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.
Happy Holidays Brian!
Feels like home seems an excellent notion to share at this time of year. My wife and I are just back from a visit to my boyhood home. The farm I was raised on has been developed into a neighborhood of homes. Just down the road the farm a classmate and good friend grew up on has met the same fate. Our son’s fiancée was making her first visit to the area and got plenty of ‘this used to be’ and ‘that was once’… Its not all bad, but the melancholy of fond memories which won’t be relived now had to show through.
An aspect of farming I’ve come to appreciate is the wide breadth of projects – chores if you will – and the ability to accomplish some by oneself, while other efforts require many hands. Isolated and relatively simple chores, turning the cattle out for instance, allow one some alone time to soak up the nature around and feel the common bond of ones place in the whole endeavor. Community efforts (two or more laborers on the same chore) – like baling hay the way we did it – require more attention to the matter at hand to work as a team and share the sweat and common sense of accomplishment. I’d argue that working with an animal (or team of critters) can have a bit of this feel to it, but is (to me) somewhat different than sharing a project with our fellow man. I might even go so far as to suggest that sharing a job with family is even a bit different than sharing the same with neighbors and friends – or employees.
But no matter how one slices it – I’ve always felt the blackberry cobbler tastes better warm and while your hands are still a bit sore from the pricks of the thorns on the canes. The sunset looks better from the top of a hayrack full of bales that you’ve just loaded. And the look you get from the rooster you’ve just freed from a little thicket… priceless.
From this end of the web your writing efforts are always appreciated. I especially like seeing what your reading – so don’t lose that part. And as you get on with a team I’m sure I’ll enjoy hearing your thoughts.
Warm regards!
Clem,
Thanks for the insights on the blog, glad you like the current reads. You, probably like me, gravitate to a friend’s bookshelf early on in an evening to see what they read.
You sound wistful about the changes to the area of your old farm, a wistfulness that manifests itself in a righteous nostalgia. But that heedless sprawl that engulfs our land turns my stomach, to be frank. We, as a people seem to prefer a vista of Chipotle’s and Super Targets to the interlocked community of families and the shared tasks you recall. Little did you think at the time that you might fondly recall the physical labor of stacking square bales of hay!
Always glad to read your musings, you write well. You should have a blog going… I’d read it.
Cheers,
I have considered a blog. Chris’ Small Farm and yours are great motivators.
And perhaps with time I could get good at it. Like baling hay 🙂 After long experience with the bales I actually got to where it wasn’t so onerous a task. Showing off helped I suppose.
I would guess that a lot of people would prefer to think of their home as “a castle” rather than “the place where there is always work to be done,” even if the work is rewarding. Nice to hear, though, that you love it! Sometimes, here among the 100+ foot tall trees in North Georgia, I miss the long views of the prairies and coastal plains, even though I’ve lived in this house and yard for 25 years, raising my little garden crops and two boys who’ve grown to men and ventured out into their own lives.
Meanwhile, I’ve really enjoyed your writing, and it’s been great to read about a farm that is so nearby.
Hope your year is off to a good start! -Amy
Thanks, Amy!Once we thaw out I’m ready to sketch the garden.