Monthly Archives: December 2014

It Feels Like Home

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The rain is settling in again on the farm this Sunday morning. We have a full lineup of work ahead, and some of that will need to be postponed. Completing the predator-proof fencing for the lower pasture will need to wait for drier days; rolling out and stretching field fence in the rain would be no one’s idea of fun. But cutting firewood can be done with relative comfort and safety while deep in the woods. And this could be a good day to work on my bowl carving technique (currently just about nil).

Regardless of the task at hand, it must be said that living on a farm is endlessly challenging, rewarding, and stimulating. Living on and with the land, learning the strengths and weaknesses of this particular piece of landscape, watching the seasons come and go—all make it more of a home than anything I have experienced as an adult.

There are many who live in the country for the isolation or as a retreat, or as a place of recreation to ride horses or four-wheelers, or to hunt. And I would not dispute their assertion that their house is their home. But there is a tangible satisfaction in the process of working with the land to produce for oneself and those one loves, or for people in town or the city. It ties one to the land in ways that are still revealing themselves to me.

For me, the simplest way to describe it is that it feels like, it is, home.

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This blog began 15 years ago as an occasional letter to friends and family. Three hundred and eight letters later, in January 2012, it emerged as a weekly post to observe that journey. In these posts, I’ve tried to document that process of “coming home”—of learning skills, enjoying exhilarating successes, and enduring spectacular failures—all while still leaving room for plenty of rants and observations.

This is a weekly exercise in which I seldom know what I’m going to write about until I open the laptop on Sunday morning. But like carrying out the work on the farm and producing the food for the table, I find the process and the sharing satisfying. They too feel like home. And, since you are part of that process, I welcome your input and ideas for the future of this exercise. You can reply here or email me at bmiller@wingedelmfarm.com.

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Reading this week: Just Enough: lessons in living green from traditional Japan, by Azby Brown. An informative study of the sustainable cultural practices of the Edo Period in Japanese history. I have found it well worth the time spent reading it.

 

Why We Farm

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A NIGHT IN DEEP JANUARY, I’m lying on my side in six inches of snow, the temperature at 3 degrees. I have a heat gun in my hand and have been trying for 30 minutes to thaw out the well pump. The little electric pump sits on top of the well shaft and pulls the water up and pushes it on to the house. The pipe has frozen at the juncture before it reenters the ground. The epiphany comes when the ice audibly breaks and the water flows. I lie back in the snow and think, What a lucky man.11-9-14 006

Riding through the woods on the tractor on an early spring morning, redbuds and dogwoods in bloom. Delicate wood sorrel and rustic little brown jugs scattered across the lane. I have eight hours of work with the chainsaw ahead of me. Lunch taken in the shade of the tractor. Both Lefty and Tip grovel at my feet, doggy grins displayed, hoping to be favored with yesterday’s pizza. I finish the day dragging felled trees to a central brush pile, then head home. Back through the woods, the evening light, as peaceful as the morning’s, signals a slowing down.

Next morning, I head back out. Enjoy the sheer pleasure of turning out the cattle onto a pasture of rich spring grass. Another day, this time spent repairing the fencing the trees have dragged down. Lunch, again under the tractor, of leftover chicken, cooked to what my friend Jack refers to as “mahogany brown.” What we call burnt, and delicious whatever the nomenclature. I finish the new fencing. The cattle are content and well secured. Again, the fields, the lane through the woods, and I’m home.

A Better Spring: The delight in hearing that first peep under ruffled feathers. The goose telegraphs the event 24 hours prior by spreading out over the nest like a hovering angel. Hearing or feeling, she knows the time is near. Catching glimpses, I count six goslings. With long-sleeved shirts to protect from bites, Cindy gingerly pulls the goslings from underneath. We place them in the brooder.

Or, the drama of discovering a goose is laying her first egg, that quickly becomes a clutch of 12. The snake-like hiss of the goose on her nest. The gander aggressively signals your immigrant status in his world. Noting the calendar day that begins the 30-day march to goslings. The real sense of sadness as the hatch day passes and inexplicably nothing arrives. A note of betrayal in the goose’s voice as we shovel up her eggs and consign them to the burn barrel.

The gander—we call him Uncle—takes up a guarding position outside the cage. Regardless of parentage, he is the chosen sentinel. He will stay by the goslings’ side for the next three months. He has developed a style of fighting that would be quite effective against children, and is against dogs. Flapping his wings, he levitates off the ground. Hissing, stationary, he signals his determination to protect and serve.

Midnight skies, a flock of wild turkeys heard but not seen on the opposing ridge, the uncontrollable spread of wild mint, the loveliness of peach trees in bloom, the muscle ache from setting 30 fence posts. The giddy delight in admiring our equipment shed, the morning sun throwing a splash of color through the Victorian stained glass window in the tack room. Collecting persimmons from a wild tree to make beer, not knowing or caring what it will taste like. Breathing in the smell of hay drying in the field, gentling a rooster before butchering, approaching cautiously as I move an irascible bull. Buzzards in a tree dreamed up by Tim Burton, staring at me sweating in the garden in eager expectation. The barn at 3 in the morning as Daisy calves.

And still we get the question?

This Christmas note is from the archives in 2003.

What Have We Learned

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The clouds yesterday, on the winter’s solstice, gave way just minutes before sunset allowing the light of the sun to give his farewell nod. We won’t notice the difference immediately but the days will begin to lengthen. So as a day, a week and a year ends, what have we learned?

  • That long about mid-February, here in our East Tennessee valley, the light will be long enough to germinate seeds.
  • That seed catalogs eventually give way to a garden plan that is part absolution and part salvation.
  • That not all timber is easy to cut on a portable sawmill. Black Walnut is too dense as Tim, Russ and I found out.
  • That leftover roasted Cornish hen can be turned into enough chicken salad to feed three hungry men in just a few minutes.
  • That log dogs can be moved on the lumber deck in the same amount of time it takes to fix a salad.
  • That some men who have experienced war know torture when they see or hear about it. And other men who received questionable deferments think it is ok.
  • That the rate of unemployment for men is three times the rate reported in the monthly jobs report. And that 33 percent of the adult men in our valley are unemployed.
  • That the stock market is at an all-time high.
  • That the Arctic is warming at three times the rate of the rest of the planet.
  • That my homeland of Louisiana will lose 30 percent of its southern parishes this century to the sea.
  • That I agree with Prince Charles, much to the chagrin of my ancestors, he is right, mutton tastes terrific.
  • That an adopted cousin who connected with his own biological family will remain my cousin.
  • That as older family passes away they remain present in our memories and our own flesh and blood.
  • That at least for the foreseeable future of the next few billion years, regardless of what we do, the sun will continue its journey.

And, I’ve also learned anew that fencing will remain on my to-do list as long as I remain above ground.

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Reading this weekend: I’m rereading selected bits from William Targ’s three great anthologies for bibliophiles: Carrousel for Bibliophiles, Bouillabaisse for Bibliophiles and Bibliophile in the Nursery.

An Evening of Conviviality and Community

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The festive season has arrived and not a moment too soon. Last night, sprigs of holly and cedar garlands hung throughout the house, we hosted our annual Christmas/Solstice/Saturnalia gathering (trying for inclusiveness here). Joined by a band of friends from the city, the mountains and nearby valleys, we spent the evening feasting and making merry. A large pot filled with steaming perry, well spiced and fruits bobbing, served as our nod to a wassail.

Holly sprigs in the kitchen window

Holly sprigs in the kitchen window

The richness of dishes brought by our guests helped line our stomachs for the deluge of spirituous libations. The fir tree was ablaze with brightly colored lights, gifts brought by kind guests placed underneath. A beret was forced upon the head of Good Sport Tim, who played the part of a sailor from Marseilles (sorry, no idea why that happened). The 16 very pregnant ewes received routine visits through the course of the evening–fat and pregnant ewes being what passes as entertainment in the country. Overall, it was a most satisfying gathering of some of our favorite good people.

As we go about our tasks this Sunday, less than two weeks before the wheel turns again, we feel “blessed,” in whatever way you wish to parse the meaning of the word.

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Reading this weekend: Honor: a history by James Bowman and Ancient Iraq by Georges Roux

Welcome To The Monkey House

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Disturbers of the peace

The sounds of farm life are, on the whole, pleasing and conducive to a reflective life. A quiet early morning walk to complete chores before sunup, the soft thud of chickens jumping off the roost to greet me; a mid-afternoon amble through the woods, a light drizzle muting the outside world; even the reassuring rumble of Lowell on his tractor across the ridge—all help quiet the rumpus of this modern life.

Morning chore time is my chance to evaluate what needs to be done for the day. As I feed, water, and move the animals to their daily pastures I am mentally recording my to-do list: finish installing the new electric fence line, clean out and refill the sheep watering trough, add fresh bedding to the chicken coop, reattach gutter to the barn. It’s a constantly evolving list, one I need only remember until I’m back in the house and can record it on paper.

But as the seasons change, so do the livestock’s expectations and so too does my opportunity for introspection. When fresh grass gets scarce and they transition to hay, the cattle and sheep become more vocal. They will eat the hay, but they miss the grass.  So, for the first hour in the morning, at this time of the year, the ewes run around bleating, loudly. The cattle catch sight of me and thunder down off the hill, bawling all the way.

My inner calm disturbed, my train of thought derailed, my ability to form and retain my to-do list crumbles with each bleat and bawl. Finish installing new elect … baahh. Let’s see, clean out and refill … something … baahhh, baahhh, baaaahhhhh. Reattach … baaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh.

Like the Vonnegut character living in a dystopian world where the IQ is leveled out by subjecting the brighter individuals to periodic earsplitting noises, I can’t help but think that the sheep have conspired to … baaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh.

Now, what was I starting to do?

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Reading this weekend: Greek Myths by Robert Graves