A Slug, a Spider, a Cave Cricket

There was a lot to laugh at. After all, making fun of young adults is a legitimate sport that offers plenty of excellent targets. And long after they left, we continued to find humor in their manner of leaving. Still, perhaps I should offer some mild applause for their determination, albeit short-lived, to give farming a try.

But before I recount their story, let us roll back the clock to the beginning of last week, when we reached out to a farm volunteer from NYC who was due to arrive this past Wednesday for a weeklong stint. The young biochemistry major had contacted us some time ago through WWOOF (World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms) and had seemed enthused about our host profile and posted expectations.

Come last Sunday, I emailed him a detailed list of projects he would either assist with or complete himself. (Setting down tasks is what I do; it helps me map out the best use of my time and that of the volunteer.) No reply. I texted him, still nothing. Wednesday came and went and no volunteer. We’d been ghosted.

This turned out to be a good thing. Thursday afternoon Cindy received an email from a young couple from Chicago: “We’ve had a problem with our car and will not arrive until around 10 p.m. tonight.” Who? What? WTF! A quick check of the WWOOF site showed a detailed chain of emails from a couple of months back with this same couple. The chain clearly spelled out that they were to arrive on the 5th for a 10-day stay, and that we had agreed to the dates. Thank goodness WWOOFer No. 1 had ghosted us — the tiny apartment we offer to volunteers and other guests would have been a little too cozy for three.

We sprang into action. I hustled to clean the apartment while Cindy laundered the linens. Within a couple of hours, we were ready for WWOOFers No. 2. The apartment itself is in a separate building. It consists of one room and a bath, with no kitchen. The walls are painted; the concrete floor is not. It is equipped with a double bed and dresser, a window AC, and an overhead fan. The place is not rustic (many hosts simply offer space for a tent or a loft in the haybarn in the way of accommodations), but neither is it plush. Everyone who has stayed in it has done so without complaint. Satisfied guests even include the volunteer who, while sitting on the toilet, watched as a black rat snake poked its head out under the vanity doors. (He mentioned it casually, much later, as if he had spotted a beloved pet on the loose.)

Around 10:30 Thursday night the couple from Chicago arrived on the farm. I was outside, waiting by the beehives, to meet and greet. Once I had them situated in their home-away-from-home, having told them I’d see them at breakfast in the morning, I left them to get settled in.

The young man was typical in both build and appearance, dressed casually in T-shirt and jeans. The young woman, on the other hand, had an impossibly neat coif and was smartly dressed. Walking back to the house, I already had misgivings. Ten days of trying to give directions to this city gal was going to be a challenge. Time would tell, I thought. I didn’t yet know just how little time would be needed for their story to unfold.

Friday morning I arose around 5:30 and walked down the driveway to close the gates before letting the dogs out. You know how you can drive by a house and sense that it’s unoccupied, how a vacant house has a vibe different than one where people reside? The apartment had that feel. It was a good hundred yards away, and I could hear the AC still running. In the early morning darkness, I could not see if the car was parked in front of the door. Yet I could sense a change.

Back at the house, coffee in hand, I checked email before sitting down to read a book. A middle of the night missive from the young couple as they began their long trek back to Chicago was in my inbox:

“The accommodations just weren’t what we were expecting. We probably seem like stuck up city dwellers, but we just couldn’t handle the spiders, the slug outside the door, and the cave cricket in the bathroom. The farm is gorgeous, and we regret to inform you of our early departure, but after killing everything, we still just felt too uncomfortable there. Thank you again for considering us for the opportunity. We apologize for the inconveniences we’ve caused. We wish y’all well.”

I can’t help but wonder what they’d have done if they had seen “Reggie” the black rat snake!

Sometimes things do turn out for the best. Ten days of asking the squeamish to squish potato bugs and check for freeloading ticks before sitting down to breakfast, beat back fencerows of briars to earn the right to a lovely dinner, shovel barnfuls of manure before settling in for a good night’s rest — none of it was meant to be if they couldn’t first deal with a cave cricket.

Farming is not for sissies, and we work the volunteers hard. But if one is so disengaged from the natural world as to fear a slug, a spider, and a cave cricket, then best to retreat to the cloistered urban tower. While doing so, though, offer up some prayers that the economy always stays strong, growth is eternal, and others will do the necessary work of interacting for you with the world outside, putting food on your table while you dine in your bug-free condo.

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Reading this week: The Seven Ranges (W. Hoyt) and The Coldest Case (M. Walker). The latter is a weak addition to the Bruno mystery series.

 

Trees on the Farm: Golden Raintree

We picked this beauty up at Monticello back in 2002 while visiting. There is a heritage nursery onsite that sells seedlings from shrubs and trees that Thomas Jefferson grew. Koelreuteria paniculate, the common name is variously spelled Golden Rain Tree, Goldenrain Tree, or Golden Raintree. He received the seeds from a French correspondent in early 1809 and reported back in 1810 that they had sprouted. He was the first recorded to have nativized the tree to North America.

Regardless of its history or provenance, we enjoy seeing this slow growing tree  bloom each June alongside our drive.

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Reading this weekend: Gates of Fire, the battle of Thermopylae (Pressfield) and The Body in the Castle Well (Walker)

At least our farm isn’t in Boston

“Winter is beginning to lose its grip.” What clueless chump wrote that bit of wisdom last Sunday? After penning those wishful words, I’ve watched our world here in East Tennessee fall into the deep freeze.

Our average high at this time of year is 53 degrees, with a low of 31. That comfortable range is one of the reasons living in Tennessee is such a joy. Each of the four seasons has a clear character, none too extreme, and about the time we tire of one, the next arrives. There are, of course, on occasional years, the extremely cold winter or the miserably hot summer. This is clearly one of the former.

Last Saturday we had a teaser of above average temps, which prompted the above bit of optimism. That was followed by a very cold week here on the farm. Yesterday, we had a brief respite, as the mercury climbed into the middle 40s. We spent Valentine’s Day thawing hoses and refilling stock tanks; we set posts in concrete and drove T-posts and stretched woven wire on the new horse paddock.

While we worked to complete this project, Bonnie, our newest work horse, eyed us from a neighboring corral. Pregnant ewes stuck their noses through the gate to conduct their smell test on her. Roosters chased hens under her feet, and Delores moseyed about her paddock next to the corral with piglets in tow—new experiences all for a horse that had spent her days working on a dairy in Minnesota.Bonnie 003

We completed the back fence on the new paddock around noon. Cindy began setting up the propane burner and chicken-plucker for our friend Sara. She had called earlier in the morning with a surfeit of male birds vying to be cock o’ the roost. Sumptuous dishes like coq au vin and dumplings lay ahead, but first the killing, plucking, and cleaning of eight bloodied and bruised roosters.

While Cindy helped with the butchering, I sneaked off to buy a late Valentine’s card to present during our evening dinner (Cindy having done the same earlier in the morning). By mid-afternoon we had settled down in the house, she for a nap and I to finish a mystery by Martin Walker. Coffee at four and then we headed out for a couple of hours of chores.

We fixed together a dinner of roast leg of lamb, mashed potatoes and “squishy greens,” and cheesecake for dessert and turned in early for a well-deserved rest.

This morning the low registered 13, with a projected high later of 29. Four to seven inches of snow are in the forecast for this evening and tomorrow and a low of minus 3 for Wednesday night. The cattle need to be moved to a late winter pasture, ice will be broken on troughs, and there is a bit of fencing I need to repair in the back forty. The sheep are bawling for hay—three ewes were due to lamb last night. I hear Delores snorting for feed. It is time to call the dogs and do the chores.

With the week ahead calling for another significantly cold week, I wonder if my ancestors had some ritual, besides sipping whisky, to bring on the warmth of an early spring. God knows I’m ready for it. At least our farm isn’t in Boston.

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Reading this weekend: The Crowded Grave by Martin Walker, Our Only World by Wendell Berry and A Guide to the Good Life: the ancient art of stoic joy by William Irvine.