The wild plums on the south border of our property are blooming. I can see them from the window as a spray of white against dark branches that are not yet hidden by leaves. Everywhere I drive now, I see wild plums in bloom, and it feels like I’m discovering secrets. I try to make mental notes of where they are, as if I were planning to go back and harvest them later, but I’m sure I won’t. I want to know where they are because wild plums are one of the ways the land laughs, and I want to hear that laughter.
The day we first found our wild plums was one of the most beautiful days of my life. Last summer, I walked along the south border of our property for no good reason on a day when the sky was thick with heavy gray clouds. There were some yellow flowers along the south fence line, mixed into in a thin border of grass between soybean fields. In that strange light before the rain, the flowers were orange lanterns that glowed from within. I went to them, and when I looked at the shrubs beside them, I saw the golden plums hanging down.
My husband and son were gone for the afternoon, so I went running barefoot through the soybeans and across our clover to find my daughter. She came to see them and she lit up, as one does in the presence of something amazing. Then the rain came. We ran to the garage and sat there on an old ragged loveseat while the rain drummed on the metal roof and sent its wonderful odor wafting through the wide open door. Kittens, which had been born in a garage before we moved in, came to sit on our laps and rub against our legs. As we talked and joked, part of me stood aside, full of sober wonder at the loveliness of my daughter.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Still safe in the brooder
Through my front window this week, I caught a glimpse of something large falling to the ground. I went over to the window to get a closer look, and I saw a hawk standing on top of a starling, which it had apparently just brought down to the ground. The hawk, which was only slightly larger than the bird it had captured, stared steadily at me from less than 10 feet away while the shimmering starling struggled to rise. Suddenly, the hawk lifted and flew across the street to the wood, while the starling flapped away in the other direction.
If that hawk can bring down a starling, it will certainly be after my chickens. Last year, we tied the fishing line over the chicken yard to keep away hawks, and we will probably need to do the same this year. In the meantime, the chicks are still safe in their brooder. Their bodies are still yellow fluff, but their wings are covered with white feathers now. The feathers look more like a fashion statement than an integral part of the chick.
Because we are feeding them purely organic grain, we are not giving the chicks medicated feed as many people do. Many pastured poultry producers feed their chicks raw milk occasionally to help them stay healthy, so in our refrigerator, we have a two-quart mason jar full of creamy raw milk from grass-fed cows. I will mix some of it into the chicken feed tonight. It looks like a real treat.
If that hawk can bring down a starling, it will certainly be after my chickens. Last year, we tied the fishing line over the chicken yard to keep away hawks, and we will probably need to do the same this year. In the meantime, the chicks are still safe in their brooder. Their bodies are still yellow fluff, but their wings are covered with white feathers now. The feathers look more like a fashion statement than an integral part of the chick.
Because we are feeding them purely organic grain, we are not giving the chicks medicated feed as many people do. Many pastured poultry producers feed their chicks raw milk occasionally to help them stay healthy, so in our refrigerator, we have a two-quart mason jar full of creamy raw milk from grass-fed cows. I will mix some of it into the chicken feed tonight. It looks like a real treat.
Friday, April 16, 2010
They're here!
The chicks have arrived!
We spent the last week cleaning and renovating their coop and then getting it all ready for them. On Wednesday, the day they were to leave the hatchery in Iowa, we turned the heat lamps on in their coop, and it waited for them, bright and warm-looking.
At around noon on Thursday, the post office called to say the chicks had arrived, and we frantically rushed around the chicken coop trying to seal up drafts. Then, we drove to the post office, and the minute I walked through the door, I could hear peeping. We picked up our big cardboard box full of peeping chicks, and we set it across the laps of my son and mother-in-law for the ride home. They peered through the holes of the box at the yellow fluffy shapes inside.
Back at home, all three of us sat down in the clean woodchips of the chicken coop, and as we lifted each fuzzy yellow chick out of the box, we quickly dipped its beak into water, which apparently entices them to drink. It worked well, as they were soon gathering around the little watering bowls, sipping the water, then lifting their beaks up to the sky to swallow. They are little yellow balls of fluff that fit perfectly in my palm and seem rather indifferent about being picked up. These chicks are lively, and I’m surprised at how quickly they can dark about on their little yellow feet, but they also spend a lot of time sleeping. While we watch them, one of them almost fell asleep while standing up!
During the next few days, we will be especially careful to keep them warm, adjusting the heat lamps down to provide lots of heat during the cool nights.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Meeting our fields
About a year has passed now since my husband and I signed the papers to buy our farm. It didn’t have heat or running water at the time because it had been stripped of niceties like pipes and a thermostat, so on our first trip down, we packed everything we needed to dye Easter eggs on the back deck. We also planned to spend some time getting to know the fields.
I had a plan for our first time in the fields. My husband and I were going to waltz there, just like the couple did in the last scene of a movie called Sweet Land. After watching those two people dancing in the wide open space of the movie screen, I sat in a dark theater sobbing as the credits rolled and everyone else got up to leave. Then I broke down crying again in my kitchen in Minneapolis because I felt so wildly homesick for a farm that had never been mine. If I could dance in my own fields, with my husband, I felt like my longing would be put to rest.
My husband knew this was important to me, so he agreed to waltz around in the fields. We went out north of the house, he put his arm around my waist, and we held hands like we were waiting for music to start. From our first step to our last, we were painfully awkward. Our soil is full of clay, and so the ridges of earth between the rows of corn were solid and treacherous. We kept tripping and looking around, trying not to crash through the surprisingly solid walls of last-year’s corn stalks. It was not romantic, and after my husband had checked a couple of times to be sure that I had indeed gotten enough of the long-awaited dancing, we stopped.
With that task out of the way, my husband immediately bent down and started squishing the soil between his fingers, trying to make a snake out of it the way my kids make snakes out of play dough. I bent down to join him and found it was kind of fun. Our soil is so full of clay you could sculpt almost anything you liked from it, and it would hold the shape. I was fascinated, and we crouched there talking about the dirt. Eventually, we stood up again, and just for the heck of it, we started skipping north, each in our own little road hemmed by tough, light brown corn stalks. As I bounced up and down past corn stalks, I looked over at my husband skipping, and I couldn’t help smiling.
I had a plan for our first time in the fields. My husband and I were going to waltz there, just like the couple did in the last scene of a movie called Sweet Land. After watching those two people dancing in the wide open space of the movie screen, I sat in a dark theater sobbing as the credits rolled and everyone else got up to leave. Then I broke down crying again in my kitchen in Minneapolis because I felt so wildly homesick for a farm that had never been mine. If I could dance in my own fields, with my husband, I felt like my longing would be put to rest.
My husband knew this was important to me, so he agreed to waltz around in the fields. We went out north of the house, he put his arm around my waist, and we held hands like we were waiting for music to start. From our first step to our last, we were painfully awkward. Our soil is full of clay, and so the ridges of earth between the rows of corn were solid and treacherous. We kept tripping and looking around, trying not to crash through the surprisingly solid walls of last-year’s corn stalks. It was not romantic, and after my husband had checked a couple of times to be sure that I had indeed gotten enough of the long-awaited dancing, we stopped.
With that task out of the way, my husband immediately bent down and started squishing the soil between his fingers, trying to make a snake out of it the way my kids make snakes out of play dough. I bent down to join him and found it was kind of fun. Our soil is so full of clay you could sculpt almost anything you liked from it, and it would hold the shape. I was fascinated, and we crouched there talking about the dirt. Eventually, we stood up again, and just for the heck of it, we started skipping north, each in our own little road hemmed by tough, light brown corn stalks. As I bounced up and down past corn stalks, I looked over at my husband skipping, and I couldn’t help smiling.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Auntie Annie's Fields
(We have decided to name our farm Auntie Annie's Fields after all. I called the farm in Wisconsin that has a similar name -- Auntie Annie's Fluff and Stuff -- and the lady there was completely unconcerned. She sold out of her wool products months in advance this year! They must have an excellent product. Auntie Annie's Fields is legally available at Minnesota, so we are going for it. This is why we chose the name:)
We have named our farm after my great-aunt Anne, who lived in northwestern part of the state where it is so flat you can see the curve of the earth. At least, my grandfather could see it. He looked at the fields the way sailors used to look at the sea, and he remembered that sailors spied only the top of a far-away ship because the curve of the earth blocked their view of the rest of the vessel. Instead of seeing a ship, my grandpa saw a church steeple far away across flat fields. As he drew closer to a church, he saw more and more of the church building as the curve of the earth stopped obstructing his view and receded again into the realm of the unseen.
The silent curve of the earth did not haunt the home of my great aunt. Her old white farmhouse was surrounded trees, and filled with the activity of farm animals, work and children. My grandma was born and grew up in that house, and whenever she came back for a visit, she felt like she was going home. Grandma died when my mother was 11, and after that, I think Auntie Anne’s house became my mother’s home too, even though she could only visit during the summers.
I grew up listening to the stories of that farm, and those stories were told with such love that I grew up believing her life was a model of what life should be like. Auntie Anne was tough, and full of common sense, and ready to laugh. I remember that she had a twinkle in her eye even as a very old woman, which suggested to me she might be up to some mischief. I’ve been told that people could identify her car when they could barely see it across the flat fields because she always drove so fast down the gravel roads that she kicked up huge clouds of dust.
Auntie Anne was also wildly competent. She raised seven children on a farm that grew much of what the family ate, and when her husband died suddenly, she and her fairly young children kept farming. Apparently some relative speculated she would need to move to town after being widowed, and that lit a fire under her. She proved that relative wrong.
I will never be like Auntie Anne. She earned her competence and common sense by working tremendously hard all her life. My life has been easier in many ways, and full of more options. The culture around us has changed, too. The land where she lived, which used to be full of children, churches, gardens and chicken coops, has been emptying out for almost half a century. The houses go empty then disappear, marked only by the clusters of trees that once sheltered them from wind. Then, the trees turn into piles of brush, and the piles disappear into fields of row crops that go on like inland seas. Shops close, and schools close, and some people keep on farming.
On the day we changed our name, I think I felt the presence of Auntie Anne. It blew in like a wind through the east window. At the time, I was feeling unsure about this name because I was afraid that as new (less competent) farmers, we might sometimes be an embarrassment to her memory. My mom said not to worry about that because she couldn’t imagine Auntie Anne being embarrassed about anything at all. I am not really worried about it either. I feel easy with naming our farm after Auntie Anne not because I am competent but because I love her, and just like she did, I love a little piece of ground.
We have named our farm after my great-aunt Anne, who lived in northwestern part of the state where it is so flat you can see the curve of the earth. At least, my grandfather could see it. He looked at the fields the way sailors used to look at the sea, and he remembered that sailors spied only the top of a far-away ship because the curve of the earth blocked their view of the rest of the vessel. Instead of seeing a ship, my grandpa saw a church steeple far away across flat fields. As he drew closer to a church, he saw more and more of the church building as the curve of the earth stopped obstructing his view and receded again into the realm of the unseen.
The silent curve of the earth did not haunt the home of my great aunt. Her old white farmhouse was surrounded trees, and filled with the activity of farm animals, work and children. My grandma was born and grew up in that house, and whenever she came back for a visit, she felt like she was going home. Grandma died when my mother was 11, and after that, I think Auntie Anne’s house became my mother’s home too, even though she could only visit during the summers.
I grew up listening to the stories of that farm, and those stories were told with such love that I grew up believing her life was a model of what life should be like. Auntie Anne was tough, and full of common sense, and ready to laugh. I remember that she had a twinkle in her eye even as a very old woman, which suggested to me she might be up to some mischief. I’ve been told that people could identify her car when they could barely see it across the flat fields because she always drove so fast down the gravel roads that she kicked up huge clouds of dust.
Auntie Anne was also wildly competent. She raised seven children on a farm that grew much of what the family ate, and when her husband died suddenly, she and her fairly young children kept farming. Apparently some relative speculated she would need to move to town after being widowed, and that lit a fire under her. She proved that relative wrong.
I will never be like Auntie Anne. She earned her competence and common sense by working tremendously hard all her life. My life has been easier in many ways, and full of more options. The culture around us has changed, too. The land where she lived, which used to be full of children, churches, gardens and chicken coops, has been emptying out for almost half a century. The houses go empty then disappear, marked only by the clusters of trees that once sheltered them from wind. Then, the trees turn into piles of brush, and the piles disappear into fields of row crops that go on like inland seas. Shops close, and schools close, and some people keep on farming.
On the day we changed our name, I think I felt the presence of Auntie Anne. It blew in like a wind through the east window. At the time, I was feeling unsure about this name because I was afraid that as new (less competent) farmers, we might sometimes be an embarrassment to her memory. My mom said not to worry about that because she couldn’t imagine Auntie Anne being embarrassed about anything at all. I am not really worried about it either. I feel easy with naming our farm after Auntie Anne not because I am competent but because I love her, and just like she did, I love a little piece of ground.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Help!
We have been planning for months to call our farm Fields of Light, and on the day before we were going to print out our chicken marketing forms, we opened up a huge can of worms. My eight year old hates that name. It brings tears to her eyes. After months of saying, "Well that is too bad," we decided we wanted a name that everyone in the family can endure because we’re all going to be working on it. The farm name will even be on our answering machine. People have also told us that Fields of Light sounds new agey, and that does not sit well with me.
We decided to call the farm Auntie Annie’s Fields, in honor of my great aunt who was tough and wonderful, and who farmed in the northwestern part of the state before there was such a thing is non-organic farming. It felt perfectly clear to me the farm’s name had been discovered, and nobody else in the family hated it. Joyfully, we sent the name out with our first “chicken pitch” of the season.
Then we googled it. A farm in Wisconsin that produces woolen products is called “Auntie Annie’s Fluff and Stuff.” "Auntie Anne’s" is trademarked by a huge company that sells pretzels in malls. “Anne’s Fields” is open, but I have asked a couple of people about whether sounds like a good name, and they just shake their heads.
So we kept looking for names, but after deciding on "Aunt Annie's Fields," nothing else seems right. Here are some of the names we have considered:
“Solid ground farm” is a horse farm in Pennsylvania.
“Story farm” appears to be a literary magazine because it brings up pictures of people sleeping in bed.
“Story field farm” is available, but it sounds a lot like the organic yogurt company. Plus, a "story field" is apparently some kind of psychosocial phenomenon.
“Light swept fields” is lovely and available, but it sounds like we don’t sweep much (which is unfortunately true), and it sounds more literary than agricultural. What are you going to buy from light swept fields?
“Pearls before chickens” came to mind in a moment of desperation, but we worried that it would cast our chickens in an unflattering light – as if they did not deserve pearls.
When I pressed the issue in a conversation with my mom, she admitted that she thought they all sounded a bit hippy-dippy, and she thought we might be in good shape going with something like R & O Farms, or I & E Farms using initials from our names.
Oh, and Fields of Light? It’s the title of a book someone wrote about his dad.
We are sick and tired of talking about farm names. We feel like we have lost any sense of perspective about this, and this is taking up way too much time. Which of these names do you think is best? Or do you have another idea?
We decided to call the farm Auntie Annie’s Fields, in honor of my great aunt who was tough and wonderful, and who farmed in the northwestern part of the state before there was such a thing is non-organic farming. It felt perfectly clear to me the farm’s name had been discovered, and nobody else in the family hated it. Joyfully, we sent the name out with our first “chicken pitch” of the season.
Then we googled it. A farm in Wisconsin that produces woolen products is called “Auntie Annie’s Fluff and Stuff.” "Auntie Anne’s" is trademarked by a huge company that sells pretzels in malls. “Anne’s Fields” is open, but I have asked a couple of people about whether sounds like a good name, and they just shake their heads.
So we kept looking for names, but after deciding on "Aunt Annie's Fields," nothing else seems right. Here are some of the names we have considered:
“Solid ground farm” is a horse farm in Pennsylvania.
“Story farm” appears to be a literary magazine because it brings up pictures of people sleeping in bed.
“Story field farm” is available, but it sounds a lot like the organic yogurt company. Plus, a "story field" is apparently some kind of psychosocial phenomenon.
“Light swept fields” is lovely and available, but it sounds like we don’t sweep much (which is unfortunately true), and it sounds more literary than agricultural. What are you going to buy from light swept fields?
“Pearls before chickens” came to mind in a moment of desperation, but we worried that it would cast our chickens in an unflattering light – as if they did not deserve pearls.
When I pressed the issue in a conversation with my mom, she admitted that she thought they all sounded a bit hippy-dippy, and she thought we might be in good shape going with something like R & O Farms, or I & E Farms using initials from our names.
Oh, and Fields of Light? It’s the title of a book someone wrote about his dad.
We are sick and tired of talking about farm names. We feel like we have lost any sense of perspective about this, and this is taking up way too much time. Which of these names do you think is best? Or do you have another idea?
Words for seeds
This is what my five-year-old sweetly told the tomato seeds he got for Easter as he pressed them down into peat moss:
“Here you go, little seeds. You don’t even know what life is yet, do you? Well, you will find out soon.”
“Here you go, little seeds. You don’t even know what life is yet, do you? Well, you will find out soon.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)