Cigars, Banjos, Lard, Fencing (of course) and Strawberry Mead

Tim, a fellow farmer from two valleys over stopped by a few nights ago for dinner. I had ground up a beef heart and fixed us both burgers on the grill to go with his, as always, excellent salad of spring veggies. He made a nice fresh raspberry salad dressing that I wasn’t sure whether to drizzle on the salad or add rum and ice cubes. I opted to use it as a salad dressing.

After dining we sat on the front porch and spoke of weather, vegetables, pigs and Billy Bragg as we smoked cigars and sipped our drinks.  It was nice to sit with a friend and watch the sunset over the next ridge and not feel in any sort of hurry. He pulled out his banjo and played while we talked. A couple of hours later we moseyed out to the barn and put up the animals for the night before he headed down the road and over to his own valley.

That night it rained. But, like a slightly soggier version of Camelot, it let up by sunrise yet remained cloudy and misting all day. Hannah, our farm volunteer, part of the WWOOF program, popped out of her apartment around 8 ready to work. She has been on our farm for a week working for room and board and learning about farming. She will stay for a couple more weeks. In one short week she has resurrected the garden after a couple of weeks of heavy rains and knocked out a fairly heavy to-do list. And by all appearances seems to have thrived with the work load.

She and I loaded up our work sled, a truck bed liner abandoned in a back field that we repurposed fourteen years ago. It now serves as a convenient way to haul firewood, equipment or stones anywhere on the property. Pulling it with the tractor we hauled it up into the back forty where we put in a hard mornings work setting t-posts and digging post-holes. As you are now no doubt tired of hearing this ongoing project of rebuilding or repairing every fence line on the farm is now in its third month. Perhaps in fifteen years when I reach retirement age we will have completed the project…in time to start again.

Last night a trip down the hill to our neighbor’s house with dinner prepared by one of her daughters, good conversation, good food, nice wine and when stuffed I trudged back home and was in bed by ten. It was a nice way to cap a day of hard labor.

This morning with rain coming down Hannah and I turned our attention to domestic skills making lard and some mead flavored with Tim’s strawberries and ginger. I await Cindy’s return from her parent’s home, a semi-annual visit, by fixing chicken sausage gumbo for this evening’s dinner. And that is all from the farm this week.

 

A Winged Elm Farm Alphabet Book: “J”

J is for Jack Frost

As a kid in south Louisiana I remember the keen excitement of being told at the breakfast table that Jack Frost had visited overnight. We’d run outside to see the brushstrokes of frost on grass, windows and on the last of the summer garden. By the time we were off to school he had already gone, taking his artwork with him.

On our Tennessee farm I still feel the same pleasure, walking a pasture dusted with his work, watching the sun reclaim with streaks of light. Part playful, merry prankster, harbinger of change: Jack Frost signals the exit of summer’s Jack of the Wood and tells us to check our stores of goods for the coming of Old Man Winter.

Foraging in the rain

Last weekend as our guest speaker, Jeff Ross, began his talk on foraging the rain hammered down on the barn. The sound amplified out of proportion by the tin roof. We were clustered in the breezeway separating the barn from the chicken coop. As he talked about Lady’s Thumb, Lamb’s Quarter, dandelion and their ilk we ventured out of the shelter whenever the rain volume dropped to a drizzle.

A dash out to look at wild edibles and a dash back to the relative dry of the barn shaped the course of this lecture and demonstration. But what saved this from being a total wash (forgive me) was Jeff’s ability to convey practical information on edibles by grounding the facts in a sense of place with good recipes. And hot tea or a glass or two of my muscadine mead helped warm everyone up before heading home.

That rain continued all weekend giving us a total of four and half inches before stopping on that Sunday afternoon. There is still a lot you can accomplish in the rain. But losing a whole weekend in May on a farm, when the grass and weeds, edible or not, grow at an accelerated rate puts us behind our goals. Squash, cucumbers and tomato transplants should all be in the ground. And in three short weeks I will be checking the weather anxiously looking for a date to cut hay.

Rebuilding old fencing lines has been on hold for two weeks. And the list of other must complete tasks piles up behind that one like a log jam on a too narrow creek. So waking on this Saturday morning to the sound of rain pouring down on our roof at 6:30 am was disappointing. Another weekend lost. I know, we all love rain. But we have two and half inches this Sunday morning and it continues to rain with a forecast calling for a possible six inches.

So we switch gears and complete rainy day tasks, those small jobs of insignificance that when piled together amount to one good solid day of work… one hopes.  So we scrub the front porch, clean and oil garden tools, sharpen axes, paint bee supers, clean the apartment in the garage for our incoming WWOOF volunteer, visit a well-run native plants nursery called Overhill Gardens where we picked up some great additions for our yard and farm.

Cindy was in her element at the nursery, rattling off the Latin genus and species, full sun vs. shade requirements with the owner. Which is why, I guess, she came back with a range of useful and attractive plants for the farm.  And I came back with a pot of Black Cohosh that I vaguely remembered as a useful herbal plant. Turns out it will be quite useful if I ever have to deal with menstrual cramps….

And it continues to rain.

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Reading this weekend:  100 native forage grasses in 11 southern states by the USDA and Cooked by Michael Pollan

A Winged Elm Farm Alphabet Book: “I”

“I” is for Indian Summer

Late October and our valley gets its first hard frost. Like somewhat tardy ants in Aesop’s fable these cold nights send us scurrying to complete summer chores. Busily stacking hay bales, finishing fence repairs, harvesting the last peppers, storing winter squash and cleaning the summer gardens while waiting for the long days of winter to creep onto our farm.

Then summer plays its annual trick and elbows winter back for a few weeks of warmth. Like a tense interlude before the next act, a stale impersonator of the vibrancy of summer days, a guest who will not leave a party even as the decorations of fall drop from the trees, this is an Indian Summer.

And then one day winter arrives, the wind kicks up, the last leaves hit the ground and ice is found on the water troughs when we feed in the morning. Summer is now a memory we hold for the future.

Evidence of our passing

The past two weekends Caleb and I have been engaged in a massive fencing project, rebuilding three hundred yards of woodland fence. Some of the fence line dates back twenty years and some perhaps as old as forty. Condition of the barbed wire, size of trees that have grown up in the old fence line, type of wood used for posts all give some indication of the age of the fence. Pulling out the old fence and putting in the new has had me thinking about the visual clues of human settlement. A more knowledgeable observer of the natural world could point out botanical interlopers on our farm. I have to rely on more modest powers of observation.

It is hard to say how long our particular valley has been settled. European settlers, before finally pushing out the Cherokee in the early 1800’s, have now been in the area for 250 years. The Cherokee in turn had pushed out the previous inhabitants a few hundred years before that date. And I’m sure wave after wave of earlier inhabitants engaged in the same activity. But any visual evidence of long inhabitance in this particular valley is slight. Our soil is poor and the land is hilly. Neither are virtues that encouraged settlement until the growth of our current population.

We have no grand antebellum homes in our valley or even prosperous 19th century farm houses. The housing stock dates back at the oldest to the 1920’s with most from around the 1950’s. My guess is that the older families moved in as improved roads and vehicle transportation made settling more marginal land viable.

Over these fourteen years I have found one flint scraper used to clean hides, an indication of at least the passing through of older Americans on this land. And we find the occasional mule shoe in a pasture indicating that the hills have been worked before the use of tractors. But in our locale that could be as recent as 1960, though that could once again become the preferred or only method. Other mechanical debris turns up from time to time: spring tines, cultivating harrows and other twentieth century products of an agricultural bent. In the back forty on the edge of one field is a pile of mattress springs now covered in leaves and dirt, hardly an item to stir ones imagination.

Walking through the woods we see numerous trees that have two or four main trunks shooting from the base. I am sure you have noticed that when you cut down a small tree it often sends up shoots from the stump. Same thing in our woods, they were logged thirty years ago. The remaining stumps that sent up shoots are now mature trees.

Across one of our fields is a long swale that cuts diagonally across four acres. This is evidence of a previous fence that existed long enough to leave a tangible mark on the land. All of which brings me to the reminder that our presence is somewhat tenuous on whatever land we inhabit. We can abuse the land under our stewardship or take care of it. But the reality is that sooner or later someone else will be faced with that same task and deciphering evidence of our own passing.

A Winged Elm Farm Alphabet Book: “H”

“H” is for Hay

Security from want, forage in storage is protection against evil days of drought and heat or the cold and muck, a well-stocked hay barn, for all the talk of extended pasture days, brings warmth to this farmer’s heart. It seems a form of wealth.

From the flush of green grass in March through the first cutting in late May that growth and then the rhythm of collecting those grasses ties me to the rhythms of the land and the seasons. The muscle ache from the hard work of fencing off lush pastures, constructing storage barns, cutting, raking, baling and the moving of this basic produce of our land is another definition for joy. It simply makes me feel useful to feed forage to our livestock, a handmaiden, if you will, to the meat on our table.

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Rereading this weekend:  A Timbered Choir: the Sabbath poems 1979-1997, by Wendell Berry.

The Blame Falls on Wendell Berry

The seventy acres of our farm touch the boundaries, borders, property of ten other landowners or farmers. These ten property owners account for thirty or forty persons who represent our nearest neighbors, who we know ranging from close friendship or partnership to the category of not at all. Having neighbors entails certain obligations. Those obligations range from the simple notification that an animal is loose to working together rebuilding fences. We work to keep those obligations from entering into the realm of being “obligated”.

Of those ten neighbors only one is active in farming his land and he is about eighty years of age. The rest of our neighbors derive incomes from the categories of “best not to inquire”, retirement, toxic waste handling, nursing, and the job of no visible means of support.

I was thinking of neighbors and neighborliness yesterday. We were returning from a conference in Louisville, KY celebrating the 35th publishing anniversary of Wendell Berry’s “Unsettling America”. It was our first vacation off the farm together in ten years. That simple act of leaving obligations and responsibilities behind in the care and trust of those thirty-forty individuals, leaving one’s home place, all brought back to me how thoroughly tied we are becoming to this land.

Our drive through rural Kentucky found us focused on fencing, outbuildings, housing stock, livestock, soil health and all of those small things that make up good or bad agricultural practices. We would find ourselves grimacing at good ponds aware of our eyesore of a pond back home which is still waiting for a solution. Or we would smile at poor fencing that clearly suggested lack of practice, something of which we now have plenty. But overall we were studying the land, observing it for hints at how we could steward our land.

We drove back into Tennessee invigorated by the conversations, moved by hearing Mr. Berry read poetry and humbled by the intelligence of the presenters. We came back home with new purpose and plans. We came back home to a steer standing in the front yard, a steer that simply will not stay in a fenced pasture. A rebel steer does not make for good or happy neighbors. He moves your needle from obligations into the red obligated zone. We moved him back into the pasture without real optimism or expectation that he would stay.

And indeed this morning our small herd of cattle was one short, the rebel steer had gone wandering, again. I found him on the highway. After some work we got him up to the barnyard and loaded him into the trailer for sale at the stockyard. But not before we saw him jump a five foot wooden fence from a standing position…without touching wood.

Obligations discharged we were able to turn our attentions to other matters.

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Reading this weekend: From the Forest: a search for the hidden roots of our fairy tales by Sara Maitland.

A Winged Elm Farm Alphabet Book: “G”

“G” is for Goose  

Guardian of the farm, savage frightener to children of all ages, centerpiece on the holiday table, loyal spouse and provider of a most excellent fat, this is the goose.

Its stately presence navigating the swathes of green grass is not unlike the pictures of a Spanish Galleon sailing the ocean. That noise from a flock, indicating a threat, whether coyote, pickup truck or child, inspires awe at high decibels. The roasted breast is as red and finely grained as the best beef. A confit of legs preserved in their fat is well served shredded over pureed green peas. These are the tastes of our holiday farm table.

And the final gift of a quart of fat from one bird, browning our roast potatoes for the next year, makes for an appreciative farmer.

March Journals

Linsey-Woolsey Winter, Dogwood Winter, Redbud Winter or Blackberry Winter: All of these are names for spring cold snaps based on what might be in bloom when the weather turns cold. The first is an exception, the old fashioned name for long-johns. I imagine so called because you had to pull them out of the chest and put them back on when the weather turned cold in spring. Cold snaps are on the mind with the current extended spell entering another week. Not unexpected at this time of year but they leave one yearning for warmer days.

Last year at this time the spring honey flow was in high gear, so high that we had our first swarm on March 27th. So this weekend Cindy repaired and replaced foundations in the hive frames. Late yesterday I got into our four hives and added new supers and frames. Even with the current cold snap the bees were active. The plums and peaches are in bloom, as are the forsythia, spirea, flowering quince, maples and a host of other ornamentals. All of which makes me nervous with one eye on the skies and the other in my journal.

This weekend in 2011 I was putting down a favored sow, Snowflake, on a warm spring day after a failed farrowing that left her unable to stand and suffering. Late March 2010 Cindy and I were building a farrowing hut in a high wind so cold that it brought alternating waves of sleet, snow and cold rain slashing across us as we raced to complete the structure before a sow farrowed.

Looking back through the journals covering thirteen years of this one weekend and I am reminded of Mark Twain. As he said in the preface to one of his novels, “there is a 100% chance of weather in this book”. But sometimes instead of weather I find a bit of snobbery has crept in to those pages. Back around 2006 this entry on the last weekend in March on a BBQ dinner we hosted regarding the now ex-husband of a friend. “….he is such a dreadful bore that he is best tolerated in a larger crowd”. Well at least the weather must have been pleasant.

But hovering over all of these late March entries is the year 2007. April 8th we had a severe cold snap with a low of 19 degrees; so cold that the hardwoods did not leaf out again until late May.  It was a stunning loss of greenery in one night. Our woods had leafed out with that bright green of spring color and the next week they were the brown of early winter.

The nurseries and garden centers loved that year. Everyone lulled into plantings based on an early warm spring had to rush out and replenish all that had been lost. Almost 100% of the Tennessee apple crop was lost. Many orchards had to buy apples from Washington state to meet contracts with area grocery stores.

Who knows what this spring will bring. Tomorrow the forecast is for snow showers.

A Winged Elm Farm Alphabet Book: “F”

“F” is for Feeders

Rough cut barn siding knocked together with nails and screws in a v-shaped trough, galvanized one-ton hog feeders and twelve inch metal chick trays, assorted rubber bowls, Indian River plastic juice jugs cut in half, creep feeders built to exclude sheep while the lambs feed, hay nets and metal feeders tied and bolted on the wall of a shed, a bowl of Polish pottery from the kitchen lost in the muck of a stall later excavated with the wonder of old Schliemann finding Troy’s debris; feeders, either store bought, improvised or homemade multiply on a farm. Peer in a shed, behind an outbuilding, open a cabinet door and stacks of feeders functional or past their prime greet your gaze. Or consider the repurposed life of a twelve-foot plastic cattle trough on an aluminum skid, destroyed by Bellow the bull ten years past, later served as toboggan on a snowy day with a too fast trip down the hill.

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Reading this weekend: Epicurean Simplicity by Stephanie Mills and The Holy Earth by Liberty Hyde Bailey