Monthly Archives: June 2018

Driving to New Castle

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the courthouse in New Castle, KY

The best journey always begins with, “I got off the interstate on a two-lane road….” On that road there is not a gas station or convenience store or Arby’s to clutter the view. Instead, the road is among the more hopeful of exits from our sameness. It takes us away from our desire to cut through and over, from our need to engineer our way from point A to point B with the greatest of efficiencies.

That there was nothing at this particular exit was something, an overlooked something. A lane that weaves among old trees, old homes, small towns, small and large farms, herds of cattle, and the ghosts of tobacco fields. A road that leads eventually to New Castle, county seat of Henry County, Kentucky.

Its rural roots still in evidence with its barns and tidy farmhouses, Henry County is threatened on the west by a consuming yellow growth on the map. The name doesn’t matter, but for our purposes we will call it the “true nothing.” There, a horde of our species exists, locust-like, devouring the land and its resources, imagining itself, as it navigates between Costco and Starbucks, to be the center of the universe.

That we have reconfigured the particles present at the creation into a geegaw landscape is our true sacrilege. Offered up now is an asylum for those fearful of the dirt. It’s a place where the inmates, swaddled and cocooned safely away from the open windows, are allowed to conceive that they were not fashioned from that very same soil that lies, bricked and paved over, under their feet. Where, in their cells at night, they conjure that their atomized consumer ways are the definition of culture and community. Where not knowing is confused with knowing. Where “nothing” is mislabeled as “something.”

In New Castle, I stopped at the diner around the corner from the courthouse. Over a plate of turnip greens, beans, country-fried steak, and cornbread, I felt that I was somewhere knowable. Somewhere small enough that you not only knew your neighbors, but that there was a good chance you’d gone to school with them years before and that you would attend their funeral years in the future. To me, that’s a hopeful way to live.

My turnip greens now polished off with the last crumbs of cornbread, I stepped outside. A group of farmers had set up produce tables on the courthouse lawn, in the shade of a colony of massive white oaks. A Walmart tractor-trailer nudged up to the intersection. From its open windows blared rap music, the sound of nothing in a vehicle containing nothing. The perfect summation for what we lose when we surrender our something, forget that we came from dirt and are dirt in the making.

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Reading this weekend: Tobacco Harvest: an elegy, by Wendell Berry

Full Moon (archived post)

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I was standing in the oldest orchard. The light was provided by the full moon. High and staggered clouds were moving across the sky providing a stop and go slide show with the moonlight. And, I was reminded again that one of the principle joys of living in the country is to experience through your senses the world around you in a most intimate way.

Living in Knoxville and sitting quietly in the backyard provided its own revelatory moments. But, a moonlit night in the country has a special quality a city neighborhood lacks.

A loud cough of a buck on the hill signals a failed attempt to cross above me discreetly. Now that deer-hunting season is almost upon us they are moving at night more than in daylight. They know the time for prudence is now. Opening day and we will be greeted by a barrage of gunfire at daylight.

I reached out in the darkness and grabbed the scuppernong vines and gave them a shake. Like large soft heavy raindrops, overripe grapes fell into the wet grass.

Walking back down the slope through the orchard, past the equipment shed, I closed the door to the chicken run. The noise caused the hens to stir. Breathing like an asthmatic child they wheezed and shifted and went back to sleep.

A hammer hitting wood and the clank of clamps and I know Cindy is in our workshop. She has moved on to building a kitchen cupboard with glass doors. The occasional expletive signals a perfectionist’s ongoing struggle with a project that has been well done. I, on the other hand, can scrape the bark off of a branch, call it a walking stick and be absurdly pleased.

After closing the chickens up I lean across the fence and smell the lambs. The sweet smell of wet wool and the poop of an animal that eats forage rise up out of the pasture. They have quiet and meek little bleats. A soft tread in the grass is just audible as they are torn between curiosity and alarm at my presence.

I lean down and pull off and chew a turnip green, what a wonderful explosion of spice, mustard and the texture of a tobacco leaf.

I turn back to the house. All three dogs vie for the honor of walking by my side. They snarl and fight. Robby wins and heels by my left leg as I walk up the steps.

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Reading this weekend: a big stack of French cookbooks. Because, no one does the summer bounty, in recipe, better than the French (with the exception of  Ronni Lundy).

Father’s Day Weekend, 1974

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Happy Father’s Day

It is dawn out on the Gulf of Mexico. The throttle is hard down on the 22-foot open Wellcraft as the first waves check our smooth progress, sharply marking the passage from inside South Louisiana’s protective Mermentau River jetties to open water. With an hour till full sunrise, the air is still cool and we have 10 miles to go before the inner line of oil rigs. I eat a mustard and liverwurst sandwich, sitting on the bow, legs dangling over the side, as we begin to plane out over the crest of the waves.

The fog is lifting when we pass the first rigs, and we both see and hear them, each with its own distinctive horn. The skies are clear, the winds calm, so we head farther into to gulf to the rigs 20 miles offshore in search of red snapper.

Once we’re beyond the first belt of rigs, we drop the trolling lines, looking to get some king mackerel. We find instead that the Spanish mackerel have started their runs in the northern gulf. We quickly begin to get some strikes. Before long we have a dozen seven-pounders in the ice chests, thumping around in the well running down the center of the boat.

By 10 a.m. we are pulling up to the next grouping of rigs. Dad slows the boat and circles the platform so we can tie up and fish. Standing on the bow with the rig hook, a 10-foot-long aluminum shaft with an over-large shepherd’s crook on one end, I wait. The rig hook has a rope attached with a rubber tensioner tied in the middle, and each oil rig is composed of two-foot-diameter pipes. My job is to reach out and hook the rig, then secure the rope.

Modest three-to-four-foot swells are coming in under the bow, and with the boat nosed under the platform, the up and down motion is significant. Balancing, waiting for the boat to rise, I reach out and make the hook. Dad throttles back to about 30 feet from the rig, and I tie us off. My brother Keith and I break out the tackle, bait our hooks with pogies, and drop our lines. The depth at 20 miles off the Cameron Parish coastline is only 20-30 feet.

We stay put for a couple of hours, adding more sheepshead than red snapper to the cooler. The waves start to shift direction, so we move on. We troll for another hour without much success. Keith gets one sensational strike from what is probably a ling, but the large fish throws the lure in an acrobatic leap out of the water.

Thunderstorms are beginning to build to the east and west, so Dad turns our boat northward and begins a fast run to the jetties. Other than a few waterspouts at 10 miles distance, the return trip is uneventful. The water is smooth on the Mermentau, and we head the final four miles to the dock at Grand Chenier. With our boat safely trailered, we stop by the Tarpon Freezo for a malt in the one-blinking-light town of Creole. We’re delayed at the drawbridge by heavy barge traffic on the intercoastal, but we’re finally back home around 5.

Having cleaned the boat and hosed the salt from the tackle, the three of us stand in the backyard cleaning and gutting for the next couple of hours. I dump the heads and guts to the waiting turtles in our five-acre pond. The fish are packed in Guth milk cartons and stacked in the freezer. Exhausted but satisfied, we polish our shoes for church in the morning and call it a day.

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Reading this weekend: some light summertime fare. Hope Road, by John Barlow. A Taste For Vengeance, by Martin Walker

How to Visit a Farm: A Primer for the Considerate

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We receive a lot of visitors to Winged Elm Farm. Most are thoughtful and respectful of our time, appreciative of what we have to offer. We enjoy the showing and explaining of our routines. For many, it is their first outing to any sort of farm. With that in mind, I offer this curmudgeonly guide to the dos and don’ts of a visit.

Somewhere

  • Sturdy shoes don’t have suede: Bare-toed Birks among the clover, where the bees are busily gathering pollen; suede designer boots calf-deep in pig muck; Italian loafers tiptoeing through the sheep poop — all have all been worn by ill-prepared guests. A working farm means manure, nails, and insects that sting. There’s a good reason we warn you to wear sturdy footwear.

 

  • “Arrive at 10” is not simply a suggestion: When we ask that you be here at 10 a.m., we expect you to arrive at 10. Not 9 and not 11. And certainly not 2 p.m., when we are just lying down for a nap. Farm work is never ending. We will be at it five minutes before you arrive and back at it five minutes after you leave. Letting you come to “see” the farm is, in our mind, a treat and a courtesy. Respect the offer and watch the clock. Be aware, too, the subtle signal to end the visit. When we say “Better settle in and help us do some work,” don’t be surprised if we hand you a pitchfork when you don’t take the hint.

 

  • Pets are accidents in waiting: Don’t bring your dog. Yes, he is the light of your life. And, of course, everyone deserves to scratch his fluffy head. He is well-behaved, you have perfect control … until he sees his first chicken or his first flock of sheep. Or much worse, our varmint-killing farm dog catches sight of this unexpected intruder. Tears will ensue, trust me.

 

  • Children, Part 1 — playing with electric fencing: Our farm contains miles of electric fencing. There’s a reason it keeps cattle, sheep, and pigs in their respective places. We will point it out as you stroll the farm. Don’t touch it or pee on it. Don’t let your kids touch or pee on it. (Yes, that’s your responsibility.) When your darling daughter reaches down and grabs a six-joule hot wire … again, tears will ensue, trust me.

 

  • Children, Part 2 — harassing, damaging, or killing livestock: When your son squeezes the baby chick so tightly he squishes it, there is a proper first response. No, it is not consoling the crying boy. It is placating the horrified farmer, whose future egg layer hangs limp from chubby fingers. It is he who deserves consolation, if not at least the offer of compensation.

 

  • Children, Part 3 — staring at screens: You thought getting the kids out of the house to see a farm was a great idea, right? We do too. That’s why we must insist that they refrain from wasting their visit staring at a tablet or iPhone. Leave the digital devices in the car.

 

  • Gates work best when latched: There are dozens of gates on this farm, and they all serve the same purpose: keeping the livestock contained. Feel free to walk the farm, but do close the gates behind you. And, yes, closing means latching.

 

  • Don’t call it a hobby farm: We understand, the farm is fun and its animals cute. But, we work to make it pay for itself and support our basic needs. The term “hobby farm” is a slur to the working rural community.

 

  • These are not therapy animals, and this is not a petting zoo: Remember that we raise animals to be slaughtered and eaten. While they are on our farm, they are treated with respect, fed and housed and handled with care. They are not here to be cuddled or coddled, but to provide protein and good taste for yours and our dinner plate. Admire them, even pet them under supervision. But keep the life cycle in perspective while visiting.

 

  • It’s all fun and games until someone gets sucked into the baler: There are a million ways to be injured or even killed on a farm. This is not an OSHA-sanctioned environment. Keep a close watch on your youngsters and husbands. And that fancy scarf around your neck? It is a magnet for a PTO shaft. You really don’t want to find out what that means.

 

  • You are welcome to buy something: We don’t charge to visit, although some farms do. But if you need eggs, veggies, honey, beef, pork, lamb, chicken, or even lumber, we have all available to sell.

 

  • Dinner is served: We are generous with our time, and, truly, we are glad to have you visit. Be respectful, show an interest, and ask questions. And, if invited, we hope you’ll accept our offer to stay for dinner.

Moving Hogs

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It’s what we do, darlin’.

The sounds of fiddle and banjo picking went late into last night, following a dinner with friends of homegrown salad, chicken and sausage gumbo, and an amazing dessert of strawberry and mint cream soup. We were gathered out back around the table, a bottle of elderberry mead making the rounds, as some of us listened and others serenaded. Somewhere between “Big Rock Candy Mountain” and “Wagon Wheel,” I threw in my own entertainment by sharing the story of how I accidentally moved our 250-pound hogs.

On the farm we currently have two groups of pigs. One group of three is closing in on market weight and has six weeks to complete a life of indolence. At 100 pounds each, the other three will not be slaughtered until late in the fall. Through a combination of chance and timing, the two groups ended up together in the same paddock and pasture. The larger hogs are food bullies, and consequently, the younger ones have not grown out as fast as we would like.

Separating out hogs was long overdue and had, alas, been at the top of our to-do list for the past few weeks. Which brings us to Friday, when I stepped out onto the porch and found all six pigs in the first throes of liberty, cavorting in the side yard.

Hogs are by nature curious and cautious. They test limits, yet they are fearful of consequences. On Friday, the unlatched gate was discovered early, but, clustered and nosing around the magic line, they still took hours before gathering the courage to step across to freedom.

In the early years on the farm, I would have responded in dignified panic, running amongst them screaming and pleading and flailing my arms. Yesterday, as a seasoned warden of many such feeble escapes, I responded with calm. For pigs, like teenage boys, are both perennially rebellious and hungry. They can easily be controlled, if only just, with a full bucket of feed.

I waded through the scrum to the barn and grabbed the bucket. “Piggeee,” I called, and they came running back through the gate. All except one. The outlier barked loudly and ran the opposite direction. The rest stopped in mid-run to the food, turned, and followed suit. I tried again.

The next go ‘round I managed to get the smaller pigs through the gate, but the larger ones gamboled about among the muscadines. Figuring three pigs in a paddock beat six in the vines, I slammed the gate shut and, having doublechecked that it was indeed latched, headed off to deal with the others.

Now snuffling around the pawpaw trees, they came docilely to my calls and trotted into the large wooded paddock … their new home, where we had intended to move them all along and where they spent the remainder of the day celebrating their victory by eating last year’s acorns among the oaks.

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Reading this weekend: just received in the mail, the new American Library edition of Wendell Berry’s collected Port Williams stories and novels.