Tag Archives: Wendell Berry

Stone Cold Love

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Of all the myriad ways in which the birds and the bees woo and attempt to do the ageless dance, this old boy had chosen the most ludicrous. Although the end result was never in doubt and he was getting the coldest of shoulders, I had to hand it to him for hanging in there in his efforts. Except for retiring nightly to a nearby creek, he did not leave the side of his beloved for a full week. Thanks to that high level of predictability, he provided us the opportunity to create and execute a plan to break up this “coitus unrequitus.”

A picture taken by a neighbor during the winter storm in January.

It began, as most things do on our farm that require compassion and nursing skills, with Cindy getting a call. This one was received at the college where she worked. A Muscovy hen and her ducklings living in a much-trafficked area were in danger of being flattened by speeding students. After assorted consultations with staff and faculty (and perhaps interminable committee meetings), Cindy volunteered to bring the ducks home and raise the ducklings out before returning them to the pond on campus. So it came to be that mother, babies, and even the father of the brood were captured, crated, and loaded into her car one sunny spring afternoon.

At the farm, we unloaded the cargo and placed the ducks in a seemingly secure pen. We watered and fed them, then stepped back to watch … and watched as the drake flew over the fence, sailed low across the bottom pasture, and disappeared to the south in a creek bottom. Geese mate for life. The ganders are remarkably loyal, and if either partner is indiscreet, we’ll never know: they keep it quiet within the domestic circle. With ducks, not so much. The drake, while his mate was home raising his offspring, was off in the wide world looking for new love like a sailor on liberty in port. This lad found an unlikely paramour a mile down the road.

As in the saga of the three little piggies, word went out in our community of the wayward drake. Sure enough, he was spotted within days in the front yard of a small clapboard house on a neighbor’s trip from town. The male of the Muscovy is significantly larger than the female and sports a head-to-neck crest of feathers. He is easy to identify in all of his warty glory. Once notified, we spied him under a large oak tree next to the gravel drive. There he stood, danced, preened, in fact used everything within his toolkit to drive his intended mad with lust. His object of desire paid him no attention.

And it would be a cold day in Hell before her love was reciprocated: this statuesque specimen was cast lovingly in concrete, and although apparently created to the highest standards of molded realism, she had the sexual desire of, well, a slab of cement, sand, and water.

But our wandering Lothario was nothing if not persistent. From sunup to sundown he stood by his newfound love, carrying on his one-sided conversations (no, ladies, do not look for parallels) and dancing around her unmoved and unmoving countenance, only leaving at night to return to the safety of the creek. Every morning he was back at the wooing, giving his all to break through that stony exterior. Knowing in his heart that the apple out of reach is the tastiest, he persevered for seven days.

In the end we managed after several attempts to catch him in a net, at which time we clipped his wings and returned him to his family. Over the next couple of weeks, restless and bored with his growing children and preoccupied partner, he paced the fence and gazed southwards, convinced that if he had just one more day, his stone-cold love’s resolve would have finally crumbled.

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Reading this weekend: The Unforseen Wilderness, an essay on Kentucky’s Red River Gorge (W. Berry and G. Meatyard)

At East Tennessee Feed and Seed

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The smells that surround me as I wait in the breezeway of the family-owned feed store where we do most of our farm business are a heady mixture of sweet feed, rich soil and mulch, and bales of straw and hay, with a bit of not-so-heady chemical fertilizer thrown in for balance. A whiff of propane drifts into the mix and mingles with the others. It comes from somewhere in the back of the storage area where a worker moves pallets with a forklift, wafting by on the cool wave that always seems to flow through the dust-layered building. An auger softly clanks as it screws a load of corn, soybeans, and cotton meal into bins near the grain mill in a distant shed.

The sights and smells of this local institution strike me the same each time I come here for feed, fence staples, field gates, and sundry other farming needs. It’s a physical presence of the past. Now I’m eight years old and standing on the loading dock of Theriot’s feed store just off Ryan Street in Lake Charles, hypnotized by the chicks, ducklings, and turkey poults huddled under the red heat lamps of the brooder, drawn to them once again by some atavistic longing—until my father hunts me down and says it is time to go. The worker at East Tennessee Feed interrupts my reverie when he emerges from the storage area pushing a hand truck loaded with a couple hundred pounds of hogmeal. I drop the tailgate, and he hoists the feed bags into the well-worn bed of the farm truck and I head toward home.

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Reading this weekend: The Need to Be Whole (W. Berry). Seems like a good time to finish this massive book, before the Front Porch Republic conference next weekend—which, if any of you are there, I hope will offer the opportunity to say hello should our paths cross.

Waiting on the Rain

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Off and on over the course of the day, occasional drops of rain would fall from overcast skies onto the parched fields. It had been close to five weeks without any rain on our farm. Plumes of dust followed our truck every time we went up or down the gravel drive. Rich green pastures had turned brown prematurely in these months of September and October. Yet the drops falling never accumulated enough to mature into even a short drizzle, much less a shower. Then the skies cleared.

That evening, at sunset, I sat on the porch, watching as the faultless blue day shifted gradually into a clear night. The first stars in the western sky popped out … just above a dark band of clouds on the horizon. I observed an approaching cold front. Its line of attack seemed almost unmovable, frozen in the distant west. Using the hornbeam in the front yard as my sextant, I placed the upper edge of the storm bank just four inches below the topmost twigs.

With the emerging starlit night came pink flashes of lightning in the black band. The storm, although seemingly immobile in its travel from west to east, was actually streaming northwards at great speed. It reminded me of those wonderful N.C. Wyeth paintings of the vast cloud giants rolling across the distance. Where were they going? Would they come visit? Did we want them to?

Against that dark outline, bats swooped about one of the orchards looking for prey. The dogs lay about the porch, exhausted after a busy day of harassing each other, oblivious to my observations. The sheep and poultry were already secured for the night in their paddocks and coops, while the pigs in the woods still snarled at each other over scraps from the dinner table. The winds in the woods and among the trees along the driveway sounded like traffic rushing down a busy street: in a hurry, needing to be somewhere else.

And always, as I sat, those flashes in the distance promised a nurturing rain overnight — I hoped. Because, with the millennia-old optimism of a farmer, I had spent the afternoon oversowing ryegrass seed on my test plots in the one-acre paddocks. A few weeks after tilling and planting, and still no rain had left the emerging plants withered and weak. If the storms delivered, then the new seed would help bulk up the winter’s forage. I sat on the porch and waited, watched, listened.

Before leaving my post, I chanced another glance at the hornbeam. The approaching storm was now measured against the horizon at a couple of inches above the utmost branch. Taking that glacial progress as a sign, I came inside and joined Cindy upstairs. An hour later, just before sleep, we lay awake listening to the rain begin to fall on the tin roof.

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Reading this weekend: The Narrative of the Narvaez Expedition (C. de Vaca), a fascinating eyewitness account of a Spanish expedition to Florida that traversed the Gulf Coast to Texas, where the survivors then continued westward to the Pacific … walking, in the 1500s.

Also, The Need to Be Whole, Patriotism and the History of Prejudice (W. Berry). It’s a work I’ll be reading and chewing on for some time to come (at 486 pages); a work that, if I can state after reading a couple of chapters and the introduction, has a thesis, of sorts: “Our problems do not relate to one another in linear sequence, but rather in something like a network, in which correcting one requires correcting several.” I like that a book on such a topic has been written by an elder.

 

 

Notes From My Other Home

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Good morning,

I am off the farm and spending time with family in Louisiana where my father is observing his 94th birthday. He still has a handshake that will make you wince and his appetite for boiled crawfish, I am happy to report, is undiminished. Sitting around with family and eating the good food of this region has left me both stuffed and content. Or, as my maternal grandmother taught me to say, I have had a sufficiency. Here is a post from the archives about both the sufficient and the gourmandizing tendencies of this son of this soil.

My father, nephew Cody with his son Eli.

Blog note: I’ll catch up on my country wine posts next weekend.   

What We Share

Sitting down with kith and kin at my dad’s 91st birthday, I was reminded that we learn to eat as children. The table last Saturday was weighed down with more than 150 pounds of crawfish and accompanying bags of spicy boiled corn and potatoes. Homemade jambalaya my sister Laura made. And, for the vegan niece, some sort of weird processed “hotdog.” We variously stood and sat as we talked and listened. Food, family, friends, and lots of conversation.

The role food played last week was the same role it played in my childhood, and still does in my adulthood, that of bringing people together. From the crawfish and crab boils to grand Sunday dinners and church picnics; from duck and chicken-and-sausage gumbos to BBQ and fried catfish, links of boudin, and platters of dirty rice; from running trotlines, fishing 30 miles out in the gulf, and hauling up shrimp nets or oyster tongs to shooting ducks and geese and harvesting deer, the end goal was always the same: food that you could share.

TV and computers were not part of our world. No screen time, head down, eyes staring. You left the table only after you asked to be excused and were given permission. Weeknights were family dinners and catching up. Weekends and holidays were gatherings of the larger group of friends and family. And always set to the backdrop of food, meat, seafood, game, vegetables, and the ubiquitous dish of rice.

Sunday was the time for the big dinner of the week. It was frequently an occasion for serving up some fish or seafood we had caught — red snapper in butter and lemon, mackerel balls fried with a cornmeal dusting, platters of oysters, mounds of fried catfish, all accompanied by coils of the spicy local sausages, warmed on the grill. The family would often be joined by guests, perhaps a couple of youth from Boys Town or a new minister and his family.

During one such dinner, with a new pastor from Oklahoma, we received a call from an elderly neighbor. Upon coming downstairs that fine spring morning, she found an alligator in her parlor. It had strolled in through an open door and made itself at home. Dad used a ski rope to make a noose, slipped it over the beast’s head, and dragged it back out to the bayou, no doubt confirming in the new minister’s mind his worst fears about where he had relocated his family.

That is me (on the right) with my youngest nephew, Finn. We just finished having breakfast at K.D.’s

Some Sundays after service we headed to the Piccadilly. Dining at the small-town Southern restaurant was reminiscent of the Lyle Lovett song, “Church.” If your preacher became a bit long-winded, you might just find yourself waiting in line behind the First Baptists, or, God forbid, the Methodists.

From a kid’s perspective, Fridays were hopeful evenings. My parents were active in a supper club and a bridge club. Supper club in the house meant hovering near the kitchen to snag plates of oysters Rockefeller fresh from the oven, bridge club loading up on shrimp broiled in butter and spices.

Annually, there were the church picnics, feasts of such epic proportions they required each of us to be heroes of the plate and fork. Whole tables were devoted to fried chicken and banana puddings, the memory of which would still be a siren’s call onto the rocks of gluttony, except for the fact that underpinning all the food was the fellowship of friends and family.

A bowl of goodness at a roadside diner in Mermantau.

So today, on our farm, with freezers full and gardens gathering steam, we ask the weekly question, What do we have to share and who can we invite to join in the bounty — neighbors in the valley, friends from town or city, longer-distance guests?

Last night six friends helped us devour bowls of creamy grits topped with cooked-down collard greens and fried slices from a terrine of braised pork. We dined outside, sitting late into the evening as the full moon rose high in the sky. Good friends, conversation, and a bottle of elderberry mead helped us keep the faith with who we are as a people and the traditions we carry forward from childhood.

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Reading this weekend: Essays from The Gift of Good Land (W. Berry)

 

Unsolicited: Advice to a Nephew on Starting a Farm

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Livestock tanks double as a swimming pool

One of my nephews is in the process of buying a farm. This is the same somewhat directionally challenged nephew I wrote about in The Path We Take, so I figure any pearls of wisdom I can scatter along his chosen trail might be of use in marking his way.

Dear Nephew,
• Farming attracts fads like bare legs attract chiggers. There is No Magic Next New Thing to succeed. Go old school and care for your land, animals, and family, work hard, and be frugal.
• Ground yourself. Read anything by Wendell Berry, Gene Logsdon, and Joel Salatin.
• Arm yourself, reasonably. Shotgun, hunting rifle, .22 caliber — all have a place on the farm. You don’t need anything else unless you are preparing for your own Ruby Ridge. In which case, you should rethink your reasons for wanting to farm.
• Move to the country not to get away from people but to get closer to them. Prepare to have neighbors on whom you can rely, not just wave at.
• In that vein, start by helping others: Notify the nearby farmer when his cattle are heading down the road; better still, assist in putting them back in the field. Volunteer to lend a hand in butchering the neighbor’s deer or chickens. Join the old man across the lane when he’s picking up square bales.
• If you attend church, pick one that is part of the community.
• Buy a pickup truck, preferably a four-wheel drive. There’s no need to get a farm truck duded out with heated seats and sunroof. There’s also no need for a livestock trailer at first; just rent one at your nearest farmers co-op.
• Get an older tractor that you can repair and that has the power you need. You have the mechanical skills to keep it in good condition. An American-made 35-45 hp from the 1960s or ‘70s should serve you well.
• Raise what you like to eat. That applies to vegetables, fruit, and livestock. If celeriac, aronia berries, and emu meat are your go-to ingredients for a romantic dinner, then dive right in and raise them. If not, then make a new list.
• That said … one of the great joys of having a farm is to experiment with what you grow. Just cover the basics first, and consider these variables in your decisions: What do others in your area grow or raise? What does the land support? You wouldn’t invest in an olive grove in Minnesota, and you wouldn’t farm salmon in Louisiana.
• Plant fruit, nut, and shade trees as soon as you can afford it. Sow cover crops or oversow grass seed in your pastures, then fence, fence, and fence some more.
• Share your overabundant harvest. If you’re wanting to sell your bounty to others, think about this: Where is your market? It’s liberating to live three hours from the nearest large city, but who will buy what you produce? Begin putting together a list of outlets for possible customers.
• Treat what you raise with respect, and cook it with love. I know you are of sound Louisiana stock, but you also have been culinarily disadvantaged from a life spent in Texas. That is just a plain, undisputed fact. Which is to say, make gumbo every cold Saturday night and red beans and rice every Monday.
• Do not under any circumstances add miniature livestock. At best, minis are a fad; at worst, they will leave you starving when the shit hits the fan. A full-size pig provides a large amount of meat in an astonishingly short amount of time. Not so with pot-bellies. A farm is not a petting zoo. If you want an animal friend, get a dog.
• Learn to sketch. Start drawing site plans for fencing, outbuildings, orchards, gardens, treehouses. (Okay, maybe not treehouses, although you do need to allow for a little whimsy in your life.)
• Take pictures. Your farm will change daily.
• Farm tools are essential. Acquire these sooner rather than later: come-along, logging chain, post-hole digger, post setter, two pairs of fence pliers, chainsaw (or two or three), rock bar, gardening hoes, mattocks, sledgehammer, knives (pocket knives, boning knife, pruning knife, machete), pitchforks (five-tine, four-tine, and the precious, scarce, and most used, the three-tine).
• Buy a gas-powered generator or two. Living in a remote valley at the end of the utility line, you’ll need it sooner or later. A freezer full of meat without electricity is a sad, smelly business.
• Get very familiar with these terms: rotational grazing, green manure, grassfed, free range, organic food (or, as your great-grandparents called it, food), sheet mulching, fallow, hard work, Aspercreme.
• Contact your county extension agent. He can and will help. You don’t have to know everything.
• Work with the Natural Resources Conservation Service to learn and execute smart resource management practices. From erecting a hoop-house to choosing which trees to cut in a woodlot, NRCS is one of the few federal agencies that help the small farm make improvements. Its services are not a handout — you do the work, and in return you get expert guidance and financial assistance.
• Go to any and all estate sales. Well-cared-for farm tools last forever.
• Finally, set up a hammock. You won’t ever have time to relax in it, but it will serve as comic relief when you pass it a dozen times a day drenched in sweat.

Good luck, nephew, you will do fine and find your own way. Although, your uncle does respectfully suggest that a compass would be especially handy to keep in a back pocket.
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Reading this weekend: The Silver Ley (Adrian Bell), the second in a trilogy of autobiographical novels on farming in England during the interwar years.