Sylvia's Farm (16 page)

The rain has stopped again, but a fierce wind blows low to the ground. My son is here to help me, and Don Roberts is addressing the leaks in the house roof. Things are moving very fast all of a sudden and for the better. I've begun to drive myself. A little faster. A little harder. I'm not afraid of the winter this year, no more than I am afraid of the drought. Nor much of anything.

I went up the side hill with the trapper yesterday in order to see where he set traps to catch the coyotes. He is a careful man, deliberate and intelligent. I hadn't said whether or not I wanted to see the dead pregnant ewe. She was one of my firstborn Dorset girls. He went on a bit ahead of me. “Don't come any farther,” he said. “You don't want to see it.” I didn't. The coyotes had killed it and didn't eat it. The birds had gotten to it some.

I've watched the profit from the farm spilled onto the ground during a summer's drought. I've seen the winter's hay fed out and the lifeblood of the farm spilled out on the ground by coyotes on the attack. I've seen the summer's most beautiful days spell hardship for us all.

T
HE SEARCH
for information on planting the root crop mangels, sometimes called mangel-würzels, and subdivided into classifications called Mammoth Red and Golden Tankard, has led me across an ocean as well as caused me to write numerous letters and badger countless extension agents. It was to my great joy that I found, at last, two shepherds at the Royal Agricultural Show in England who fed mangel-würzels to their sheep. They gave me planting information and argued between themselves, to my edification and education, about the relative merits of each type.

This morning's mail brought me a fall catalog from Smith and Hawkin. I'd bought a pair of barn shoes from them once but nothing else; they are a bit too precious for this farm. The covers are too pretty, however, for me to tell them to stop sending the catalog. As I looked through it, hopefully, finding nothing to covet, suddenly there it was. The barn thermometer of my wildest dreams! With a picture from a French seed packet of a smiling Gallic farmer, red cheeked, stout, holding a formidable mangel under each arm. The Mammoth Red under the right and a Golden Tankard under the left. I want that thermometer. And I want those seeds. Having tracked them down across this continent and the adjacent ocean, the mangels have come to me. It has taken too long. I've wanted and needed to extend my ability to feed my stock for a very long time now. I've deliberated about planting Jerusalem artichokes and
mangels and kale for a number of years. My whole-farm planner, Dan Flaherty, has tried to shy me away from annuals, and while I understand that, it is tempting to try anyway.

For what seems like eons, I've wanted a farm stand as well. This year, my tomato investment died because I had to earn some mortgage money away from home and couldn't keep up with the watering. The leeks survived, however, and are beginning to look good. I don't want to sell them all, though, as they are almost all that I have from the garden. But hope reigns high at the moment, and I am thinking once more of what to plant next year.

It is barn-shoveling time now, and I'm going to have to put it all somewhere. Why not move it a little farther in the pasture and pile it on an ideal section of field to begin to decompose? I've also wanted to do the big fluted dark orange pumpkins for a very long time. They keep exceptionally well, don't turn to mush when they freeze and thaw, and can be left frozen in the barn and then sliced and fed to the sheep. But where to put them?

I love to walk around this piece of land and think. Unfortunately, it is a slow process. Not the walking. Just the thinking. It seems to take so long to come up with the right solution here. Everywhere I've thought to put the farm stand and the pumpkins has never seemed right. Too far from the road to carry things. Not enough sun. At last, however, the right sites for the farm garden and stand have presented themselves to me. I had unintentionally ruined a corner of pasture by feeding out hay on it for cows. They stomped down the earth and in all other ways compacted and smothered the ground so that absolutely nothing cares to grow on it. It is a corner only a few feet away from the vegetable garden and my house. At the opposite corner of the pasture is a charming spot right outside of the fence, perfect for placing a farm stand. It is next to my driveway and a good pull-off place for cars. The potential garden site has full sun all day, as
well. And it won't be taking anything away from the pasture because nothing can grow there at the moment anyway. But piling composed manure there will create favorable soil in that section of the field in the fullness of time. In addition, it isn't too far away to push a wagon or wheelbarrow to the farm stand site.

I have a copy of one of Lee Valley's marvelous reproductions of old farm books. In it are plans for making all manner of structures from tree limbs. I am about to get a supply of elm, some of which would be ideally suited to creating a small stand in which to sell some produce. I've yet to find the correct place to grow the mammoth reds and the golden tankards. They are said to be milk makers. I shall find out soon enough, Along the same fence, bordering the driveway, is the ideal strip in which to grow turnips. It is forty feet wide and about one hundred feet long. Were I to plant the small red-and-white turnips in that spot, I'd be able to move electric net fencing for forty days, one strip of one-foot by one-hundred-feet each day, to feed my sheep. Strip grazing. In the process they would fertilize the ground and pound their manure into the earth with their little sharp feet. It was the realization that root crops could be winter fodder for livestock that revolutionized farming in the Middle Ages. All hay had to be cut by hand and stored in hayricks, subject to the same kind of spoilage that our farmers are now discovering in the use of round bales. Many had to slaughter some livestock in November rather than allow them the possibility of going hungry in the winter. Once root crops began to be fed out, things changed dramatically. Both cows and sheep would eat the tops and pink roots, and the pigs and geese would be fattened on what was left in the ground. I'm going to try it.

For many years, I listened to some sound advice to not spoil my pasture with crops. I'm glad I listened because the places that I had considered were the wrong ones. But this plan and the needs
prompting it have evolved slowly, as I believe farming decisions should. For the first time it seems correct.

There are days when life seems possible. That I have a fighting chance. Although, I must admit, I can't remember when I last thought I had one. This chance was given to me by the fact that the apartment in my house is rented. Despite the continuing huge sums that are being demanded of me to refine the place, it means that this month, at least, there's enough money to take care of the house. And suddenly I can be creative about the farm. It is easier to get up in the morning. And pushing a little harder at the end of the day no longer feels like a burden. To go the extra mile for fifteen minutes seems worthwhile.

In the morning I shall call one of the extension agents who have worked very hard to help me demystify the raising of the mangels and tell her about my latest find: the thermometer decorated with Golden Tankards and Mammoth Reds. I'll call Dan Flaherty to ask how to prepare my pasture for next year's turnip crop. The pumpkins shall be familiar enough to do on my own. Henry Kathmann cut down an elm for me today. Some of the wood might become part of the farm stand. I may even start drawing ideas for the sign. It would be so tempting to do that French farmer, with a mangel under each arm.

T
HE LATEST
round of Tamworth pigs are due to arrive on Friday. Six of them. I intend to be ready for them. In the absolute. Pigs have been known to cause me, on occasion, great grief. On the other hand, they have earned money and provided the best pork this family has ever eaten. These six pigs are the final experiment. If it doesn't work, there shall be no more pigs.

My old books of plans for sheds and outbuildings and other farm accoutrements show various plans for pig houses. I've found one I like the best and hope to convince Henry Kathmann to spare some time to build it for me. He understands farm-building projects extremely well and indulges me with clever solutions to the complex problems that this farm often presents. There is some green metal left from the roof, a few pieces shortened to size, that will make an admirable roof. And there is some straw that once called itself hay that will bed them. And I have extra wood from the barn-building project, already cut. The latest plan is to make the pigs root up the field that wants to become my truck garden, complete with mangels, kale, turnips, leeks, and tomatoes. This year, after they leave a well-secured place in the barn, the pigs will be enclosed by electric fencing within my wood fencing in the designated sections of pasture. I shall work one third of it this fall. If it proves successful, next spring's pigs will start the second third.

I still see, in my mind's eye, a well-functioning, well-integrated farm, all components relating well with each other. Although the dream of it
became a bit tarnished for a while, it is beginning to come alive again. Nunzio, at the muck cart, has been helping me spread valuable nutrients across the fields, as well as pulling an A-frame sledge in the winters to plow out the driveway. The chickens fertilize my pastures in the portable chicken coop and give me eggs, and their winter litter fertilizes my flowerbeds. (The phlox that had their benefice this year grew to be twice as tall as the ones that didn't.) Next year the geese, inside electric fencing as well, shall do their job of fertilizing and pay by their sacrifice for the grain bill of the sheep. The pig money pays for grain for the sheep as well. The sheep, God bless them, keep my pastures in order, provide manure for the fields and help others start their farms when I sell their composted black gold, and pay for their own hay. In addition, they provide me with a peaceful heart in the calm, still barn that I have never known anywhere else.

The cows must not be overlooked. How could they be? Their calves are designated to pay all notes of obligation on the barn roof restoration. And, in a week or two, some shall go to the CADE Project's pastured veal program. They have been out on pasture all summer, with access to Millicent and Francesca's milk. It has been a drought year; therefore, I do not expect anything impressive in the way of weight gain. However, it was an act of faith to participate in the program, and one needs to do that once in a while.

I must admit, I am as conservative a farmer as could be imagined. Cynicism and skepticism have woven themselves throughout my thinking. Promises and profound hope have given rise to expectations only to let me and other farmers whom I know down so many times that is has become an act of faith to participate in anything that I don't personally control. What I've seen so often is white-collar jobs being created or sustained by the well-meaning at best, self-serving at worst, in order to “assist” the farmer. Nonetheless I've
committed two calves to the program, with more hope, obviously, than reservation. And off they soon shall go.

The cows provide me with milk as well as calves, for which I shortly shall be profoundly grateful. A new cow, gift of the pigs, and I leave that one for you to figure out, is due to arrive this weekend. Her calf, if it is a bull, is already spoken for, and her milk shall be most welcome. I've not had fresh milk since putting the extra calves on my cows this spring, a big loss to me in more ways than one. The pigs shall get the benefit of the whey from the daily cheese making.

I shall have fresh butter, cheese, and milk for the cappuccino I used to love in the morning. And if I decide to be completely extravagant, I'll buy a yogurt maker. My house is never consistently warm enough to keep milk attempting to be yogurt at an even temperature. Unless, of course, I can convince Henry Kathmann to make me an old-fashioned hay box, the kind that people used to have to keep yeast-risen dough, or things like yogurt, well insulated and at a steady temperature.

While haying and harvest are both exciting times on a farm, if all goes well, the most exciting time to me is when new animals arrive. I am blessed in that a hundred or so more lambs are born here each year, as well as calves and chicks.

And so to have both the pigs and cow arriving within twenty-four hours is especially exciting, in addition to the awe that a new force, pigs and cows being the most forceful of my livestock, brings here. A new dimension of hope and possibility always accompanies both the anticipation of the arrival and the onset of their stay here. It never really fades, even after we are all settled in with one another. In a way, they take care of me, giving me what I need to have in order to take care of them.

T
HIS IS
a day the Lord has made. Those words are usually the first that come to my mind each morning when I get up. The words that follow are always more tentative. Sometimes they will be variations on the central theme. And who I am is what I make of it, also occurs to me. There are other variations as well.

When I was seven years old I wrote a story about God. That story integrated Him into my daily life. And by the time I was eight I had decided for certain what His plan was. I decided that He presented us with circumstances, and who we are is what we do with those circumstances. This has been a guiding principle for me ever since. I measure the day accordingly.

The sun has just crested the horizon and lit the walls of the pink room where I sit, one eye looking out of the window to see that the sheep are staying home and that the cows are finding something worth eating. Each day is an opportunity, with themes and variations, to go beyond simple survival and, rather, to live.

There are tasks, inevitably, and here on this farm, at least, too many to be filled in one day. Some tasks are seemingly straightforward. Wash the kitchen floor. Shovel the barn floor. Others are less so. While washing the kitchen floor remind yourself to be more consistent in keeping shoes off in that room and better at mopping spills when they happen. When shoveling the barn concentrate on what being a shepherd really means. To find some joy in the appointed tasks is another requirement. For without joy, what is
the point? That is more difficult a thing to do. And that is one of the things that define us to ourselves.