Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Planters and such...
I'd like to give the whole thing up. I would. The fields. The tractors. The planters. The weeds. The woodchucks. The garlic. Well, not that. I love the garlic. And I love the fields. I love the views of High Point. I love the expansive views, the sunsets. When I'm standing in the fields, it feels like I am standing by the ocean. And this year I have been. Standing by the ocean. The abyss. It's so massive. How can I possibly compete? I can't. But I keep remembering that little bit of science that I learned in high school, that the number of molecules in one vial of liquid when spread in all the ocean water would still be a lot. (You can see why I never majored in science, the science of it escapes me entirely). But I understand it intuitively. And even though I have had to plug my nose while cleaning up the barn and cabin and while driving to and from the farm, I am thinking about planters. It's time to graduate. To a precision planter. A vacuum planter. A planter that plants precisely. A planter that wastes no seeds. A planter that costs $10,000. Gasp! And $40 per seed plate. I talked to Dave from marketfarm.com. He was one of the first people that I talked to when I first started this venture. When I had nothing but a dream and some money from selling the laundro-mat and a very supportive husband. Dave spent hours on the phone with me discussing equipment and various options of various equipment, the combinations are countless. It was Dave who gave me the idea of breaking down each of the fields into smaller fields, like my garden, with multiple raised beds to plant and rotate crops; with strips of grass to drive on. So, here I am, four years later. Talking to Dave once again. About singulation. About air pressure and double disk openers. About double lines and shoe openers and needle-end lettuce seed. About still being in this business. "So, you're still doing this?" he asked incredulously. (Yeah, I had my doubts about me too). "Yes," I replied. "But I had to end the CSA early this year. We were massively flooded." "Ah, yes, but you had the support of the CSA," he said wistfully. And I knew that he wished he had had this support when farming. If so, he would probably still be loading up his 12MX, his pumpkin planter, of which we bought one and finally figured the thing out this year, and he'd be out there planting something, anything, for that is what he is, what he does. He grows (he grew, now, he sells to those who grow but it's not the same). And I am not yet ready to let it go. The growing. Because I know that once I do, it'll be gone. For good. At least for me. And I have worked really hard for this. This CSA. I have spent a lot of time on my hands and knees planting and weeding; and no, I am not complaining, this has been my choice (and I love this part of it) the planting and weeding. The picking. The washing. Not so much. But the CSA. I love. And so, even though sometimes I would like to give it up, I can't. I won't. So, even though this year has been a wash (both financially and spiritually and sometimes a wash is good!), I will be here next year. With the first greens of garlic (it avoids the rush of farming). And the full harvest of butternut squash (it still needs curing). And so do I!
Friday, September 2, 2011
Aunt Irene's Humble Pie
Thanks to everyone who emailed for your concern and support. We are doing fine, really. No one was hurt, physically. Nor do we depend upon the vegetables for our survival or even livelihood (in fact, most small farmers either have some outside work for income unless they are large enough to be on the dole (government subsidies and/or crop insurance). And we will take our time, dry out all the equipment (my husband is particularly adept at fixing things), prep the fields and plant the 200 pounds of garlic seed that we just ordered (ah, the seduction of farming!). We were able to hire a crane operator to remove the fallen tree from our roof and will hire someone to repair the roof and windows of our barn (I think these natural disasters are what keep our economy going!)
No, it's not all these things that bother me. It's the bigger picture that is so worrisome. Climate change (global warming is now a dirty word) and my own personal lack of control is much more troubling. Somehow, I thought that if I could just learn how to grow all these vegetables, I would never be hungry. That somehow the Irish potato famine had nothing to do with me. That those poor people starving in Somalia were just that, poor people starving in Somalia (what have any of us done in the past week to help alleviate such problems?). As long as I "owned" this land, this black dirt, I could protect me and my family (and my extended family, the CSA) from hunger. But this whole experience with farming has taught me (and continues to teach me, I must be a slow learner!) to let go (and this is very hard for me to do). To let go.
There seems to be a lot of loss in farming. Loss of vegetables due to insects, woodchucks, deer and fungus. Loss of vegetables to sell because they are too small, too big, too many insect holes, too cracked, too yellow, too flowering, too cheap, too funny looking (all those go into the compost bin -- unless you have daring CSA members). Loss of opportunities to plant (too wet, too dry, too late, too buggy, too dark, too rainy, too tired) and loss of opportunities to harvest (too wet, too dry, too late, too buggy, too dark, too rainy, too weedy, too bored (picking is not may favorite), too tired (stiff knuckles and sore knees). I have planted and then tilled under entire rows of crops. I have lost every single tomato plant that I so carefully stakes and tied due to late blight. I thought I knew what letting go was. Until now.
I had listened to my farmer friend talk about the year 1955 when the valley was flooded and all the crates of harvested onions floated up (one of the few rivers that flows north) the Wallkill River into the Hudson River. "Oh, I'll never forget the stink of those onions!" I heard about the year that is was all over in 20 minutes -- from hail. All the onion plants of all the carefully selected and saved seed. Gone. In just one hailstorm. And a very lean year after that! I hung onto the wise words of Farmer John (The Real Dirt on Farmer John) when he talked about the year 1983 when it rained and rained and rained and he was still able to provide vegetables for the CSA. I was confident armed with his experience of that horrendous year. Until now.
It is so devastating. And so complete. There is nothing left. Not a single potato or purslane leaf. It's all gone. No wonder they starved during the Irish potato famine. No wonder they eat mud pies in Haiti. When it's all gone, it's all gone. I foolishly thought that I was building a safety net by growing vegetables and selling them locally through the CSA. I somehow thought that this was the solution to corporate agriculture. That somehow, by doing this, we could "beat" them and the system. I was arrogant. Too arrogant apparently. At least my mother Nature thought so. And so she whipped up a little dessert she called "Irene" and served it to me on a simple white plate with a dollop of whipped cream. Some don't like the name "Irene" and prefer to call it "Humble Pie."
And so, I am eating humble pie. I am humbled. Completely. By all the emails that I have received from the members of the CSA. By the confidence that people have in me that I don't have in myself. And I am slowly (and I can be very slow to learn!) beginning to have the experience of "oneness" i.e.. that I am not separate from Nature, from purslane, from other people, from Somalia, from corporate agriculture, from Fukushima, from myself. We are all in this together, like it or not. There is not "them" there is only "us." We are the ones we have been waiting for. And "we" are very powerful. We don't know our power.
So, can't we know this power we have and make sure that no one is hungry on the planet Earth?
No, it's not all these things that bother me. It's the bigger picture that is so worrisome. Climate change (global warming is now a dirty word) and my own personal lack of control is much more troubling. Somehow, I thought that if I could just learn how to grow all these vegetables, I would never be hungry. That somehow the Irish potato famine had nothing to do with me. That those poor people starving in Somalia were just that, poor people starving in Somalia (what have any of us done in the past week to help alleviate such problems?). As long as I "owned" this land, this black dirt, I could protect me and my family (and my extended family, the CSA) from hunger. But this whole experience with farming has taught me (and continues to teach me, I must be a slow learner!) to let go (and this is very hard for me to do). To let go.
There seems to be a lot of loss in farming. Loss of vegetables due to insects, woodchucks, deer and fungus. Loss of vegetables to sell because they are too small, too big, too many insect holes, too cracked, too yellow, too flowering, too cheap, too funny looking (all those go into the compost bin -- unless you have daring CSA members). Loss of opportunities to plant (too wet, too dry, too late, too buggy, too dark, too rainy, too tired) and loss of opportunities to harvest (too wet, too dry, too late, too buggy, too dark, too rainy, too weedy, too bored (picking is not may favorite), too tired (stiff knuckles and sore knees). I have planted and then tilled under entire rows of crops. I have lost every single tomato plant that I so carefully stakes and tied due to late blight. I thought I knew what letting go was. Until now.
I had listened to my farmer friend talk about the year 1955 when the valley was flooded and all the crates of harvested onions floated up (one of the few rivers that flows north) the Wallkill River into the Hudson River. "Oh, I'll never forget the stink of those onions!" I heard about the year that is was all over in 20 minutes -- from hail. All the onion plants of all the carefully selected and saved seed. Gone. In just one hailstorm. And a very lean year after that! I hung onto the wise words of Farmer John (The Real Dirt on Farmer John) when he talked about the year 1983 when it rained and rained and rained and he was still able to provide vegetables for the CSA. I was confident armed with his experience of that horrendous year. Until now.
It is so devastating. And so complete. There is nothing left. Not a single potato or purslane leaf. It's all gone. No wonder they starved during the Irish potato famine. No wonder they eat mud pies in Haiti. When it's all gone, it's all gone. I foolishly thought that I was building a safety net by growing vegetables and selling them locally through the CSA. I somehow thought that this was the solution to corporate agriculture. That somehow, by doing this, we could "beat" them and the system. I was arrogant. Too arrogant apparently. At least my mother Nature thought so. And so she whipped up a little dessert she called "Irene" and served it to me on a simple white plate with a dollop of whipped cream. Some don't like the name "Irene" and prefer to call it "Humble Pie."
And so, I am eating humble pie. I am humbled. Completely. By all the emails that I have received from the members of the CSA. By the confidence that people have in me that I don't have in myself. And I am slowly (and I can be very slow to learn!) beginning to have the experience of "oneness" i.e.. that I am not separate from Nature, from purslane, from other people, from Somalia, from corporate agriculture, from Fukushima, from myself. We are all in this together, like it or not. There is not "them" there is only "us." We are the ones we have been waiting for. And "we" are very powerful. We don't know our power.
So, can't we know this power we have and make sure that no one is hungry on the planet Earth?
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