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.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Grammar Lesson
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....
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....
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Upcoming Event: Sheep Shearing Fall 2009
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.
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.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Happy Purr, Tired Purr
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.
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'
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....
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...
......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.
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
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.
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.
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