starring role in that process, so it was right there in recent memory in our tired minds.

"It's pretty much got the right sounds..." I went on, laughing harder. A. was doubling up.

"Oh, Clorox!" one of us declared, trying it out. We rolled.

"...and no one will need to have their mouth washed out with soap!" We were howling, gasping, wiping tears of laughter from our eyes...and then doing it all over again.

I can't remember when the last time was that I laughed so hard. It made me aware of something that has been missing from my life for longer than I can think: The sort of intelligent, clever silliness that hurts no one except the pain of laughing until there's a stitch in your side. Humor that isn't hurtful or insulting or belittling to anyone, whether present or not--stereotype-free, non-rascist, gender-neutral, non-lewd humor. Playfullness that is appropriate, harmless, not carried to excess. A welcome release of the last residue of tension at the end of a good, but long, day. It's a kind of humor that grows out of working together well.

Good, clean fun...like Clorox.

Taylor's Tale, continued

2009-04-19T01:47:00.002-04:00

I'm happy to report that Taylor, who nearly died of hypocalcemia, surprised us with triplets a few days ago! Everyone is doing well so far.

What Next?

2009-04-18T22:48:00.003-04:00

When I got home from work, all was quiet in the front pen which holds many of the ewes and lambs. After putting down my things in the house, I changed clothes and went out just to see if one of the few remaining un-lambed ewes was in labor yet.

She was chewing her cud in the shed, so I strolled around and looked at lambs. They all stood up and ran to their moms and started nursing, as they generally do at this age. The process actually is much less straightforward than that--sheep are rather indirect in many of their behaviors.

But then there was Farrah, wandering around searching and baaahing. I wandered around looking at all the lambs, and didn't see hers anywhere.

I looked and looked. Eventually, I went to where she was baaaaahing, near the remains of the big round hay bale (please, please tell me it was not just this morning that we put them in on that bale!!!!). I realized the top had toppled over as the sheep had eaten out the base first...and sure enough there were two black hind legs sticking out on the side where Farrah was.

I pulled on the legs, as I pulled on this lamb when it was born a couple days ago. It was a huge lamb, a small yearling ewe, and one front leg was folded under with the knee snagged on her pelvic bone.

The hay bale had the little lamb very firmly pinned, but it was certainly still alive and kicking. Not for long, with that weight of hay on top...and the fine crumbles of alfalfa mingled in every breath through the little nose trapped beneath.

There was NO way I could lift the bale remains--surely several hundred pounds. Tearing it off with a hay fork would take too long--seconds might count here--endanger the lamb to stab wounds from the fork, and would waste some of the precious hay.

Fortunately I realized that even though the hay above the lamb was immovable, the hay it was laying on was disorganized, half-eaten waste hay. I started pulling it out by the handful, and within a few minutes I had the lamb loose.

It was sneezing and its nose running, but seemed to be ok. Hopefully it didn't get too much alfalfa in its lungs; if so, pneumonia could result.

This seems to be the year of miracle recues and recoveries, which is a good thing. But I'm still looking for that elusive totally boring year, with no adventures.

Be careful what you wish for...

2009-04-18T00:32:00.002-04:00

After two years with strung-out lambing seasons--a few weeks of intense lambing, then a lull, then another few intense weeks--I vowed to get lambing done quickly this year. I only left the rams in for about 6 weeks, then separated them again. The ewes cycle into heat about every 2-3 weeks, so that should have given them plenty of time to "settle".

Well, we started lambing the 7th, and ten days later we have 28 lambs on the ground, at last count! There are two mature ewes and three ewe lambs left to go, and the two ewes will probably be soon. One ewe lamb is clearly bred--starting to develop a small udder--but the other two could be either plump or pregnant. They aren't showing any udder development yet. But, they have all been very attentive to each ewe as she lambs, which I've found is characteristic of young ewes pregnant with their first lambs. Those that aren't pregnant generally are off playing "king of the mountain" or something--they just aren't interested in maternal stuff.

We've had a few singles that I hoped would be twins (Ewedora and Annie, lambing for the first time at age 2), but those have been balanced by four sets of triplets. We are currently at a 200% live lambing rate for ALL ewes that have lambed, not just the mature ewes!

We've assisted one birth--a first-time mom with a HUGE lamb that came out with one front foot tucked under his belly. Instead of trying to push him back in to straighten the leg, I was able to catch the back of the knee with a finger and unhook it from under the pelvic bones where it was catching. A little more traction, and she pushed him right out. She didn't want much to do with him at first, but we tied her nearby for awhile and eventually she settled down. Now she stomps her foot defensively at anyone who comes near her beloved baby!

We lost one tiny triplet (there may have been an internal defect of some sort); we nursed one through a bad bout of hypothermia and diarrhea; and we're supplementing one set with milk replacer in a teat bucket, but really we've had very few problems and the lambs are healthy and active now.

It's a striking bunch of lambs this year. Lots of black ones with white faces and feet again. And we have one lamb--named Fancy--who is black with striking white lines doodled all over his body.

Barn Check, 2009-4-9, 8:30 a.m.

2009-04-09T09:54:00.002-04:00

This morning's tally: 5 rams, 2 ewes.

Footer was doting over fine big white twins, a ewe and a ram, when I went out, with the placenta neatly deposited nearby. Generally they are strung out in long strings, as the ewe moves around, but I'm guessing the lambs were both suckling and she just stood in one place and passed it.

Perfle's trio is still extremely vocal. We tube fed them twice yesterday, usingcolostrom from the ewes with singles. That also gave me a chance to assess the milking qualities of the two first-time lambers. Both produced lots of colostrum--I easily milked 12 oz out of each, leaving lots behind for their own lambs. I tube fed each of Perfle's lambs about 4 oz. around noon, and another4 oz. at night. Though the largest seems to generally have a full tummy, I tubed all three with each ewe's colostrum so that he wouldn't smell different from the others getting colostrum from different ewes. He's already bigger and firstborn, he doesn't need the advantage of smelling more like Mom as well.

Eudora stood like an old pro once I got her tied up (neck collar and lead rope, then pinned against the fence with my body as I milked with one hand and held the cup with the other). It's an amazing transformation from the brat she's been to handle up to now. Some ewes really go through a personality change at lambing, generally for the better. Annie did not; she fought the whole time. But she was handled less as a lamb than Ewedora was, and it seemed like she was fighting the restraint more than the messing about with her udder. I'll try again today, and see if she settles down. I learned when milking the flock a few years ago that it generally takes about three days for ewes to calm down and settle into the routine, so I won't make any snap judgements about personality here.

But both have very nice udder and teat confirmation, and were very easy to express milk from (getting it to stay in the cup was another matter, in Annie's case). If I never milk for human consumption again, this feature alone makes it worthwhile to have the dairy genetics--ewes with extra teats, very small teats, very thin streams, etc. can be hard to express colostrum from.

So all is well this morning. Looking forward to seeing what this day of the full moon day brings!

Barn Check, 2009-4-8, 8:30 a.m.

2009-04-08T09:33:00.002-04:00

Yesterday I was getting in the car to go to work, and--lo! and behold!--Ewedora was calmly mothering her first ever lamb--the first of our lambing season. Not wanting to "call in" to work unless absolutely necessary, I did a quick check to see that nothing else seemed to be going on, observed the lamb was already up and suckling contentedly, judged the weather as mild and stable, called to warn my chore person, and zipped off to work, avoiding a "tardy" point with mere seconds to spare.

When I got home nine hours later, Annie, my other ewe lambing for the first time at age 2, had the classic "two toes and a nose" presenting--clearly black with a broad white blaze. A couple hours later, things had not progressed, the tongue was protruding from the lamb's mouth with a distressed appearance, and I decided to intervene. Annie isn't that big, and the lamb looked larger than average (at over 12 lbs, he turned out large enough for 2 viable lambs). So I applied some traction to the little hooves, and suddenly the big lamb was on the ground--black with white lines scribbled all over! I've never seen a lamb marked this way, but I sure like it. I don't think this boy has any Suffolk heritage, so he'll likely keep these markings. His wool is silky ringlets, one of my breeding objectives. So, he may live to sire future generations here or at another farm.

But Annie wasn't so sure about what had happened--clearly a result of long, ineffective labor and my intervention. She didn't even try to sniff at the lamb, just walked away.

Catching her was evidently out of the question, short of running the whole waddling flock up to the barn. That would just be more confusion and more stress on the bonding. So I decided to clean off his nose, step back, and watch and wait.

Other ewes, esp. the yearlings, came curiously up to sniff him. So did Freckleface. Annie had second thoughts, and joined them in checking him out. They backed off, and Annie stayed around, though still not mothering him. I decided to just go away for awhile and give her time to figure it out on her own.

When I came back, Perfle was clearly laboring, with meconium-stained mucous streaming down the back of her huge udder. Everyone else was bedding down on the north end of the pen, but Annie was near her lamb and so was Perfle. Whenever Perfle wasn't laying down straining, she was up trying to mother Annie's lamb. Annie seemed to be concerned about this, but not very assertive about the older, bigger ewe's intrusion.

My preference would have been to "jug" Annie wtih her lamb, to make sure they bonded properly and keep Perfle from interfering. But the best way to move a new mom is to move her lamb, and she will follow along--and Annie wasn't bonded enough to her lamb for this to work. She was also pretty wild, and would have been difficult to catch.

So I decided to move Perfle, instead. Did she want to leave Annie's lamb? Noooooo.... Did she want to follow meekly on a collar and lead rope? Noooooo.... Would she budge with the improved leverage of the lead rope arranged as a "butt rope" (clipped on the far side of the collar from me, leadng back along her side and around the back between rump and hocks, held in one hand to pull her forward while guiding with the other hand on her collar--this minimized the choking action that comes with just trying to drag her by the collar, and gets me behind her where she is likely to try to move away from me in the direction I want her to go)? Noooooo....

Bribery? Aha! The old reliable tool in every shepherd's toolbox--"greener pasture in a bowl". It doesn't matter what it is, just so it's better than what she's got. A dish of alfalfa pellets got her attention...sort of. I put it in the "lamb taxi" (a laundry basket with a baling twine tow rope, used to keep new lambs visible to mom while moving them from one place to another--twins and triplets can be a real handful, esp. if you have to stop and undo gates, and you have to move everyone at once to get mom to follow) and dragged it in front of Perfle, while using the lead rope and collar to keep her from changing her mind.

Eventually Perfle was installed in the barn, and I ignored her for awhile to erect the panels of the lambing jugs in the north end of the barn. Ewedora was easily installed in her jug; the three special-diet barn ewes (geriatric Eider and Cleo, and raised-from-the-near-dead Taylor) were shut in the sort pen--with everything already pretty much on hand and ready to go, it didn't take long to convert the shearing shed to a lambing barn.

Back to check on Annie, after a break and a snack. She seems to be really hanging close to the little guy now, and everyone else is bedded down at the opposite end of the pen.

Back to check on Perfle. She heaved out one nice big white ram lamb and then another in short order. She still seemed huge, but some of the older girls are pretty saggy. The membranes hanging from her vulva had the look I've learned means "nothing but placenta left." She nickered and licked, and when I came out later to put on navel clamps (instead of 7% iodine, since the War on Drugs has deprived shepherds of their most reliable defense against navel ill) and jot down birth weights, the boys were up and looking for the teat.

By then it was about 1:30 a.m., and I called it a day...or night...or job well done (not that I did the hard part). Four healthy, active, mothered lambs after barely over 13 hours of lambing season. ALL of them rams!

But--this morning when I went out to the barn, a little black ewe was curled up with Perfle and the white rams! She has a white cap on her head, and the curliest coal black fleece to date.

A good beginning to my favorite season of the year--lambing! I took the day off work today, to finish getting things in order for the rest of lambing season...orient a new housemate/farm assistant who will be the chief lamb watcher while I'm at work...prepare for the first day of Farmer's Market coming up this Saturday...

Finally it really feels like dependable spring, after a last (we hope!) solid freeze a few days ago.

Those who are close enough are welcome to make arrangements to come view lambs.

A Long and Winding Road to Recovery

2009-04-02T00:54:00.003-04:00

Monday morning Taylor was "down" again, though not as far down as she'd been on Sunday.

Bummer. I've learned that if the first miracle doesn't "take", subsequent miracles are less likely, so I was pretty discouraged.

Apprentice JR was here, so it was a good opportunity for her to help work through a semi-crisis problem-solving situation. First we dosed Taylor immediately with more NutriDrench (time to order a new bottle so we have plenty on hand for lambing). Then we called the vet. It was 11:15 by the time he was out of surgery...just 1 hour before I had to leave for work.

The vet said to dose her with the calcium gluconate again, followed with oral calcium paste. This time the feed store was open, so we quickly drove out and got more calcium gluconate, 60 cc syringes, more needles, and the calcium paste. JR filled one syringe while I was injecting the other. I quickly dosed her with Pen-G (in case of internal infection, if any of my injections had gone astray) per the vet's directions, and gave her a shot of Vitamin B which helps stimulate the appetite. I managed to get to work less than 15 minutes late!

One dilemma was that the calcium paste came in tubes like caulk. How were we supposed to dispense it? The applicator hinted at on the label was not evident in the store.

It KIND of looked like a caulk gun would work, but I had my doubts on the exact size. The clerk didn't know. The guy in the back said, yeah, a caulk gun will work....but....

Sure enough, it's a bit narrower and longer than a standard caulk cartridge. I handed that challenge over to JR to solve, since she offered to come back in the afternoon and check on the ewe and dose her with calcium paste then. She called the vet for an exact dosage, calculated what fraction of a tube would give that dosage and used a ruler to demarcate the tube. She was able to press the end of the tube with some handy small object, and get the paste into another syringe to adminster it by mouth. Not easy, because it was pretty thick and sticky. Today she mixed it with some water and dried molasses ("just a spoon full of sugar....!"), and things went much better.

When she got there in the afternoon, Taylor was somewhat better, but still down. She eagerly guzzled some water and munched on alfalfa pellets, and reluctantly swallowed the calcium.

And about a half hour later, she suddenly grew entirely non-responsive again. JR was baffled, but there wasn't much to be done.

When JR came back later, Taylor was MUCH better again, though not on her feet. My guess is that her blood went rushing to her stomach after the big meal, leaving her drowsy like we feel after a big Thanksgiving dinner.

When I got home, Taylor lumbered to her feet, and has pretty much been on her feet ever since. She's steadily improving, but is significantly lame in the left hind quarter (near the injection site for the calcium gluconate). I'm guessing either she's really sore from all the injections, or I got too close to her haunch when giving oneof them. With her collapsed on the ground, and huge with lambs, it was really hard to figure out where the "hollow" of the flank was, to give the inections there.

Today she was moving around and lively enough that I turned her in with Eider and Cleo, whom I've had in the barn to get extra feed in the form of alfalfa pellets. Eider's teeth are so bad I don't think she can eat enough hay to get enough nutrients, at this stage. Cleo's old and a bit skinnier than I'd like for lambing, also.

I even turned them out into the west margin lane to graze a little bit. I figured that would encourage Taylor to move around some more. Whatever is wrong with the leg will be hopefully be helped with gentle exercise (physical therapy), and fresh greens are a nice treat after a miserable weekend.

The other ewes are growing larger by the day, both bellies and udders. It's hard to believe that they aren't due for another 2 weeks. I'll be getting the barn ready for lambs sooner than that, and watching closely, just in case they start a bit early. I can barely wait...though it would be nice to get a bunch more garden planted before the darling little distractions arrive.

Postscript: Girls at War

2009-03-30T02:39:00.002-04:00

I haven't really tried to figure out who won. As a matter of fact, I forgot about the rivalry...it really doesn't make a lot of difference who the matriarch is, for my work.

But maybe it does.

And maybe the girls settled the question in an unusual way.

When I ran the main flock of ewes up to the front pen, so that I could examine and treat Taylor without having the rest of the flock trying to "help" me, they all ran willingly up to the front pen, where I'd just unwrapped a fresh bale of alfalfa. That is, all but two.

Perfle and Faith BOTH stayed behind in the barn, standing near Taylor, clearly concerned about the situation. I tried to drive them off, but they kept circling back around to Taylor, and standing there with their noses a few inches apart, near the ground, a few feet away from her.

I'd love to know what they were thinking. Were they offering encouragement? Saying good-bye? Trying to diagnose her? Giving her Reiki treatments? I wouldn't put it past sheep to have a highly evolved system of energy-based healing arts.

When they both turned and gave me a level stare, in unison, (actually almost a glare) after our third lap around the pen, I gave up for the time being, and walked away for a few minutes. When I returned, they had run up to the front pen to join the rest of the flock.

I wonder whether they have settled down to be President and Vice-president working together as a team, or are they equal co-clerks in a more egalitarian society? At any rate, it was interesting that these two apparent leaders were the ones that turned back to aid the fallen ewe.