A Winged Elm Farm Scrapbook: April

 

Farm life has gotten real busy now that spring has arrived. We are in in the middle of the annual barn cleaning, and most of what’s removed has to be dug out by hand. The resulting compost pile of bedding and sheep manure from wintering our flock has grown to a stack eight feet high and 20 feet long. I love the smell as the mixture steams in the corner of the inner corral. It smells like diving into a Louisiana pond on a summer’s day. All creosote-y and good, that’s a childhood thing you might not understand.

So here are some pictures from our busy farm, including a compost pile or two.

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A Farm Toolbox: a Dutch hoe

It may sound like the start to a naughty joke, but my life really did improve when I brought home that Dutch hoe.

It has a six-foot-long ash handle extended with an eight-inch steel shank, and a half-moon hoe on the end. It has an elegant form and is effective when working through soils with good tilth. I can weed the garden for an hour without straining my back.

A half-moon Dutch hoe

A half-moon Dutch hoe

 

The traditional style American hoe requires a rigorous up and down chopping that wears out the lower back and arms. Definitely useful with heavier soils. But for a garden where the soil has been improved with amendments and is easily worked, the half-moon hoe is a dream. The extra-length handle allows my 6-2 frame to stand upright. The cutting blade is angled so that with a motion like sweeping a broom I can cut through the soil and weeds.

The Dutch hoe is made by DeWit in Holland, and I purchased mine at a farmer’s conference a decade back in Chattanooga. A quick rub of linseed oil to the handle every few months and a quick sharpening after each use and this hoe should easily outlast me and my back.

I have a variety of hoes to choose from depending on the task at hand. The half-moon is the only one that is a pleasure to use.

My beautiful hoe.

Randy dogs, mutton and French country food

Ah, spring! It brings the lovely smell of the Viburnum in the morning. And neat rows of weed free cabbages, onions, garlic, lettuce, potatoes and kale in the garden. An image that I’ll need to remember after the inevitable weekend rains wreak havoc on my plans for order.

Baby chicks hatched out underneath one of our hens last night. And both of our English Shepherds are in heat, leaving me patrolling the boundary lines with my pellet rifle looking out for unwanted males. Looking, I’m sure, like either a member of the Michigan Militia or a father greeting his daughter’s prom date.

The past couple of days we spent in Asheville celebrating an anniversary by dining at the terrific Bouchon on Friday night and attending the Mother Earth News Fair the next morning. I sat in on a well-done workshop on butchering mature sheep (mutton). With overhead cameras in place, the presenter, Adam Danforth, broke down a whole carcass in an hour and half. The crowd was perhaps a bit over enthusiastic when he cleaved the skull and removed the brains. Meanwhile Cindy went to a workshop on turning household wastes, both kitchen and toilet, into usable gas.

After the workshops we visited the food trucks and then hit the main event: the vendor hall. A couple of hours later we left with more books than we will ever read, watched a portable sawmill in operation, ate some goats-milk ice cream, talked with some editors from various publishing houses and in general had a great time. I got Adam to sign his book: Butchering: poultry, rabbit, lamb, goat and pork: a photographic guide.

Harnessing Ginger to a stone-boat

Harnessing Ginger to a stone-boat

 

After getting home yesterday evening, completing our chores we turned in early after dinner. Today we will work Ginger on removing some downed trees. She is our Haflinger/Suffolk cross draft horse. After many years of fiddling about with different horses we think she will be the one to help us displace some of the fossil fuel we burn on this farm.

Already she has hauled fencing supplies to remote corners of the farm and will haul logs in our woodlot management program. Hard to convey how exciting it was, after many false starts over the years, to successfully have a horse haul a heavy load without pawing the sky above my head, wrapping the load around a tree or taking off for parts unknown.

So, spring is our season for hope. Whether a randy dog, hopeful gardener or budding teamster it embodies that annual wish to get it right, make a new start.

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Reading this weekend: Mushroom: a global history by Cynthia Bertelsen.

When Everything Falls Apart

Having just finished planting my sugar peas, I stepped back and mulled over topics for this weekend’s farm note. The peas are planted in a small bed in front of the potting shed, a sheltered area I’m hoping will stay cool enough to still yield a crop for the table in late May or early June. Fresh from plunging my hands in the dirt, I thought, perhaps I’ll write about the sense of touch?

Then I recalled a conversation with a friend this past week: “We know where to go when everything falls apart,” he said. I laughed for a couple of reasons. First, a recent blog I’d read had touched on that very comment. Second, if every friend or family member acted on that impulse, our small farm would quickly become overpopulated and over-used.

Now, people partly say that to express appreciation for the hard work we put into maintaining our farm. Perhaps, too, they say it to acknowledge the vague doubt that the system of global growth can continue forever. It is perhaps hardwired in our DNA to expect bad things to happen—a poor crop, a midnight raid on the village, the Black Death, a new religion and its accompanying war.

I’m not able to see into the future. But it is reasonable, based on human history, to expect periodic boom and bust cycles. And, I’m of the camp that believes that our increased ability to strip-mine the environment has led to a host of problems that may very well take the gloss off our shiny gadgets.

But here is some advice to everyone who wants to “bug out” to their friends’ or family’s farm in the event of the next depression, pandemic, or climatic catastrophe. Get to know your neighbors, wherever you live. Make that the start of your new community. Remember, community begins at home. Then learn to grow some food. Building community and producing your own food will do more to bring you security than hightailing it to the hinterlands.

By all means put some food aside for emergencies. But know this: it might be better to plant a few peas in that unused area by the garage, kale along the driveway, or potatoes over the dog’s grave.

You might find, as my cousin in Beaumont, Texas, has discovered, that you don’t need seventy acres of land to have a good amount of food security. In his small backyard he grows enough produce for his family, with plenty to spare for the weekly farmer’s market. And he has earned a place in the community from taking an active part in his town and church for many years.

So grow something and give it to the neighbors you just met. Those acts of growing and becoming part of your community are better security than any bug-out plan you might dream up.

Besides, our farm really doesn’t have room for all of you.

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Reading this weekend: The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries, because sometimes you just need a break.