The Gift of Good Time

We have suffered through worse winters over the years with more snow and fewer degrees, but this one has been severe enough.  Frequent sub-zero spells kept gloves near at hand (so to speak) and layers of clothing mummifying our bodies.  We have gotten our fill of snow shovels, snow blowers and roller coaster roads.  The furnace has been kept busy, and chairs near the fireplace have been at a premium.  The heater in the barn even got a workout trying to keep the water pipes from freezing and the tractor diesel liquid enough to move through the engine.  Little wonder that when the propane truck arrived last week to top off our tank the driver found it 93% empty.  Our whole house was running on fumes. 

And so it is that we have treasured the gift of time these past several days that Iowans have no right to count on – mild, sunny days in the 60’s, 70’s and even one day in the 80’s.  Our own little climatological version of “March Madness”.  It's not unprecedented, but then neither are April snows.  The chickens have enjoyed their wider range beyond the tight little courtyard I had cleared of snow and covered with straw, and have pecked and scratched their way around the perimeter of the fence to excavate anything of interest the melting snow may have left behind.   

We, too, have worked to put these gift days to good advantage.

The seeds happily sprouting in the greenhouse, we have turned our attention to the acres beyond.  The new hand saw and tree loppers we brought home from a winter conference exhibitor have had their shine worn off, and the brush mower has run through multiple tanks of gas.   

The dismantled snow fence has been repurposed as a chicken funnel, guiding the girls from their primary enclosure over to the garden for a new field of endeavor while I get some garden work done of my own.  Unfortunately no Snow Elves found their way inside the garden fence over the winter.  Last season’s plant debris – left to languish in the trenches last fall as we hurried to harvest remnants before the descent of winter – has not gone anywhere in the ensuing months, and so our gloved hands have pursued the extraction with a vengeance.    

We had moved,the fencing this time last year to accommodate garden expansion, but had only pressed a portion of that new space into service.  Since I had rented a large tiller on Friday to prepare the space between the labyrinth and fire pit for additional wildflower seeding, I piggybacked it's time on our property with the development of ten new trenches in that expanded garden space.   

Meanwhile, a tree service came and removed four offending trees and trimmed up several others to the end that the whole front yard and the labyrinth to the side feel like they can breathe again. 

And, as a sunny punctuation point to the work we have had underway, our electric bill arrived – the first since the solar array was completed and fully operational – reporting a balance due of $8.50.  It is the first sign of a return on our electrical investment, but looking around us these early spring days we observe countless dividends.  

Daffodil stems knifing through the front bed’s soil.

An emerging prairie.

Happy, productive hens.

A greenhouse teeming with trays of sprouting seeds.

Budding fruit trees.

Piles of wood chips from trees trimmed.

Open spaces where thickets used to be.

A garden readying for new life.

And muscles sore, but satisfied.

Life, in other words, is pretty good here on the farm, in the midst of this gift of good time.

Winter Work, and a Few Winter Wishes

It's 4-degrees as the sun peeps over the eastern horizon, but given that this is as warm as it is likely to get today, sooner is probably better than later to get started on the chores.  There is snow again to shovel, although only an inch or so -- far less than the 7-9 inches predicted.  Given that meteorological inaccuracy it’s tempting to wager that instead of the forecasted minus 8 the mercury will climb to a balmy 72.  Tempting, but I’m not feeling quite that lucky.  It is, after all, February in Iowa. It's supposed to be cold.

Confined to their coop and run almost the entirety of yesterday because of the snow and wind, the girls will be anxious for me to clear some snow for traveling spaces to stretch their legs, fluff their feathers and put some distance between themselves and the others while drinking in a little sunlight.  And while I am at it, a more literal “drinking” will be appreciated once I lug a few jugs of water out to replenish their waterers.

Snow clearing, then, plus some spread straw for them to walk on; water and, of course, more feed since I emptied the remnants of the previous bag last evening.  They eat a lot when there is nothing else to do -- which is preferable to the alternative, otherwise known as getting on each other's nerves and pecking one another out of boredom and annoyance.  Sort of like the rest of us.

By that point it will be mid-morning and time for a deserved next cup of coffee.  After that, who knows?  More garden planning perhaps, or seeding, or into town to deliver some eggs and check off a few errands if the roads have been cleared.

Or, if the thermometer behaves like they predict it will, it might be a day to slip into the sweats, kick up the fire, and dust off that book that has been languishing on the nightstand.

Wishful thinking, I know; but wouldn't it be nice.

There is a Reason Farmers Are Hungry

On the radio this morning I heard a story about the growing number of young people choosing to become farmers. The farmers in the story sounded a lot like me — in their late 20s to mid-30s, committed to organic practices, holding college degrees, and from middle-class non-farming backgrounds. Some raise animals or tend orchards. Others, like me, grow vegetables. The farmers’ days sounded long but fulfilling, drenched in sun and dirt. The story was uplifting, a nice antidote to the constant reports of industrial ag gone wrong, of pink slime and herbicide-resistant super-weeds.What the reporter didn’t ask the young farmers was: Do you make a living? Can you afford rent, healthcare? Can you pay your labor a living wage? If the reporter had asked me these questions, I would have said no.  Jaclyn Moyer, "What Nobody Told Me About Small Farming," Salon.com February 10, 2015

She has been getting a lot of attention in recent weeks, this organic farmer and writer from Northern California.  In her piece she goes on to confess with disappointment and almost certainly some embarrassment how the numbers never add up -- now, or when she and her partner forecast the years ahead.  Moreover, after querying other farmers about their small-to-medium farming operation viability she could find none who paid themselves a weekly wage that equaled what a person working full-time would make on minimum wage, who abided by labor laws and therefore harbored no unpaid workers doing essential farm tasks, and actually earned their living from farming as opposed to grants and outside sources.  Even large farms, she notes, rely heavily on government subsidies to end the year in the black.

I am not in my late 20s to mid-30s, though the rest of her descriptors fairly well describe me.  I am, I suppose you could say, idealistic about healthy practices in the field and chicken yard and do everything I can to keep them chemical free and naturally good.  Moreover, I enjoy this giant luxury:  while I wouldn't turn it down if it leaked in under the garden gate, we didn't move to this farmstead to make money.  I understand, then, that my quarter in this jukebox must necessarily be taken with a grain of salt. While we are enthusiastically invested in making a different kind of life, it isn't wrapped around the added burden of making a living.

Ms. Moyer has received quite a bit of push back from those who, like her, are trying to make a go of small scale, sustainable farming, and some of those have put their numbers where their dissent is.  They are, they insist, making a living at farming.  That said, when the time and energy and capital invested are stood alongside the income generated I'm not sure I really believe them.  People make it work by doing all kinds of sometimes related, sometimes ancillary things -- selling jellies, fibers, salsas and soaps they've made on the farm, or dividing their time with off-farm employment.  None of which should be heard as disparaging.  Creativity, ingenuity, and capitalizing on assets in hand are the very things that lie beneath most success stories, and bi-vocationality is more and more prevalent among all sorts of professions, including my chosen career in ministry.  It isn't just farming, in other words, where the ends struggle to ever meet.

Perhaps we'll eventually have to revisit our expectations about what constitutes "a living," and almost certainly some will conclude that this "ag bit" isn't really for them after all.

But here are my two cents to toss into the conversation:  the problem isn't with farming.  The problem is with our specious assumption that food should be cheap.

I sell eggs for $5 per dozen and will tell you that I am losing money on every dozen I sell. That $5 almost covers the cost of the feed -- almost -- but it doesn't touch the cost of the coop or the miscellaneous hardware involved -- the waters, the warmers, the feeders, the litter -- let alone the cost of the birds themselves.  I only somewhat jokingly note that my eggs at this point are worth $125 per egg.  I could feed them for less, but I value the premium organic grains milled locally, and I value the liberal living conditions in which I keep them.  I rather prefer to call it "humane." I am putting these things into my body, after all, and I don't take that destination lightly. 

I am fully aware that eggs can be had for less.  Far less.  If you watch the ads you can find them in the major grocers for less than a buck.  And the way to produce those eggs for those prices is to employ strategies of scale and care that I deem untenable.  And then, as a country, subsidize them accordingly.  Similarly with tomatoes, peppers, pork and beef and anything else we plan to eat.  The only way to make it all cheap is to undertake it on a massive scale, and pay those who manage that scale next to nothing.  And then denigrate them and send them back across the border.

The fact is food is not cheap and we need to stop deluding ourselves into thinking we can nourish ourselves for nothing.  We need to pay those who produce it whatever it costs, and help those who have difficulty paying the tab.  Sure, it may mean a few fewer trips to Starbucks or the McDonald's drive-through, but it will at least start recognizing and shouldering the truth.  We can try to keep fooling ourselves -- and each other -- about all this "economical nutrition" and patting ourselves on the back about the wonders of "modern agricultural", but ask the astronaut what she or he thinks about the rocket built by the lowest bidder.  Again, this isn't to denigrate those who are giving us what we demand; it's just to beg the question:  Is basic life support really where we want to be cutting corners? 

The options are finally these -- as is true with virtually everything else we need:  we can produce more food for ourselves, or we can pay someone else to do it for us recognizing that the latter will come at a premium, not a loss. 

If we paid the price that our food is really worth then people like Ms. Moyers could spend their time growing more instead of lamenting what they are giving up on our behalf.

A Foretaste of Anxiety

Already I am feeling anxious, excited, panicked...
...and behind.

It is a familiar feeling by now, surfacing each year about this time since moving to the farmstead three years ago.  It's February -- close enough to spring (or perhaps eager enough for spring by this time in the winter) to viscerally anticipate the new year's gardening adventure, but still too much in the grip of single digit temperatures to do much about it beyond worry.

There is, of course, preparatory work to do, and some of it has already been accomplished.  Seed catalogs have long since been scoured and marked.  Orders were placed weeks ago, and the boxes with their enticing little packets are piled in a jumble downstairs.  That's no small thing.  And the bags of potting soil and compost have been unloaded and stacked neatly in the barn.

But still there is all the conceptual work languishing for attention -- what will go where and how many of each.  All those seeds must be organized into groups, and the layout designed with the online garden planner.  There are rotational issues to consider -- not just "what goes where" but "what went where last year" and therefore needs to go somewhere else this time around.

 And, of, course, there is some manual work to do in the meantime.  This year we plan to try "soil blocking" -- making little blocks of potting soil in which the seeds are started in the greenhouse, rather than using those annoying seeding cell trays. There are all kinds of promised benefits to the plan -- expense, root formation, transplanting ease to name a few -- but before any of them can be realized those little blocks must actually be made.  We invested in the fabricating tool which will make 12 at a time, but there are dozens and dozens to be made and never having made them before I am sure there will be a learning curve.

And then the seeds must find their way into those eventually made blocks and be tended in the greenhouse.  But before that can happen considerable cleaning must be accomplished.  The greenhouse is a mess!  Reclaiming and reconfiguring it for a nourishing and habitable space will be a day's cold and dirty work.

And then the garden prep, itself.  One of these days I will learn to leave the garden in November in a state of readiness for April and May -- clearing out the spent stems and piling away the clutter. But I clearly haven't learned that lesson yet. By the time winter is approaching I am as spent as the vines -- weary, distracted with other things, and ready to store away the tools.  Consequently the rows that await me now are a cluttered jumble of garden ghosts -- a cadaverous echo of last year's vigor that will have to be hoed and raked and cleared and piled before any new life can be imagined.

It will all work out.  It's February, after all, and still 13-degrees with negative temps again in the forecast.  We will get the seeds organized tonight, and the planning, blocking and de-cluttering will get tackled in the coming days and weeks.  But trusting that doesn't leave me any less anxious.

It's just a down payment on the anxious,worrisome and hopeful hand-wringing that accompanies the garden all through the season.

A foretaste of the feast to come.

It Takes a Village

Murray from Missouri turned into the driveway midday pulling a flatbed trailer bearing two chicken coops.  One of them was ours.  The bigger of the two.  We had placed the order almost a month ago but between construction, weather and respective schedules delivery was delayed until now.  In anticipation I had made a largely failed attempt at clearing a path through the snow toward the chicken yard, but given the residual snow mass and the increasingly muddy conditions I had little hope that we could navigate the new arrival much beyond the driveway.  Even with the wheels I knew it would be tough sledding.  But Murray came equipped with his wife and two young sons -- though the latter, not accustomed much to snow in southern Missouri took some persuading to abandon their snowball fight -- and with the help of us all we moved it along the makeshift trail.  Pulling up several supports that allowed us to lay flat the fence, we made the final push into the chicken compound and heaved a sigh of relief.  Especially the Diebels.  We were not looking forward to moving the cumbersome structure that final leg of the journey on our own.  We patted one another on the back, appreciated everyone's efforts, thanked the crew and offered refreshments before sending them on their way toward the remaining coop's eastern Iowa destination.

Now we are equipped for the new additions that will start arriving in a month or so.  There are some finer touches to ready before that time.  Once the snow recedes and we can move it more easily, the coop will need to be more advantageously situated.  There are feeders and waterers to arrange and bedding to spread inside.  A segregating fence will need to be stretched to prevent the upper classwomen from getting too assertive with the freshmen.  But the hard part is done.  The coop is here announcing "welcome."

So what's the point?  A good question that we keep asking ourselves.  It would be easy -- and not at all incorrect -- to reply that the chickens are simply fun and it will be delightful to multiply the joy.  They are fun, and we love to watch their playful, skittering antics.  It's a kick to see them hop up on the straw bales or mount the balance beams to sun -- or is it simply to gain a better view?  It cracks me up when, all of a sudden, upon some indecipherable cue, one of them sprints the entire expanse of the yard only to arrive and...simply stop and resume her search for bugs. 

So there is the entertainment factor, and out here beyond the reach of cable, and inadequately wired for satellite dishes, we take our entertainment wherever we can get it.  But that doesn't really satisfy the question.

There are, of course, the eggs and we are grateful for those.  Despite their actual value in the triple digits each, we consume our share and manage to sell the rest for just about enough to pay for the feed.  So it's hardly a money-maker.  When backed to a wall I suppose we have to admit that there is no objectively persuasive answer. 

And yet...

When we moved to the farmstead 3 years ago it was with a determination to join that great circle of memory that knows how to produce food.  The garden was the heart of that desire -- to know what it means to sow a seed and nurture a plant and pluck the produce to nourish ourselves and others.  We wanted to experience, to learn, and learning, to teach.   But it was a desire not necessarily confined to those three verbs.  Less articulated, but essential nonetheless was the commitment to sustain.  There are heirloom seeds the fruit of which we wanted to enjoy, to be sure, but more importantly to keep in existence.  The honey bees we harbor we hoped would benefit our fruit trees and plants, yes, but we also value insuring their safe habitat as well.  Heritage breed chickens somehow align with that larger concern.  There are better egg layers to be purchased -- commercial varieties bred to be laying machines -- but the value of these is somehow other than their productivity.  Even if we cannot quantify or quite articulate that value we nonetheless discern it to be there. 

As Wendell Berry intimates in the title of his new book, this is "Our Only World," and if we take that observation seriously it will require us all doing what we can to sustain it.  Or to remember the oft-cited African wisdom, "it takes a village..." 

In our case, apparently, it takes a village of coops -- three now, counting the "annex."  But over the next few months the population of our little village will expand to welcome a few more of those dwindling, but precious breeds.  According to the specs of the new coop it will accommodate up to twelve. 

And we will give thanks for their arrival.  Hopefully, they will be sort of happy about it as well.

Patience is the Virtue

Hungry customers are awaiting their delivery of eggs.  The chickens, meanwhile, are waiting for me to clear the snow so they have some place to play.  The electric fence is waiting for me to reset some posts so that the gate support doesn't bow from the tension.  The barn is waiting for me to mop up the water from the bathroom leak the plumber repaired yesterday.  The empty suitcase is waiting to be packed for my trip that begins tomorrow.  Class assignments are languishing, waiting for my review and response.  And I am waiting for deliveries. 

In and of itself that's nothing new.  Lori says I am always waiting for something to arrive, and even my neighbor laughs at how frequently the UPS truck pulls into our driveway.  Fine.  Mock me.  I'm an easy target.

It does, I recognize, beg the "how much is enough" question.  I am not exempt from the "wretched excess" contagion and I freely admit to already having too much.  I confessionally acknowledge that  arguments in favor of any alleged hierarchies of gluttony are necessarily suspect, and anyone who defends his own appetites is begging for condemnation. 

That said, however, this time
I'm not waiting for trivialities.  Important stuff is on the way.  The 24 bags of compost, for example should arrive any day from Wisconsin -- a foretaste of garden preparation this spring (in fact, it arrived late afternoon).  Already there is work to do with it as we plan to try soil blocking this year as an alternative to those little plastic seeding trays -- using a special device to create 2" X 2" blocks of compost/potting mix into which the seeds will be sown and nurtured in the greenhouse and then transplanted directly into the ground when the growing season begins.  Already I have the seeds.  The blocks will be the next step.  And then I am simply waiting for the right week to get it all started, which will lead to waiting for the seeds to sprout...and then fruit...and then ripen.

And then, of course, there is the new coop.  Yes, we are getting a new chicken coop.  Another one.  One like the other one, only slightly smaller.  Murray from Missouri, the gentleman who builds these fine "hen hoops", is bringing it up today...or tomorrow...or...  We'll see.  Even then we will have to wait to see when, given all this snow, we can drag it back to the chicken yard. 

And then we can start waiting for the new chickens.  Yes, more chickens.  A few more.  So many heritage breeds, so little coop space. 

And then we can start waiting for the eggs...

...which hungry customers will start waiting to be delivered.

And so it goes.

Frigid Temps, A Couple of Filters, and a Feeling of Triumph

"Well, you are a real farmer," my friend David responded when I let him know I wouldn't need his help after all.  Despite the fact that legitimate farmers everywhere are cringing from the association, I appreciate the affirmation.  I am rather proud of myself as well.

This week -- the week of almost a foot and a half of snow; the week of the heaviest snow fall this year, and quite possibly the heaviest in several years -- my tractor decided to sleep in.  This would be the lawn tractor to which in winter is attached the 48" snow blower acquired for just such a week as this.  Usually it roars into life and snaps right to work, doing anything I ask it to do...within reason.  But Monday morning, having suited up in full snow prophylactic gear and waded through the drifted tundra to the barn, I raised the overhead door, backed the tractor out with a roar and got half way through the job when it began to sputter and shutter and cough and belch out black smoke.  Power plummeted, and after repeated attempts to power through the problem, I finally limped the equipment back inside.

I scratched my head. I consulted friends.  We speculated that the diesel had turned to gel in the cold.  I tried again the next day but was met with more of the same.  Coughing myself, now, from the diesel exhaust I called the service department and explained my plight.  "You and everybody else," the man chuckled.  "When did you buy your fuel," he asked.

I don't keep track of such things.

"Well, you might still be using summer blend."

Entirely possible.  Who knew I was supposed to be emptying my tanks with the seasons?

He said a lot of other things about gel, additives, waxy buildup, ice crystals, etc., but most of it went over my head.  I know a few things about the New Testament but very little about Kubotas beyond turning the key.  He advised that I replace the fuel filters -- both of them.  Yes, it turns out that there are two.  "The good news is that they are cheap."

I wasn't sure that was adequate consolation,  "How much is the technician who comes home with me to put them in?"

More chuckling.

I wasn't kidding.

"Seriously, you expect someone like me, with a total dearth of mechanical prowess, to accomplish this task?"

He asked for a translation.

"You think an idiot like me can do this?"

"Well, probably" he responded without a whole lot of confidence.

That's when I contacted David to see if he could help.  David knows about such things.  Charitably he agreed.

Yesterday, then, I circled by the dealership, picked up my two two cheap filters along with every kind of fuel treatment in the shop, returned home, took a deep breath and mustered up resolve to make an attempt.  Less than an hour later I emerged from the barn smelling like a refinery, a little contorted from having to stand on my head and pretzel my arms into spaces not designed for human access, but smiling and triumphant.  I had actually done it.

By myself.
Without breaking anything.
Without profanity.
OK, without much profanity.

Somehow, while simultaneously thumping my chest and patting myself on the back, I managed to pour some of the fuel treatment into the tank for good measure before returning to the house to trumpet my success to my long-suffering and ever-encouraging wife.  And to fire off an email letting David off the mechanical hook.

That's when he maligned the fraternity of farmers by including me among their numbers.  Never mind.  I'll accept the compliment even if it's only momentarily deserved.

Last night I stopped at a station and refilled the can with fresh diesel -- winter blend this time -- and today we'll see what happens.  It's only 8 below zero this morning.  What could possibly go wrong?