Until about a year ago, the idea of euthanizing chickens did not scare me. I grew up hearing my mother talk about how she, as a child, watched her uncle kill a chicken. He walked around the barnyard with it, speaking to it and holding it in his arms quite tenderly. Suddenly, he flipped the bird, broke its neck and killed it instantly. Whenever she told that story to me, my mom lit up with admiration and wonder at the way her quiet uncle showed compassion and skill when ending an animal’s life. Her story glowed with a quality of redemption.
This is the story I thought of when I pictured euthanizing chickens. Then, before we moved down to the farm, friends generously loaned me books about women who had moved to country. One of them described in great detail how a woman tried in vain to kill a chicken. She was not able to wring its neck successfully, or even to chop its head off with an ax. Finally, in tears, she called her mother-in-law to come finish the deed, which she did.
When I was faced with the job of euthanizing the chicken last summer, I was afraid I would be more like the woman in the book and less like my great-uncle who had years of practice wringing necks. I waited too long to act, and the chicken suffered more than it should have. I will not allow that to happen again.
I was talking about this with my friend Molly who could relate perfectly. A few summers ago, when she needed to kill a seriously injured chicken, she decided that shooting it would be the most humane thing to do. She fetched out the rifle, but when she opened the door to go out to the chicken yard, she was surprised to find a salesman standing on her front step, about to ring her doorbell. Molly is a warm and lovely woman who radiates strength. She has worked as a firefighter and played a season of professional football on one of the country’s few women’s teams. The salesman looked at her and her rifle and started to stammer.
Molly quickly considered what to say. It sounded all wrong to tell a nervous stranger, “It is okay --I am just going to shoot the chicken.” So, she decided to keep things simple. “It is a bad time,” she said, and the salesman literally ran to his car and sped away. Alone again, Molly went to the chicken yard to do the deed and found that it was more complicated than she had expected because chickens move around a lot. They bob their heads and dart this way and that. She was able to finish the job though.
Within the next couple of months, I need some good advice about wringing necks. I feel awkward seeking out that advice, but I suppose the people who have good advice to give me will not think it is a strange or creepy question. If I am called upon this summer to euthanize a chicken, I am going to bring my rifle as a backup plan, and I am going to hope fervently that no salesmen appear while I work.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
The music
Sometimes I hear the music that comes from living things. Sometimes I hear it from things that most people don’t consider to be alive – like the soil, or a storm. I often hear the music of babies and young children, and once in a while, when I’m not trying to, I hear other people too. Sometimes I can tell if someone is not well because their music is off rhythm or out of tune. On a couple occasions, someone’s music has been so “off” that it hurts my throat, my chest, and my stomach. I have found that singing and praying helps me feel better when this happens.
Last night, before going to bed, I stood looking through a window at the field south of our house, and I think, for just a moment, I heard the music of the whole area around me. And it was off. Many voices were missing. There were holes in the rhythm sometimes.
This is bad news, and I have been afraid that I would hear it if I listened closely enough. Hearing it did not hurt me as I thought it might, maybe because I also heard the trees. The voices of trees can be almost like an opiate, maybe like the chemical in mother’s milk that makes babies’ lids droop into sleep. In the voices of some trees, there is a peace in that surpasses understanding. They are true ministers.
I heard other voices too, and I didn’t know where they came from. They were so strong, and so beautiful, and so whole. Maybe I was experiencing some of the love of God as I looked across the field and heard the news of suffering and death in the land. I am grateful for that comfort, because without it, my grief and fear would be deep.
Last night, before going to bed, I stood looking through a window at the field south of our house, and I think, for just a moment, I heard the music of the whole area around me. And it was off. Many voices were missing. There were holes in the rhythm sometimes.
This is bad news, and I have been afraid that I would hear it if I listened closely enough. Hearing it did not hurt me as I thought it might, maybe because I also heard the trees. The voices of trees can be almost like an opiate, maybe like the chemical in mother’s milk that makes babies’ lids droop into sleep. In the voices of some trees, there is a peace in that surpasses understanding. They are true ministers.
I heard other voices too, and I didn’t know where they came from. They were so strong, and so beautiful, and so whole. Maybe I was experiencing some of the love of God as I looked across the field and heard the news of suffering and death in the land. I am grateful for that comfort, because without it, my grief and fear would be deep.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
On pricing and castration
As part of being a new farmer, I know I need to change some of my attitudes. For example, at a farming conference, when people were standing around trading tips about castrating hogs, I felt the blood drain from my face. “Clearly, you just need to get over this,” I told myself. Then, I tried to rearrange my gaping mouth into a pleasant expression, nod at the right times, and soak up some good advice in case we ever raise hogs.
A similar uneasiness settles over me as I think about what to charge for our chickens this summer. Experienced sustainable farmers all say the same thing – don’t under charge for your product. Most people don’t go into farming to make money, they say, but without money there is no farm. Also, people who are making a living in sustainable farming have to work very hard to educate people about why their prices are higher, and then if someone undercuts their prices, all their work is lost, and nobody wins.
I do not want to make my farm truly “unsustainable” by failing to make money on it. I certainly do not want to do anything to make life harder for other sustainable farmers. I also want my husband, who is a schoolteacher, to be able to sell chickens to his coworkers.
As we consider one potential price, it seems like I will be charging both much and too little at the same time. I worry that I might somehow be letting down friends by charging slightly more for our birds, but at the same time we will not be able to pay ourselves $10 an hour for our work after covering the costs of raising the chickens.
“No! No!” clamors the cumulative voice of more experienced farmers. “That means you’re undercharging! That means you’re not sustainable!”
In so many areas of my life, I find things work best when I listen to my heart, but maybe this is a situation where I need to go about things differently. Just look at the numbers on our cost of production spreadsheet and proceed very rationally. Clearly, I need to steel myself as I consider pricing, just as I would need to steel myself if I were ever getting ready to castrate a hog.
A similar uneasiness settles over me as I think about what to charge for our chickens this summer. Experienced sustainable farmers all say the same thing – don’t under charge for your product. Most people don’t go into farming to make money, they say, but without money there is no farm. Also, people who are making a living in sustainable farming have to work very hard to educate people about why their prices are higher, and then if someone undercuts their prices, all their work is lost, and nobody wins.
I do not want to make my farm truly “unsustainable” by failing to make money on it. I certainly do not want to do anything to make life harder for other sustainable farmers. I also want my husband, who is a schoolteacher, to be able to sell chickens to his coworkers.
As we consider one potential price, it seems like I will be charging both much and too little at the same time. I worry that I might somehow be letting down friends by charging slightly more for our birds, but at the same time we will not be able to pay ourselves $10 an hour for our work after covering the costs of raising the chickens.
“No! No!” clamors the cumulative voice of more experienced farmers. “That means you’re undercharging! That means you’re not sustainable!”
In so many areas of my life, I find things work best when I listen to my heart, but maybe this is a situation where I need to go about things differently. Just look at the numbers on our cost of production spreadsheet and proceed very rationally. Clearly, I need to steel myself as I consider pricing, just as I would need to steel myself if I were ever getting ready to castrate a hog.
Friday, March 12, 2010
The uranium chimney
My sick kindergartner and I were listening to a rather dull children’s book on tape yesterday, when I suddenly could not believe what I was hearing. The four boxcar children were visiting their ailing great aunt at her ranch. The lonely old lady decided to give her land to the kids because they loved it as much as she did, and then it turned out the land had uranium on it. The children gathered around a hole to hear a hand-held Geiger counter clicking merrily away, and they exclaimed at how loud it was! Mining operations were set up blithely, and guards were posted at their doors. During a merry birthday party for the sick aunt, it was discovered that her home’s unusual stone chimney, of which he was very proud, was made out of uranium ore inside and out. Everyone reacted cheerfully, and the book ended with a satisfied tone.
No wonder the old lady was sick. And she gave her poisonous house to the children. What a legacy.
Listening to that book felt healing to me in some strange way. Curious to know more, I discovered that the book was written in the 1950s. That explains it, I thought to myself. They didn’t know any better. I thought about the book’s characters all afternoon, feeling for the same compassion I might feel for a child who bumbled into a tiger and started playing with its fur.
We as a community have a lot in common with the old aunt in our book on tape. In farming, and in almost every part of our lives, we are living blithely with poison, and we’re passing that poison on to the next generations with very little understanding of what it will mean for them. Today, instead of feeling anger and fear, I am feeling compassion for our ignorance and weakness, and it feels good. It feels like a ray of more vibrant faith breaking through.
No wonder the old lady was sick. And she gave her poisonous house to the children. What a legacy.
Listening to that book felt healing to me in some strange way. Curious to know more, I discovered that the book was written in the 1950s. That explains it, I thought to myself. They didn’t know any better. I thought about the book’s characters all afternoon, feeling for the same compassion I might feel for a child who bumbled into a tiger and started playing with its fur.
We as a community have a lot in common with the old aunt in our book on tape. In farming, and in almost every part of our lives, we are living blithely with poison, and we’re passing that poison on to the next generations with very little understanding of what it will mean for them. Today, instead of feeling anger and fear, I am feeling compassion for our ignorance and weakness, and it feels good. It feels like a ray of more vibrant faith breaking through.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
A happy day for everyone
My chickens have not been born yet, but the dates of their death have already been set. In early June, August, and October, we are planning to load up our truck with birds in crates and drive them them to a local meat processor, which is quite a popular place. If I had waited much longer to call the business, its schedule might’ve been full.
As I wrote down the processing dates on the calendar, I paused, thinking that I was forgetting something important. My mom finally cleared it up for me when she remarked that one of those days is my wedding anniversary.
“That will be a happy day for everyone!” said my mom, who is glad that my husband and I feel the way we do about each other.
“Yes it will be a happy day,” I answered. “Except not for the chickens.” My goal is that my chickens should have only one bad day in their lives, but that bad day is really a doozy. “Maybe it will be a happy day for them because they will go on to their eternal reward,” I stammered. It isn’t too much of a stretch to think such a thing. St. Francis of Assisi apparently preached to birds, and in at least one instance, they seemed to listen to him. I bet my poultry would listen to St. Francis of Assisi if he wandered by their coop. But I guess I should not be so sure yet. After all, how do you judge the spiritual condition of chickens you have not met?
As I wrote down the processing dates on the calendar, I paused, thinking that I was forgetting something important. My mom finally cleared it up for me when she remarked that one of those days is my wedding anniversary.
“That will be a happy day for everyone!” said my mom, who is glad that my husband and I feel the way we do about each other.
“Yes it will be a happy day,” I answered. “Except not for the chickens.” My goal is that my chickens should have only one bad day in their lives, but that bad day is really a doozy. “Maybe it will be a happy day for them because they will go on to their eternal reward,” I stammered. It isn’t too much of a stretch to think such a thing. St. Francis of Assisi apparently preached to birds, and in at least one instance, they seemed to listen to him. I bet my poultry would listen to St. Francis of Assisi if he wandered by their coop. But I guess I should not be so sure yet. After all, how do you judge the spiritual condition of chickens you have not met?
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
In a room full of farmers
For the past six weeks, I spent every Wednesday with a group of farm women who wanted to learn about financial management. There were several organic farmers, a horse farmer, conventional dairy farmers, and a strong representation of corn and soybean farmers. Although I have been to a number of sustainable farming conferences and classes, I had never been in a class with both conventional and alternative farmers, and it felt really important to me.
I did not grow up wanting to be a “sustainable” farmer; I had never heard of such a thing. Instead, I just wanted to be a farmer, maybe like my relatives in northwestern Minnesota who grow row crops. I wanted to be like my mother’s aunt, who had lived so long in the country that even when she moved to a nursing home in town, she looked out toward the parking lot and saw her late husband heading out to the barn. I wanted to be like our dear friend Kurt, who let me work on his conventional dairy farm when I was 17 years old. I wanted to have a kitchen like his parents’ kitchen, steeped with life and rooted in the rhythms of milking.
So I felt humbled to finally be included as just a regular farmer in this financial management class, which was called Annie’s Project. The leader of the class, an extension educator, worked very hard to be sure there would be useful information both for sustainable and conventional farmers. It worked really well. Some information was applicable to any kind of farm, some of it was not. My eyes glazed over a little bit during the intricate session about marketing corn and soybeans at the elevator, but I was grateful to know more about what my neighbors do.
It wasn’t until the last class that I felt some of my buttons get pushed. During a presentation about crop insurance, a very likable insurance representative started talking about genetically modified crops. He said that Monsanto convinced the federal government that their modified crops were so resistant to bugs that people who plant them should be given a significant discount on crop insurance. Basically, bugs die when they eat the genetically modified plants, and so the crops are less vulnerable to loss. The number of farmers who use this discount has increased tremendously in the past two years.
Farmers can get this insurance deal if they plant at least 75% of their crop in the GMO variety, and people will come and inspect some farms that have applied for this discount to be sure that they are actually using the GMO seeds. Officials take tissue samples from the plants to be sure. There has been some confusion, the insurance agent said, because farmers who plant GMOs are also supposed to keep at least 20% of their crops as a “refuge,” using seeds that are not genetically modified in that portion of their field. So understandably, when officials come out to take tissue samples, some farmers lead them to their “refuge” corn, showing them that they are indeed following the rules. However, these officials want to verify that Monsanto’s seeds are being used, not that the farmers are keeping a refuge area. This has apparently happened often, but fortunately, officials test twice before imposing sanctions on the farmer.
This whole thing was sounding very creepy to me. Bugs die when they eat the plants? Wouldn’t that have some wider implications over time? And officials are testing to verify that fields are full of bug-poisoning plants? And every year there are more and more of these fields?
It did not sound creepy to many of the people in the room. The insurance representative seemed delighted with the effectiveness of modern technology. A young farmer and mother (who I like very much) questioned why the refuge areas were necessary. “Are they a refuge area for the bugs?” she asked incredulously.
Later I heard the insurance agent commiserating with another farmer, apparently bewildered by people’s concerns about GMOs. “You would think that the Greenpeace people would like these plants because it means less chemicals are used to get rid of the bugs,” he was saying.
After that presentation was done, another member of the class who represented an organization of corn growers passed out information. One pamphlet described how the people in the United States spend less money on food than people in almost any other country. The pamphlet said this was evidence that cheap corn was making our country more secure. I’d heard that fact before, but I heard it used as evidence that our current food system is not stable because it does not reflect the true cost of producing the food.
I’m impressed by how differently people see these issues, and I have no clue how to reach across these wildly different perspectives. Growing self-righteous feels like the most tempting option, but I don’t think I can afford that. Some other people probably can afford it, but some other people can probably afford to take a trip to Hawaii too. If I indulged in either of those luxuries right now, I would be shooting myself in the foot. I do not want to see conventional farmers as the “other.” I have invested too much love to walk away from the dream of sitting down again in a room full of farmers –sustainable and conventional -- and just being one of them.
I did not grow up wanting to be a “sustainable” farmer; I had never heard of such a thing. Instead, I just wanted to be a farmer, maybe like my relatives in northwestern Minnesota who grow row crops. I wanted to be like my mother’s aunt, who had lived so long in the country that even when she moved to a nursing home in town, she looked out toward the parking lot and saw her late husband heading out to the barn. I wanted to be like our dear friend Kurt, who let me work on his conventional dairy farm when I was 17 years old. I wanted to have a kitchen like his parents’ kitchen, steeped with life and rooted in the rhythms of milking.
So I felt humbled to finally be included as just a regular farmer in this financial management class, which was called Annie’s Project. The leader of the class, an extension educator, worked very hard to be sure there would be useful information both for sustainable and conventional farmers. It worked really well. Some information was applicable to any kind of farm, some of it was not. My eyes glazed over a little bit during the intricate session about marketing corn and soybeans at the elevator, but I was grateful to know more about what my neighbors do.
It wasn’t until the last class that I felt some of my buttons get pushed. During a presentation about crop insurance, a very likable insurance representative started talking about genetically modified crops. He said that Monsanto convinced the federal government that their modified crops were so resistant to bugs that people who plant them should be given a significant discount on crop insurance. Basically, bugs die when they eat the genetically modified plants, and so the crops are less vulnerable to loss. The number of farmers who use this discount has increased tremendously in the past two years.
Farmers can get this insurance deal if they plant at least 75% of their crop in the GMO variety, and people will come and inspect some farms that have applied for this discount to be sure that they are actually using the GMO seeds. Officials take tissue samples from the plants to be sure. There has been some confusion, the insurance agent said, because farmers who plant GMOs are also supposed to keep at least 20% of their crops as a “refuge,” using seeds that are not genetically modified in that portion of their field. So understandably, when officials come out to take tissue samples, some farmers lead them to their “refuge” corn, showing them that they are indeed following the rules. However, these officials want to verify that Monsanto’s seeds are being used, not that the farmers are keeping a refuge area. This has apparently happened often, but fortunately, officials test twice before imposing sanctions on the farmer.
This whole thing was sounding very creepy to me. Bugs die when they eat the plants? Wouldn’t that have some wider implications over time? And officials are testing to verify that fields are full of bug-poisoning plants? And every year there are more and more of these fields?
It did not sound creepy to many of the people in the room. The insurance representative seemed delighted with the effectiveness of modern technology. A young farmer and mother (who I like very much) questioned why the refuge areas were necessary. “Are they a refuge area for the bugs?” she asked incredulously.
Later I heard the insurance agent commiserating with another farmer, apparently bewildered by people’s concerns about GMOs. “You would think that the Greenpeace people would like these plants because it means less chemicals are used to get rid of the bugs,” he was saying.
After that presentation was done, another member of the class who represented an organization of corn growers passed out information. One pamphlet described how the people in the United States spend less money on food than people in almost any other country. The pamphlet said this was evidence that cheap corn was making our country more secure. I’d heard that fact before, but I heard it used as evidence that our current food system is not stable because it does not reflect the true cost of producing the food.
I’m impressed by how differently people see these issues, and I have no clue how to reach across these wildly different perspectives. Growing self-righteous feels like the most tempting option, but I don’t think I can afford that. Some other people probably can afford it, but some other people can probably afford to take a trip to Hawaii too. If I indulged in either of those luxuries right now, I would be shooting myself in the foot. I do not want to see conventional farmers as the “other.” I have invested too much love to walk away from the dream of sitting down again in a room full of farmers –sustainable and conventional -- and just being one of them.
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