The Sad Quietude of an Empty Egg Basket

There are no eggs.  

OK, that's not literally true.  Tonight there were 2.  It has been that way all week.  There was a one-day high of 5, but otherwise the daily retrieval has been light duty.  This, when a more typical collection would have been 18-20; a dozen on a bad day.  These from our 34 heritage breed chickens. Truthfully, that number is deceiving.  One of that number is a rooster with very dubious prospects of ever laying an egg.  Three of the girls are pre-pubescent.  And a few — some indeterminate number — are slowing down as they age out.  

But 2?

There is yet one more numerical revision that must be factored in.  We had a massacre.  We don't know the specifics — we were out of town — but sometime a week or so ago a predator claimed the lives of six of the flock.  That, in addition to one that apparently and unrelatedly simply died in the coop.  So that 34 has tragically and suddenly been reduced to 27. 

But still:  2 eggs?

I did some research.  Trauma is likely to blame.  The girls are off-balance.  Their minds — along with the rest of their bodies — are shaken and they will need time to heal.  They are significantly off track.  Several of the girls have, ever since the attack, even taken to roosting, as darkness approaches, on the roof of one of the coops.  Darkness, they have experienced, is when the bad stuff happens.  They've never done this before.  It's the trauma talking.  This, according to the literature.  This isn't simply me anthropomorphizing -- projecting human reactions to my feathered friends.  It is, according to the experts, the nightmare that keeps recurring.  They don't want to sleep, and they aren't able to lay eggs.

Because trauma stays with you.  It's a stain not easily laundered.

I've been thinking, of late, about the children of war, the children separated at the border from their parents, the children of abusive parents, and all the rest of us who are forced to see what should never cross our field of vision.  

And the paralysis that results, and lingers; the stain that never quite fades away.

The inability to bear fruit.

And the myriad ways we try to climb out of harm's way.

There is a sad and silent numbness to the empty basket…to the exploded heart…that perhaps time will heal.  Or not.

In the meantime I stand amidst the chickens each evening well before dusk settles, to reassure, to calm.  I talk to them.  I move among them.  I attempt to counter the darkness.   I don't know if it makes them feel any more secure but it makes me feel better — like I'm doing something.  And next week a few new hens will be arriving from a happier place.  Perhaps they will be able communicate something to these shaken girls of a better way, a better life; a happier prospect for the days ahead.  

For now we will simply ache, and grieve the empty, chasmic space that remains — the chickens, me, and the basketed void.

Nature’s Call for Respect and Responsibility

Nature.  

It is…well…so natural.  It is the "what is" of all that surrounds us.  As essential as it is precious, nature has nonetheless gotten short shrift in recent years — indeed, recent decades — by we "superior beings" who presume to know better and routinely manipulate it to serve our higher priorities.  Nature, we have deduced, is simply one more benign raw material for us to variously plunder, ignore or bend to our will.  "Respect" is, of course, conspicuously absent from that characterization, as is any recognition of the simple fact that we are necessarily but one constituent part of it.

Since arriving on this farmstead almost 7 years ago we have tried to maintain a different character of relationship with this small expression of the nature of which we are a part.  We have resisted quick interventions on the land until gaining some observational experience with it so that whatever we do is more evocative than coercive.  We have sought to emulate its patterns and cooperate with its contours rather than strong arm it into the shapes and behaviors we might imagine or even prefer.

But it isn't always easy.  There is a ruthlessness to weather patterns, a relentlessness to growth, and a Darwinian cruelty to the natural prunings, predations, and witherings.  

I've tried to be philosophical about it.  Nature is, indeed, "red in tooth and claw" as the poet observed.  When the worms attack the apples or the bugs destroy the squash or the storm breaks the fruit-laden branch or a chicken dies in the coop I have swallowed hard, taken a deep breath and reminded myself that "this is nature," right along with the blossom, the harvest, the waving prairie grasses in the sunset, and the eggs.  But I am coming to realize there is an element of "cop out" in my repeated refrain.

Gravity is surely a fundamental element of nature, but when I clumsily step off a curb and twist my ankle I don't hear myself cursing nature.  When two cars collide at an intersection, playing out certain loud and tragic laws of physics, no one says, "well, that's nature."  No, we openly weep and think what might have happened differently.

And so it is that we live and thrive here in the midst of — indeed, as part of — nature, constantly discerning how best we can effectively, respectfully and responsibly play our part.  We honor the patterns and the forces, but we don't simply acquiesce.  Yes, it is the nature of rabbits to eat leafy green things, but that doesn't stop me from surrounding the garden with preventive fencing.  Yes, in a perfect world rain would satisfy the thirst of all our fruit and nut trees, but just in case nature's watering schedule doesn't match our needs I have assembled an irrigation system to fill in the dry spells.  

And yes, I am fully aware that chickens are nature's snack food — at least when viewed through the eyes and appetites of foxes and raccoons, among others.  Nevertheless I am constantly relearning the painfully hard way that 99% of such predation happens after dark and is easily preventable as long as the vulnerable birds are secured inside before the light fades.  I know that once inside they are completely safe.  Outside is a different story.  The six dead hens, victims of just such a recent intrusion, are reiterating the lesson.  They count on me remembering.

There is one more part of nature I've been lately observing:  terror leaves an imprint.  In the past few days, as darkness has approached, four of the surviving hens — all related to those that were lost — scramble up onto the roof of a coop and crouch down...

…as if to get above harm's way down below…

…where terrible things happened after dark…

…as nature took its course.

The surviving hens remember.  

Hopefully the rest of us will, as well.

The Cacophonous Order of Bearing Fruit

"It's a jungle out there; disorder and confusion everywhere..."  ---Randy Newman

  The weather has been a study in polarities -- flooding one week followed by drought the trailing two; scorching heat for days on end followed by sweater-worthy evenings.  In the garden we delayed reworking two beds because of muddy conditions, and then overnight it turned to concrete with all the heat.  Even the power harrow was panting from exertion.  And while our bodies shift into slow motion from the peaking mercury, the weeds and garden grasses have been very happy.  Couple that with a few days out of town, several days of relational distractions around the death of a dear friend, and a day or two of the "blahs", the overgrowth has been very happy, indeed.  We hoe for awhile; we hand pull for awhile; we lean on the hoe for awhile and then work it a little more.  And if the mosquitoes don't kill us, the ticks surely will.

Meanwhile, the good stuff has been growing, too.  The tomato plants are inching toward the height of an average middle schooler.  The squashes have overtaken any and every available space, and the okra is patiently, steadily stretching upward.  The peppers seem quite content as well, although I have yet to see any blossoms portending the spiciness in our future.  It's increasingly difficult to differentiate the beds.  It all presents as a cacophony of viney green.

"It's a jungle out there; disorder and confusion everywhere."

At least by appearance; on the surface.  The truth, closer to the ground, is a more complicated story.  Everything was planted in rows, in 30" raised beds.  The spacing between plants was precise.  The distance between each row on the beds was intentional.  True, as the stems grew and the leaves spread the inevitable sprawl of vitality ensued.  That's not a sign of chaos; it's a sign of life.  Some things grow up; others grow out; still others do a little of both.  Some fruit hangs down like droplets beneath high leaves; others sprawl on the ground.  It is the glory of diversity and its very manifestation.  What was precise in its nascence has become precocious in its growth.

You may call it a mess; I rather call it a vegetative frolic.  Everything has a personality, and I rather encourage its expression.  It will make it a little challenging to harvest the squash, but that will invite some kind of a dance of my own, stepping lightly over stalk and leaf to tiny patch of clearing.

It is, in other words, less than it looks like -- and more.

I consider that horticultural example as I read, with deepening concern, the paper each morning and follow the updates throughout the day.  It IS a jungle out there.  As the Randy Newman song goes on to note,  

"People think I'm crazy, 'cause I worry all the time.  
If you paid attention, you'd be worried too."

It feels increasingly like chaos -- social, moral, political and intellectual anarchy.  We are constantly at each others throat, and we aren't much kinder to ourselves.  We are committing murder and suicide in what feels like record numbers.  Increasingly, those who manage to stay alive lubricate the effort with more and more antidepressants.

It could be, however, that this snapshot is largely the view from the garden's edge -- from Facebook chatter and special-interest mailings and outlets for the 24-hour news cycle that constantly need high-octane stories to churn and burn what would otherwise be benign white noise.  It could be that it is not a jungle out there at all; that closer to the ground an ordered and civilized pattern is more apparent.  Maybe all this sprawl of leaf and limb, this splash of blossom and bud,is, as it is in the garden, merely the evidence of vigor and reach.

I'm not astute enough to say.  I only know it's likely to be more complicated -- more interesting and maybe even more fruitful -- than we are prone to think.

I suppose we'll see.  In the meantime, I'm going to go dance among the vines and check for squash.

Finding Our Summer Stride

I deftly unlatch and slide the plow blade off  the wheel hoe shaft, exchanging it for the large stirrup hoe attachment.  We now include two such stirrups in our arsenal of weed fighting equipment -- a narrower, 4-inch one suited for inter-row action and this larger 8-inch alternative for working between the beds behind the steel wheel of this long-handled garden marvel.  I have commonly heard the wheel hoe named as the favorite tool by professional gardeners, and though we had purchased one several years ago it wasn't until we adopted the new layout and cultivation system that I realized why it never really fit in to the old one.  It has quickly become one of my favorites as well.

And so, attachment changed and secured and wheeled out of the shed, it's time to lean into the weeding.  That's the work calling my name this morning.  Our few days out of town and consistent intervening rains have spurred the development of new weeds since my last clearing passes.  As for those interlopers encroaching on the beds themselves, hand weeding will be called for much to my chagrin.  We are determined this season to keep more attentively "on top" of weed control, but it's clear we have some catching up to do.  Having devoted our recent efforts to transplanting into new beds, the spaces planted earlier have been left to themselves and will require significant remediation.  That, plus the aforementioned absences.  It doesn't take long for weeds to gain a sneering upper hand.

But we are finding our rhythm.  And we are catching up -- slowly, but steadily.  Yesterday, while restoring breathing space to one of those neglected rows I discovered turnips ready to pull, with dozens more on the threshold.  There is no more delectable dinner than one integrating fresh harvest sprung from seeds that you have planted!  Somewhere in all that thick morass I will no doubt find beets nearing the time of their own star turn at the table.  The collards are holding their own, along with the curly kale.  It's hard to know what's going on beneath the surface, but above ground the potatoe plants are thriving and filling out.  Soon I will need to try out the new hiller attachment we acquired for the potato rows.  And if even half of the sweet potato slips I planted yesterday thrive -- eight varieties in all -- we should produce enough by season's end to fill an ample root cellar.  It won't be long before the garlic is ready to pull and cure, and the various squash plants spreading out over the beds and the tomato stalks already reaching high into the cages portend good things arriving later in the summer.

The next round of transplants -- various chicories, for the most part, and a few additional brassicas -- are readying themselves in the greenhouse, waiting their turn for time and space in the ground as it becomes available.  Maybe yet today I'll nestle the melon seedlings into their intended home.

All of which is to acknowledge the many moving parts that animate and busy our days.  The rains have given us a break from managing the irrigation, but there is plenty else to demand attention.

But as I reach the end of another weed-cleared row I can't help but smile.  It will take a while, but we are finding our stride.  It is, after all, for this that we have planned and ordered and patiently but eagerly prepared.

A toast, then, to mud-encrusted pant knees, and dirt beneath the fingernails, and the satisfaction of watching -- and assisting -- the earth produce.

Waiting and Working for What’s Ultimately Beyond Us

So, now we’ll see.

After a lingering winter that all but squeezed out spring, the garden is essentially planted. Yes, there is more to do.  We intentionally shifted, this season, away from direct seeding as much as possible, opting instead to transplant seedlings started in the greenhouse. Transplanting helps us get ahead of the weeds, enables us to more precisely space the plants in the rows, and the greenhouse’s limited real estate helps us stagger plantings so that everything doesn’t mature at once. All of which means there will be waves of planting for several weeks to come.  The “three sisters” project — an ancient companion planting concept integrating corn, beans and squash — is ready for the second phase now that the corn has emerged from the ground on its way to offering itself as a trellis for the beans.  All that, and the sweet potato slips ordered months ago are just now being shipped by the supplier. 

Those provisos accepted, however, the garden is essentially underway. The fencing has been mended.  The irrigation system, simplified by the addition of a new hydrant and made urgent by the premature advent of 90-degree days, has been reassembled. The beds, thanks to the new implements and design, have been created and largely filled.  Weeding, the incessant pastime of summer, is underway. 

And though it always feels like we are behind — the obligatory neurosis of farming — the reality is that we are right on schedule.  At least our schedule.  In the rarified environment of the greenhouse we have, since early March, sown, we have watered, we have managed the temperature and the timing.  In recent weeks we have opened the garden soil and nestled the juvenile plants into place. And now we’ll see.  We’ll see if anything grows or fruits, despite the odds.  “Odds” because it’s all a major gamble. Its not, in other words, smooth and confident sailing from here to harvest.  Indeed, the bean leaves already look like Swiss cheese thanks to the appetite of some early pest.  We’ve replaced half a dozen tomato plants because some pernicious varmint helped itself, never mind the fence.  And the berry canes have taken it upon themselves to invade anywhere they so please.  And already, barely into the season, we are trimming and hoeing and pulling, alternating between hope and despair.

We watch the forecast for rain.  We spread a little more composted manure.  We pull a weed.  We wring our hands.  We pray.  Ultimately, we dig deeply into ourselves for the patience and larger view this kind of endeavor teaches and daily demands.  I think of that biblical admission from the Apostle Paul — in a rare moment of humility and in the midst of one of those early church rivalries — that, “I planted, Apollos watered, but God gives the growth.”  Which is to say that none of us is in charge of it all.    We do what we can do, and then let go.  And wait.

And so, we’ll see what might grow — through our efforts and all those which are beyond us.  We’ll see what might happen because of us, in spite of us, or coincidental to us.  

We will do our part, acknowledging that the bigger part is out of our hands. 

Which is humbling, of course, but the truth about most things in our life.  

We sow a seed.  Someone else waters.  Something else — something marvelously, mysteriously, ineffably beyond us — gives it growth.  

It’s maddening, I suppose, to good bootstrap-pulling, self-reliant delusionals reared to believe we can do anything and all; 

…but it is, quite simply, the actual way things work.  If I quiet myself enough to hear her, I hear the earth gently and lovingly chastising and coaxing me with the simple invitation:

“Get over yourself, take a deep breath, and simply participate in the wonder of what is transpiring.”

Well, we’ll see.  Listening just now to the thundering rain that simultaneously nourishes, drowns, washes away and keeps us out of the garden, we can do little else.

An Annual Protuberance of Grace

I’ll confess at the outset that I haven’t been an attentive steward.  All the guides I read stress the importance of keeping asparagus beds “clean” — as in weeded and free of herbaceous encroachment.  Soil amendments wouldn’t hurt either, like compost or other nourishing organic matter.  I’m sure it’s good advice, but I have neglected to follow it.

“Neglect,” of course, is the proper description because ever since planting the two varieties of asparagus the first spring of our residence on the farmstead I have been well-intentioned but poor-performing.  There are always other, ever-pressing garden tasks this time of year that assert a higher priority.  Always.  There is greenhouse management, repositioning of rain barrels after winter storage; there is bed prep for the seeds we directly sow and transplanting of seedlings started indoors.  There are irrigation lines to run, and interrupting rains and...

Like I said, “always.”  The asparagus always gets neglected.  Perennially through these past six years this gem of spring has essentially had to fend for itself.

So it is this grace-filled marvel that, inexplicably, it somehow manages to do so.  This year in particular.  Out of the morass of last year’s detritus and this year’s early weeds; despite creeping competition from nearby berry brambles and grass from the pathways alongside emerge these purple and green stems, at once delicate and sturdy.  So pessimistic am I — along with inveterate distraction — the protuberances practically have to wave and shout and jump up and down to attract my attention.  Gratefully, moreso than in any of the previous years, they have succeeded.  We have happily taken notice.  Almost daily, with knife in hand, we navigate our way to those remote reaches of the garden to admire and avail ourselves of what growth the overnight has afforded.  Even still I find it amazing, this tenacious generosity of soil and crown and time, made all the more miraculous by my neglect.

We have not taken this beneficence for granted.  We have roasted it, sautéed it, grilled it and consumed it raw.  We have included it in pastas, in frittatas, and as the frame around steaks.  We have, in a word, enjoyed it.

I suspect all blessings are like that — testaments to unmerited grace.  They simply present themselves unbidden and undeserved.  The tomatoes and peppers, I dare say, I expect to harvest — along with all those other roots and fruits I so carefully coddle and tend.  Indeed, I get annoyed when their output is sub par.  Harvesting them is my due, after all, given all I have invested in their growth.  But the asparagus?  By all rights those crowns I buried as a neophyte farmer all those years ago should have laughed at my fecklessness before lifelessly withering into the soil.

And yet, nonetheless, it appears, year after delicious year.  As if to say, “I forgive you. Eat well.  I’ll do the best I can.”

If I have any measure of gratitude, I will do all I can to do the same.

Because Everyone Should Have the Right to Puke

Here in Iowa our esteemed legislators recently passed — and the Governor signed into law — what I affectionately refer to as the “Big Ag/Industrial Egg Welfare Act”.  Shoving aside less pressing concerns confronting the state and the world like climate change, pesticide resistant weeds, peak oil, trade standoff’s with China among others, this initiative tackles a problem on everyone's mind by requiring retailers who participate in the subsidized nutrition program know as WIC to carry industrial eggs (AKA “conventional eggs”) if they also commit the heinous atrocity of carrying “specialty eggs” — or “good eggs” as I like to think of them. You know, eggs produced by chickens whose chickenness is honored with good food to eat, good land to freely range, and plenty of room to flap their wings.

I can sympathize. God knows it’s hard for me to make a living selling dozens of eggs. I can only imagine how hard it must be to thrive selling millions of them.

But this new law has an oddness to it that intrigues me.  On the one hand, our Legislature never misses an opportunity to suckle and succor Business Interests in general and Big Ag in particular -- and this law unapologetically guarantees the latter a sales stream -- it is unusual that our lawmakers have opted to elbow their way into meddling with how retailers stock their shelves.  Meanwhile, though this and recent Legislatures demonstrate resourceful creativity in conceiving new and imaginatively paternalistic ways to punish the poor, this law imposes no requirement on what must actually be purchased; rather it reserves its muscles for coercing merchants into a specific mandate for what must be sold.

Like any good and concerned citizen I wrote my two legislators -- one, a Democrat, and one, a Republican.  Only the former deemed this constituent's query worthy of response so I can't speak to the motivations and/or logic of the latter.  The response I did receive defended his support of this bi-partisan bill by asserting the importance of using government monies wisely (though I can't discern how this measure accomplishes that) and lauding the fact that conventional eggs are inspected.  That last argument, of course, is almost too circular to engage.  Hypothetically, inspections sound like a good thing -- if we were to actually accomplish them.  These same legislators and their colleagues at the federal level, however, so routinely cut the budgets of such inspection programs -- in part through the protestations of the industry lobbyists who, let's face it, don't really like inspectors snooping around, alongside that elusive, Holy Grail-like quest to "reduce the size of government."  In my response to my legislator's response, I allowed as to how I had never -- ever -- heard of a "specialty egg" recall, and that he has more confidence than I do in our vaunted "inspection" system.

As if on cue, this weekend we woke to reports of yet another salmonella-tainted corporate egg recall.  Rose Acre Farms of Seymour, Indiana is recalling over 2 million eggs produced in their North Carolina factory farms and sold in nine states under numerous labels because...well...because they were making people sick.  Fever, diarrhea, nausea, vomiting and abdominal pain.

Thank goodness these things get inspected -- although it would probably be more helpful if they were inspected before they were sold.

And thank goodness we now have this helpful law signed and on the books.  It would be a terrible thing if the poor of Iowa were deprived of their own fair share of salmonella.  Everyone, after all, should have the right to puke.