Country Grit: A Farmoir of Finding Purpose and Love

by Scottie Jones

  I was struck dumb, averting my eyes to hide my disappointment. To distract myself, I looked at my other daughter. She immediately threw up her hands in defense. “Don’t look at me. You know I can’t live more than a mile from my manicurist.”

  Well, at least I raised daughters who can speak their truth.

  What was it I said about farms? Oh yes, they’re the destroyer of delusions. Time to face facts. It was over and Greg and I both knew it. Even if we succeeded in making the farm self-sufficient, to what end if there was no legacy? And the accounting this year was going to be the worst on record. We increased expenses by building a new house but lost income with the turkey genocide. And the gate latch, where’s the money going to come from for fabrication and distribution? There was no reason to believe that the farm could be self-supporting. Not this year. Not any year.

  PART FIVE

  FINDING THE QUIT IN ME

  It was time to quit the farm, but quit it how? It’s as hard to quit a farm as it is to start one. There are two basic methods to accomplish a quit. The first requires admitting defeat and then developing an action plan to divest. A call to a good realtor will get you started. I opted for the second method, which involved pulling the covers over my head and going back to bed. Bubba, in a rare moment of compassion, joined me, curling up at my feet. Out of the darkness came the consoling, rhythmic hum of a purring cat.

  I tucked into a good rumination. After an hour of counting my losses, I attempted a last stab at problem solving. I systematically reviewed the four M’s of farming (money, market, manure, and machinery) hoping one of those categories could offer some, previously overlooked, reason for hope.

  The first M—money—is the most crucial part of farming. It takes money to buy the farm, keep it running, and to provide a cushion when things fall apart. And things always fall apart at some point. For us, they had been falling apart at an alarming rate. We had enough money to afford the farm if it was a static entity, but it wasn’t. We were continuing to bleed money. So the first M—problem unsolved and soon to be insolvent.

  Ideally, the problem of money can be answered with the second M—market. The right market can increase profit and staunch the flow of capital waste (pay debt or replace antiquated equipment). And in farming, there are only two solutions to market: scale up (go big) or find a niche. Scaling up was out of the question. First, we lacked the capital to expand. Second, we picked the one ag market with a steady decline of sales. Americans have been eating less lamb and wearing less wool every year for decades. That’s not a trend showing much promise of reversing.

  The only answer was to mine the niche market, and really, our lambs were a niche. But I had not been successful at creating a demand for Katahdin lamb. Heritage turkeys? Maybe, but the latest coon attack left me dispirited. Up in these woods, predation was a constant, and turkeys just seem to invite their own demise. It would be a constant fight with mother nature, and to date, I hadn’t fared very well with those battles. I wanted an accord with that good mother, not a battle. So the second M—problem unsolved.

  The third M, manure, or more accurately soil quality, was not in our favor either. Good farmland is found in river bottoms, not mountaintops. We chose pretty over productive. The soil quality greatly limited what we could grow, and the rain kept the good soil and nutrients moving downhill. We were working at such a disadvantage that even with composting and good management, the best we could hope for was to stay even rather than improve the soil quality.

  And our soil just couldn’t compete with the productivity of soils in the valley below us. At one time my little community boasted a sizeable farming population to feed the sizeable logging population. Now logging is largely mechanized so the population is small, and improved transportation puts me in direct competition with my flatland neighbors. It was a losing proposition. This simple fact of geography and its influence on farming is one of the great drivers of world history, yet it never even crossed my mind living in the city and shopping at my supermarket. The third M—problem unsolved and probably unsolvable.

  The fourth M, machinery, is at the very center of farming. Farming began with tools, was the result of tools. Ten thousand years ago somebody came up with the idea of a scythe. Before that, people walked up to wild grains and just shook the stalks, gathering whatever seeds would release into baskets. Some nameless individual chipped tiny flakes of razor sharp obsidian and imbedded them into a stick; thus creating a tool (scythe) that allowed people to cut the stalks. The stalks were then taken back to the village where all the seeds could be shaken out. Probably the intent was just to increase the collection of seeds, but the result was that seeds that clung to the stalk were more likely to be harvested and ultimately to be replanted. Over time, the scythe produced a variety of plants with seeds that don’t randomly drop but rather “wait for the harvester,” or, as we like to call them, domesticated cereals. Agriculture was invented, and human history was transformed right along with the cereals. Sheep would follow shortly.

  Tools define farming, and the right tools define success in farming. Cash-strapped farmers are often working with worn out or obsolete machinery, hoping to patch and keep them functioning. Of course, the obsolete equipment is less efficient, lowering the farmer’s profit margin, and is more prone to breaking down, leaving the farmer in the bind of paying for a repair, with less income to cover the cost. Or the farmer can go into debt to get better equipment and hope that the harvest will cover the cost of the investment. We purchased a tractor, which helped us to decrease the cost of our feed but, in the short run, it increased our debt above what it saved us. Over time, it should pay for itself, but for now it was a drag on our budget. We could make other investments in equipment that, long term, would lower our cost and improve our efficiency, but we lacked the capital to do that. So the fourth M—problem unsolved.

  So there it was, all four Ms a total bust. And let’s not forget—no legacy. No one to take over all that we’d built—or, more accurately, to live in the hole we’d dug. The only questions remaining were how to sell the farm and where to go. Once again we would pull up our lives and move to … what? We’d have to go to a city where there were jobs, but what city? What jobs? I burrowed deeper into the covers.

  Downstairs I could hear a door open and then the slow heavy trudge of work boots on the stairs. Greg was calling me. At the bedroom door he paused and then stuck his head into a totally darkened room. Observing his wife curled into a fetal position under a cocoon of blankets, he asked tentatively, “Are we out of milk?”

  This from a psychologist!

  “Probably.”

  Apparently my tone carried the right amount of threat. He muttered “Okay,” and closed the door, leaving me to my funk. I think I was hoping for one of those George Clooney moments where your spouse, using tough words in a tender voice, coaxes you back to a world full of promise and hope. What I got was my husband lost in his world and not quite knowing how to find me in mine.

  And why should he be Clooney for me? He probably just came in from a whole host of farm problems for which he had no answer. Maybe he was hoping to come home and sit in the kitchen and have a wife serve him a glass of milk with a slice of pie, while nurturing him back to a world full of promise and hope. What he got was a woman barricaded in her blankets.

  And that was all either of us was going to get that day. That was all we had to give. The farm had taken the rest.

  As he closed the door, it went dark again. Bubba started his droning purr. Not exactly George Clooney, but it helped remind me I wasn’t alone. I began to reflect on how intuitive animals are about emotional needs, even cross-species. Here was Bubba, the brat, sensing how much I needed his purring at this moment. I began to relax with that warm thought and stretched just a bit under the covers. As I did, Bubba clamped fang and claws on my big toe.

  That got me out of bed. Bubba sprinted out the door faster than I could throw a shoe. I sat on the end of the bed considering whether to go fe
tal again, but to what end? The farm would just call me back to this reality. It could match every moment of moody self-contemplation with an imminent call from the crisis du jour. So, absent a plan or a vision, I did what farmers do. I did my chores.

  I even fed one despicable black cat. But only after I fed the dog first. Revenge served cold, or at least tepid. Oh, and I also put in a call to a realtor.

  SPRING REVELATIONS—MIRACLES FROM THE MUD

  During this time of darkness and fog, we were visited by a mystery. Two lambs were born without a mother. This was more spontaneous combustion than immaculate conception.

  We had just started lambing. At birth, the ewe-lamb combos are moved into the barn for three days of bonding and tagging. Following this, they’re moved to the lamb pasture with extra rich grass for the nursing ewes. Thus, the herd is divided between expectant and delivered ewes.

  So what were two new lambs doing in the already delivered pasture on that crisp, spring morning? It is possible to have delayed births. A pair of lambs arrives and then, almost as an afterthought, a third appears a few hours later. Delays had been reported up to eight hours, but not days later. All of the ewes in the field had lambed more than a week ago, making a delayed birth impossible.

  The answer had to be a sneaky, fence-squeezing ewe in search of greener grass. Obviously she had pushed into the field, birthed, and then pushed back out, leaving her lambs behind. Not good maternal behavior, so probably a new ewe. A few days in the barn with her babes should repair the attachment disorder. The challenge was to find the wayward mother and reunite her with her babes. And find her fast.

  Time was of the essence because lambs need colostrum. There is about a forty-eight hour window before the lambs’ stomachs would “turn off” and not be able to absorb the important immunological benefits in the colostrum. Without the colostrum, they were a high mortality risk. Time was also vital for the bonding. Without the stimulation from the lambs, the ewe’s body would begin shutting down the production of oxytocin necessary for bonding and lactation. The lambs had been cleaned, which stimulates the production of oxytocin, so the ewe should be bagging up and have a real interest in lambs. It shouldn’t be difficult to find her; biology would be pointing at her like a huge neon sign.

  Except there was no flashing sign. All the old ewes were obviously still pregnant. Two new ewes were suspicious but new ewes often have underweight babies and hard-to-detect pregnancies. Neither of the new ewes was bagging or showed obvious signs of recent births. My skepticism was confirmed when they both went on to deliver the typical scenario of under-weight, single lambs at a later date. So, none of the ewes in the expectant pasture was responsible for the lambs either.

  The only possible explanation was spontaneous combustion. Some mixing of gasses from decaying matter and maybe a static spark. Greg offered a time machine theory, which was ridiculous. Their tiny hooves could never reach the levers.

  My immediate concern was getting colostrum into these babies. In the absence of a mother, I could milk a substitute ewe. I needed a ewe that had just given birth, so I went to the barn. Except, there were no ewes in the barn. The ram had apparently taken a few days off last fall to regain his strength. Plan B was to buy powdered colostrum from the feed store, except they were out. Plan C was to call a neighbor sheep farmer. Experienced sheepers know to milk ewes for extra colostrum and freeze it for just such an emergency. Except, none of my sheeper friends had reserves. I hoped for a new lamb delivery in the next twenty-four hours, but none came.

  This was spiraling into another hard-luck farm story. It starts as a miracle but ends in a loss. I brought the lambs into the infirmary kitchen. Sitting on the floor next to the wood stove, I pushed nipples with warm milk into their mouths. Once I got them started, I could switch both bottles to one hand leaving the other hand free to stroke their butts, just as their mothers would do. They began sucking but couldn’t put that together with swallowing. The milk dribbled out the corner of their mouths. Cisco began licking their faces with delight and, with every lick, developing his own attachment to these lambs.

  I was crouched on the floor, with two lambs straddling me and a dog in the middle, when Greg came in. I couldn’t greet him because I had one hand on the bottles, one hand on lamb butt, and a dog in my face. He took off his coat and gave the scene a long gaze of assessment. He already knew the basics. They were bummers and, without colostrum, they were doomed. So what was I doing feeding them?

  What indeed! I didn’t have a good answer to that. In fact, I didn’t even like the question. And I was preparing to not like the person who would ask that question. Apparently he missed my cues, because he just waded right in.

  “You know it really is a shame.”

  “Yeah, what’s a shame?” So here we go with the long windup.

  “You truly have a farmer’s heart.”

  “Meaning I’m either stubborn or stupid, I suppose.”

  “Well … we agreed we’re calling it quits, right? Putting the farm on the market? It’s over. We’re done. Finished. Probably sell the herd at auction for pennies on the dollar. Two more lambs? Makes no difference at all. None. And that’s if they live, which they won’t! Yet here you are.” He was shaking his head.

  “Un-huh.” This guy was really not paying attention to the emotional currents in the room. He just kept wading in deeper.

  “I was the one that wanted this lifestyle, I know.” He raised a hand, as if to take responsibility. “But you’re the one fighting for it. You’ve got the heart for farming. Not many would have stuck this out, and look at you.” His eyes locked onto mine. They were intent. “Even now, knowing we can’t make it—no way, no how—you’re still farming. You got some grit in you!”

  He paused to let the full weight of his words register, then continued, “Shame to discover that now, as we’re leaving … I guess, sometimes … I’m just slow. But I’m grateful to know it. Makes me love you all the more.”

  Wait … I think I’m having my Clooney moment! I just sat there. Lamb sucking. Dog licking. Me stunned.

  He started to walk away, but I called out, “Hey!” and nodded to him. He walked back. Neither the lambs nor the dog were forfeiting any space. Over the sound of sucking, I looked up and smiled. He bent down and just rested his forehead against mine for a moment before taking a bottle with a lamb attachment.

  Fortunately, I can count on Greg to not linger in Clooney similarity too long.

  “So I’m guessing dinner is delayed tonight, ’cause I’m third in line after the dead lambs and the dog?”

  “What makes you think you’re third? Get me the tube. These lambs are sucking but they’re not swallowing. And they’re not dead. Not yet.”

  They weren’t dead. And they didn’t die. I tube fed them until they could swallow. I tied off a ewe and milked her, so they did get some colostrum. Maybe it was enough or maybe they were just tough. Whatever the reason, they lived, and I needed that miracle right then. So perhaps it was more immaculate conception than spontaneous combustion. Some gift from above to give hope.

  My daughter, now a vet, has an alternative explanation. She noted our old reliable ewe, Didi, had only one lamb that year, unusual since she had always twinned in previous years. And apparently she gave birth just as a new ewe birthed a single. Annie’s theory was that the new ewe actually had twins and Didi stole the first while the mother was birthing the second. In this conjured reconstruction, I failed to notice Didi was still pregnant when I brought her into the barn. She delivered her two lambs a week later in the lamb field. She licked them clean, possibly even allowed them to nurse, then returned to the single to which she had already bonded.

  This is what comes from an education in science. A tidy little theory that explains things using only the known facts. It lacks creativity and seems to cast her mother in an unflattering light. I’m sticking with immaculate conception. These lambs were a miracle when I needed one. Miracles are as much perception as they are the actual event. I
ask you, is it not a miracle to turn my spouse into George Clooney for one shining moment?

  And maybe that was the real miracle. There is a profound healing power in the simple act of recognition. For that one moment, Greg broke through all the role-encrusted armor we had donned, to see me. Failed farmers we might be, but at least I felt appreciated for all my hard work. And that made all the difference. I was able to let go of the farm without feeling personally flawed. And not feeling defensive about my personal flaws made it easier to appreciate how hard Greg had worked. And recognizing his hard work allowed us to let go of the farm as a couple, rather than flawed individuals, each secretly blaming the other for the failure. This would be one farm foreclosure that would not take a marriage down with it.

  And that made me love him all the more.

  OF DONKEYS AND DRIVE-BYS

  Every day on my way to chores, I walked past the empty cabin and it weighed on me. It was Jack’s cabin and I couldn’t think of it without hearing the banging of his hammer, his turkey whistles, or his conflagrations with Luther. I couldn’t see the cabin and not think of Jack. And that loss reminded me of my other loss—my dream of living with my daughter next to me. It was time to do something. A change was needed.

  A house down the road was listed for sale. The agent would already be familiar with the area, so it seemed a good place to start. Tanya, the agent, told me the house had just sold and I would be getting new neighbors. Good, I noted, if she can sell my farm they can be new neighbors together. I had found the quit in me. Tanya came right over. Assessments of farms are laborious, so she wanted to get started right away. I liked Tanya.

  She had just left when Brick drove up the driveway. In the bed of his pick-up was Jack’s burro, looking shaggy, soggy, and thin. Brick had a big smile.

  “Hey, I got a favor to ask.”