Our first farm animals

Click the photo to see the process of starting our new hive

bees

The first crop

Beginning

Rhythm

Two months is a remarkably long time in farming. Many things have come and gone since I wrote in April. Things have been planted, harvested, sold at markets. 200 meat birds were slaughtered on a sunny May day. And the next round of birds will reach the halfway mark of their short lives this week.

Spring scampered by. Or perhaps I mean we scampered through spring. Or maybe both. To scamper: Run with quick light steps, especially through fear or excitement.

As we enter into the week around the solstice when the ‘sun stands still’ as we make our almost ninety degree turn the farm and my mind are finding their growing season rhythm. Winter was a season of rhythm. Spring was a season of rush. As we harvested lettuce for the weekend markets I realized that we were back to rhythm. We harvested the same way we have for several weeks now, and I felt comforted by knowing how to accomplish the task without much instruction. As a team we know how to harvest, wash, pack, and weigh with the smooth efficiency that comes from repetition. While new and fresh activities are a highly coveted aspect of most work environments, the scamper pace is hard to maintain. And as the workers awaiting instructions each morning at 8am it’s hard to feel connected to the feeling of fear or excitement that is propelling our pace. But all the fields are now close to being fully planted. And though 200 feet of plastic is not generally what comes to mind as a beautiful farm image, to me finally having the hoop houses up confirms for me that the growing season is here. Their undulating walls look like gigantic caterpillars and in their bellies are our 200 tomato plants. They are safe, healthy, warm, and growing in their cocoons and soon they will be dripping with red, yellow, purple, orange, green, striped, and spotted juicy and sweet fruits.

The lack of rhythm over the spring weeks caused me to forget my chicken chores more than once. And the rapidly growing grass erased our dirt paths worn over the winter. But despite the chaotic feeling, we kept at our tasks. And though the grass is now above my waist, the paths have reemerged. Our pace will not slow in the coming summer months. But rhythm is a key component to keeping up with the demand of farm life. I anticipate fall having a similar feeling to spring. This time I’ll know the importance of maintaining the sense of rhythm. And I’ll remember to keep walking along and soon the paths will be clear again.

Every Place Sucks the Same

Last week was the first week since I came to the farm that I did not sit down to write. I can’t blame my tardiness on the busy week, because one of the best things about the farm is that the pace is consistent, constant. This morning Jeff and I planted about 600 tiny beet starts and seeded several hundred more. After lunch, we finished roofing the addition to the barn. Before evening chicken chores I did some photography in the orchard for the cidery business. My days here are filled with tasks that are comfortable without being mundane. They are new and exciting without being obstacles to overcome. Contentment dulls my urge to write. I have no need to escape my surroundings. I have no emotional build up that needs releasing. So if I can find enough time in the resolute pace I hope to focus in my writing on a few main explorations:

Returning Home: Metaphors, Community, Elders
The Land: Back To, Taking Back, Growing things
Young Farmers: Finding Home, Clarity, Friendship

While I often write about the pure joys of the life I currently have, weeks roll by like a rollercoaster. I’m constantly fretting about what will happen for us after this farming season ends. I rocket sky high and freefall back down as I rapidly ride between the stress of communicating with friends as bosses and feeling that I could stay here forever with these people I love.

Some friends in Port Townsend recently went through a search to find a new place to farm and make home. They ended up staying and in expressing why they didn’t move said, “Every place sucks the same.” While it was likely a light-hearted, sarcastic comment, those words have really stuck with me. I’m constantly trying to calculate our next move to be the best choice possible. And now each time I start to flip-flop and fret that comment pops into my head. The lesson that is sticking with me is not that everywhere is bad. But rather everywhere has the same challenges. Every job has the same obstacles. So it really doesn’t matter if we find the perfect place, because it will be just as good and as bad as any other place we might choose.

So today, as I squatted between the garlic bed and the newly planted beet bed, and firmly placed both hands down in front of me to compact the soil against the tiny beet seeds, I realized, I just want to farm. And I can. And as I cut rafter beams on the table saw in the barnyard, I realized, I just want to build things. And I can. And I just want to wear my brown corduroys and brown wool sweater everyday. And I can feel alive and surrounded by beauty everyday. Maybe not necessarily here, but anywhere.

Nettle Mead

After a long sleepy Sunday morning in bed, Joe and I walked down to the bridge over the creek before breakfast. The bridge was built this fall to allow us to farm on both sides of the creek and preserve the nine-acre restoration zone surrounding the portion of the creek that runs through our farm. I remarked at all the nettles that were along the bank. Joe reminded me that those were the nettles I had to contend with after I fell into the creek last September. It was the day Joe proposed to me, the bridge had not yet been built, and we were harvesting winter squash from the fields across the creek. A fallen log was used to cross the creek then, and my foot slipped as I tried to make the long step out onto the log. The deep water swallowed me up to my shoulders and as I struggled to hoist myself up onto the bank, I dragged my body through the nettles.

Today we harvested nettles (with gloves on) and made nettle mead. We always wild ferment our brews. Meaning we mix some sort of juice with lots of honey and let the natural yeasts in the air find the sweet mixture and get to work converting the sugars into alcohol. We can’t say it always works out well, but when it does it’s been great. Nettle mead was an idea we had last year and have been waiting until prime nettle season (right now) to brew up a batch. As we’ve read up on it, turns out it’s not our brilliant idea. But we now have five gallons of sweet nettle tea sitting in our kitchen, waiting.

In the next few months, we’ll dine regularly on nettle pesto, nettle tea, and nettle lasagna.

Hospice

“What’s new?” a friend asked me on the phone today. “Oh, you know. We fertilized the garlic, one of our chickens died,” I answered.

A week ago, we noticed one of the hens was limping a bit. We didn’t think too much of it. The next day while Joe and I were doing the evening chicken chore, we found her hiding in a laying box unable to walk. Because chickens love to pick on their weaker peers, the next morning we moved her out of the orchard. We thought she’d likely have to be killed since we can’t do much with a hen that can’t walk. So we called the quiet pen we set up for her ‘hospice’. She had fresh minors lettuce to feast on and I put a bowl of grain and one of water so close to her that she could reach them without moving. The next day as we weeded the strawberry field we took all the grubs we found in the dirt to her.

Probably just because I was the one to initially get her food and water set up, I took to caring for her. But maybe the reason I was so drawn to her was because she was the first chicken I’ve ever held. We started calling her Hospice. Everyone asked about her throughout the day. I talked to her each time I walked down the path past her pen. Janet kept the positive attitude that maybe just some rest would let her foot heal and she’d be fine. Since I don’t know much about chicken health, I adopted Janet’s attitude. The following day we delivered more grubs to her as we prepped the new beds for apple trees.

Over the three days, she only moved herself twice. The first time was in freight of me, but after that she seemed to recognize me was comfortable with me tending to her. The second time she moved herself was just before dusk on the second night, and I thought that must be a sign of improving health. I excitedly texted Janet and Jeff, “Lil’ hospi hen moved herself a bit to settle in for the night, she may pull out of it yet!”

Each morning I moved her to a fresh bed of hay since without walking she pooped right where she lay. Each evening, I notice her energy decreasing, and her poop looking more and more sickly. We read up on chicken diseases and found no matching symptoms. On Saturday morning, she barely was holding her head up, she hadn’t moved herself since Wednesday night, and her poop had become bizarre. I walked to Janet and Jeff’s cabin to deliver the news. It was time to slaughter her.

Janet asked if I wanted to help. I said no. Apparently it didn’t go too smoothly. But the next time I walked down the path the pen was empty. Her carcass was composted and she will continue to be part of creating life here on the farm. It’s still sad to walk past her empty pen. But caring for her allowed me to overcome my aversion to chickens and to realize how soft their bodies and feathers are and how smooth and tender their creepy looking feet actually feel.

So, yesterday Hospice died. Today I tended to the garlic. Tomorrow we’ll plant raspberries. Such is what’s new on the farm.