And so I thank the stars for the seasons, because without waypoints, this would all pass too quickly. I’m glad for the bud-break of the grapevines in March, the first Pruden’s Purple tomato in August, the brilliant frosts of October, and the reddening leaves of November. And I’m thankful for the weather and the difficulties and the fact that I am out in both of them, daily confronting the living and dying that allows us all to survive. Watching the sky clear after a storm, the sun setting behind the hills of gray-green oaks, I will always miss the ocean a little bit—that sense of possibility and unknown that I’ve traded for a hundred daily certainties and a warm bed.
But that vast emptiness is just a short drive away, as it is no matter where we live. And while we may take only occasional trips to the sea, the squalls that wash ashore remind us that we never have the remotest idea what’s going to happen. For all the chores and simple pleasures of farm life, the details that consume our daily existence, the sea is always there, in the same way that those we lose will always remain with us.
I am still inconsolable over some of the animals that have passed away under my care. Even if their deaths weren’t my fault, their lives will always be my responsibility. The trouble with animal husbandry is this: killing creatures is easy when you view them as objects. It’s harder, but in many ways better, when you know them and take good care of them. And when a farm animal you’ve loved unexpectedly dies, even if that creature is a seemingly simple chicken, a piece of you goes with her. While the shock grows more distant, the legend only swells with time: those small chicken lives, forever a part of the soil and the flora-fauna-human family that make up a farm. A hundred animals and a handful of ghosts.
So what does a farmer, faced with the loss of a pet chicken, do? Buy a goat and name her after the chicken. (And rejoice when the goat has the same utterly unquenchable lapdog spirit that the chicken did.) What does a farming couple, not earning quite enough money at the farmers’ market to make a living, do? Start a CSA, branch out into dairy, host wwoofers, build a barn, raise heritage turkeys.
There’s no question that we’ll make this work. I’ve finally found a vocation where it’s completely reasonable—expected, even—to be a stubborn idiot. And I’ve found a wonderfully stubborn idiot to enjoy this vocation with, one who rises at 6:30 a.m. in the off-season to build a barn for the goats, and who can be found in the middle of a rainstorm lashing tarps to that as-yet-unroofed barn and frantically swabbing the decks—er, mopping the plywood floor.
From the table in the living room where I write, I look out the kitchen window. At the very top of the frame, goat feet scamper back and forth across the base of a hill. I hear a hen announce—bokbokBAGAWK—that she’s laid an egg, and a young Silver Sebright cockerel attempt to crow. (He sounds like a gagging power drill.) And you know what? Call me crazy, call me poor, call me covered in chicken shit. Call me tired, call me scared, call me satisfied, call me passionate. And did I mention crazy?
Go ahead. But before you do, let me offer you a few eggs and a pair of Chihuahua-sized goat kids, and then we’ll see who’s crazy. Trust me, you don’t have to like worms, or even fresh tomatoes. There’s a little farm in all of us.
Epilogue:
FRUITS OF LABOR
As of this writing, Foggy River Farm is three years old. Still selling at the Healdsburg farmers’ market and now offering a CSA program, too. Farm to Pantry gleaners visit regularly; several friends contribute labor in exchange for produce; vineyard workers have set up a small community garden adjacent to the field. We’ve hosted a number of wwoofers and longerterm interns who have left far more than just footprints on the farm.
In April 2010, we held our wedding ceremony and reception down at the field. The wedding party rode in on a neighbor’s horse-drawn wagon: a service that had been provided in exchange for an old tractor. The tables were decorated with farm tools, eggs, and produce. We married shortly after becoming goat grandparents: movie star Sedona and her two-week-old twin doelings joined us at the field and punctuated the ceremony with the occasional “meh.” One of them, Misa—a lapdog doeling we named after another lost friend, an adopted feral cat named Mouse who passed away—features prominently in our wedding photos. Her sister went to another family to become a backyard pet milker, but Misa will stay with us, and we hope she’ll soon give us our first great grandkids. She and Tie, Tuxedo’s kid who also stayed with us, are the best of friends, just like their mothers.
In other firsts, I made my inaugural chèvre, and it was fantastic: raw and savory and decidedly chèvre tasting, not terribly different in flavor from the artisanal store-bought varieties. But it meant so much more and therefore tasted so much better. It carried with it the frustration of a kicked bucket and the patience required to train the first fresheners, the memory of the soothing, quiet mornings in the milkroom and the gentle psh-psh into the stainless steel pail, the satisfaction of a full udder deflating and a bucket filling.
Did I mention the sheep are growing on me? My first chèvre was even made of half Babydoll Southdown milk—which, I suppose, makes it technically not a true chèvre. Though we eventually gave up on milking the sheep, it’s nice, actually, to have a few animals that are reasonably predictable and low-maintenance. The goats and chickens pride themselves on their ability to create chaos, but the sheep focus on simply existing. And these days, the sheep exist even more comfortably with the companionship of our two gay alpacas, Ben and Humble. (And yes, I’m quite sure they’re gay. My gay ex-boyfriend suggested that they might just be bros, but I pointed out that bros don’t typically hump each other, neck, and watch each other pee.) Teddy mellowed out and joined another farm; in fact, we traded him for the alpacas, thanks to Craigslist.
And so it is that, after much hemming and hawing, we’re putting down roots. We have a permanent space now: a patch of earth surrounded by a stout fence and watered with irrigation pipes that will never have to be moved. Emmett’s parents have carved out a corner of the vineyard for us, and we’re starting to put in some permanent crops of our own: berries, fruit trees, artichokes, asparagus. We’ve even built two barns—one animal, one vegetable. (The vegetable barn was finished just in time for our wedding reception barn dance.)
I don’t get away much. It’s not just that it’s hard to leave the farm—which it is, since we’re responsible for so many lives—but it’s hard to afford to leave the farm, too. Between the Healdsburg farmers’ market, our CSA program, and the animals, we gross about $30,000 a year. That’s before we pay for seeds, irrigation supplies, chicken feed, hay, and the barns required to house the animals and equipment. We’re working on increasing our CSA membership and boosting farmers’ market sales so that we can subsist entirely on farm income, but in the meantime, I work as a reporter for the local paper and write whenever and wherever I can. Not that writers make much more than farmers, but every little bit helps.
Being anchored to one spot is a little bit lonely and a little bit lovely. While I do occasionally wish I could shove off and sail around the world, there’s something to be said for loving where you live. The oak and eucalyptus trees, the morning fog, the wide-open spaces: all have become familiar. A host of four-legged and feathered friends greets me every time I open my front door. I know every curve of Eastside Road; the sudden rumble as my station wagon banks left onto our dirt driveway signifies that I’m home. When I rattle to a stop, I look for Emmett’s pickup truck—either parked in the driveway or a barely visible speck across the road and down the hill. We got the truck for a good price because it had been in a fender bender, which means some panels were replaced and even after two years, they still haven’t been painted. The hood is starting to rust and it’s like a hundred other things that fall to the wayside, below the farming priority list. Our house is rarely tidy because a clean milk room and chicken coop are more important. Our Christmas lights stay up year-round and our first mistletoe is still taped to a doorjamb, but every evening we gather the day’s eggs and shut the coop d
oor. Four months after our wedding, we were still working on our thank-you notes, although we managed to raise an entire barn in just over two.
But—and this is a big confession for a San Diego girl—I don’t mind being a little bit redneck. Like the goats and the chickens, the tomatoes and the lettuces, I’m a happy creature of routine. Every day, Tuxedo starts her soprano trilling at 6:00 a.m.: a morning milk-me serenade. I don’t even hear the roosters anymore; they’re impotent in comparison. If we don’t hear her, Emmett and I start worrying about coyotes, and one of us will slip out of the warm bed and walk over to the front door to peer into the chilly morning. Each time we do, she bursts into song.
Home feels like the whole world, and the whole world feels like home.
ENDNOTES
1 United States Census, “Data Set: 2006-2008 American Community Survey 3-Year Estimates.” 997,082 Individuals employed in “Farming, fishing, and forestry occupations.” 143,195,793 total civilian employed population.
2 United States Department of Agriculture, Economic Research Service, Data Set: Foreign Agricultural Trade of the United States (FATUS), www.ers.usda.gov/data/FATUS.
3 National Ag Safety Database, “Older Farmers: Factors Affecting Their Health and Safety,” http://nasdonline.org.
4 United States Department of Agriculture, Agricultural Marketing Service, “USDA Announces that National Farmers’ market Directory Totals 6,132 Farmers’ markets,” www.ams.usda.gov.
5 United States Department of Agriculture, Economic Research Service, “State Fact Sheets: California,” www.ers.usda.gov/statefacts/ca.htm. Average age of principal farm operator in 2007: 58.4.
6 Texas A&M Agricultural Extension, “Universal Boon to the Salad Bowl,” http://plantanswers.tamu.edu/publications/vegetabletravelers/lettuce.html.
7 Thomas Jefferson Foundation, “‘Tennis Ball’ Lettuce (Lactuca sativa),” http://explorer.monticello.org.
8 Agricultural Marketing Resource Center, “Lettuce Profile,” www.agmrc.org.
9 Michael Pollan, The Omnivore’s Dilemma: A Natural History of Four Meals (New York: Penguin, 2006), 165.
10 University of California Vegetable Research and Information Center, “Leaf Lettuce Production in California,” http://vric.ucdavis.edu. According to the Center, lettuce should be “vacuum cooled” after harvesting and then stored just above freezing at 98 percent relative humidity. It “may be held for 2 to 3 weeks at 34 degrees F,” but “at 27 degrees F, shelf life is reduced to 1 to 2 weeks.”
11 United States Census of Agriculture, “Table 34. Vegetables, Potatoes, and Melons Harvested for Sale: 2007 and 2002” (2007), www.agcensus.usda.gov.
12 United States Department of Agriculture, National Agricultural Statistic Service, www.nass.usda.gov. In 2008, California loose leaf lettuce industry had a $305-million value.
13 United States Environmental Protection Agency, Office of Pesticide Programs, “Carbaryl IRED Facts,” www.epa.gov.
14 Associated Press, “Worst Industrial Disaster Still Haunts India” (December 2, 2009), www.msnbc.msn.com.Ingrid Eckerman, The Bhopal Saga—Causes and Consequences of the World’s Largest Industrial Disaster (India: Universities Press, 2005).
15 Thompson, et al, “Pesticide Take-Home Pathway Among Children of Agricultural Workers: Study Design, Methods, and Baseline Findings,” Journal of Occupational and Environmental Medicine 45:1 (2003), 42–53.
16 Lu, et al, “Pesticide Exposure of Children in an Agricultural Community: Evidence of Household Proximity to Farmland and Take Home Exposure Pathways,” Environmental Research Section A 84 (2000), 290–302.
17 Curl, et al, “Evaluation of Take-Home Organophosphorus Pesticide Exposure among Agricultural Workers and Their Children,” Environmental Health Perspectives 110(12) (December 2002), 787–792.
18 Columbia University, Center for Environmental Research and Conservation, “Introduced Species Summary Project: Giant Marine Toad (Bufo marinus),” www.columbia.edu.
19 United States Census of Agriculture, “Summary by Age and Primary Occupation of Principal Operator: 2007” (2007), www.agcensus.usda.gov. Thirty-two percent of America’s youngest farmers—thirty-four years old or younger—are tenant farmers.
20 For examples of specific young farmers raising chickens, please see Provenance Farm in Oregon (http://rachelprickett.wordpress.com/about), Mighty Food Farm in Vermont (http://mightyfoodfarm.com), and Blue Fox Farm in Missouri (www.bluefoxfarm.net).
21 Louis P. Tremante, “Livestock in nineteenth century New York City,” Urban Agriculture Magazine, www.ruaf.org.
22 Jessica Bennett, “The New Coop De Ville: The Craze for Urban Poultry Farming,” Newsweek (November 17, 2008), www.newsweek.com.
23 American Farm Bureau, “Young Farmers and Ranchers Anticipate Bright Future,” The Voice of Agriculture (March 18, 2008), www.fb.org.
24 United States Department of Agriculture Economics, Statistics, and Market Information System, National Agricultural Statistics Service, “Farm Computer Usage and Ownership,” http://usda.mannlib.cornell.edu.
25 See note 22.
26 United States Department of Agriculture, National Agricultural Statistics Service. “Statistics by Subject: National Statistics for Chickens.” www.nass.usda.gov.
27 United States Department of Agriculture Economics, Statistics, and Market Information System, National Agricultural Statistics Service, “Chickens and Eggs Annual Summary” (February 2010), http://usda.mannlib.cornell.edu.
28 Bernard E. Rollin, Animal Rights & Human Morality (Amherst, New York: Prometheus Books, 2006).
29 G. M. Jones, “Guidelines to Culling Cows with Mastitis” (Virginia Tech, May 1999), http://pubs.ext.vt.edu/404/404-204/404-204.html.
30 Berton Roueche, Annals of Medicine, “Something a Little Unusual,” The New Yorker (May 15, 1965), 180, www.newyorker.com.
31 United States Department of Agriculture, Economic Research Service, “Food Spending in American Households, 2003–04,” www.ers.usda.gov. Average annual spending per person on tomatoes: $14.44.
32 Frameworks Institute, “How Did This Broccoli Get on My Plate? Framing Food as a Public Issue,” www.frameworksinstitute.org/workshops/broccoli.
33 U.S. Census Bureau, 2010 Statistical Abstract, Arts, Recreation, and Travel: Recreation and Leisure Activities, “Table 1213. Sporting Goods Sales by Product Category: 1990 to 2007, and Projection, 2008,” www.census.gov.
34 HighBeam Business, “Industry Report: Chewing Gum,” http://business.highbeam.com. According to the report, total retail sales of gum in the U.S. in 2001 reached $2.8 billion.
35 James E. Deitz and James L. Southam, Contemporary Business Mathematics for Colleges (Mason, Ohio: Cengage Learning, 2008).
36 Society of St. Andrew, www.endhunger.org.
37 Meg McConahey, “Sharing the Bounty,” Santa Rosa Press-Democrat (November 26, 2008), www.pressdemocrat.com.
38 See note 36.
39 Personal correspondence with WWOOF USA representative (November 2008).
40 Ric Bessin, “Sweet Corn Pests,” University of Kentucky College of Agriculture, www.ca.uky.edu/entomology.
41 Peter A. Peterson and Angelo Bianchi, Maize Genetics and Breeding in the 20th Century (Singapore: World Scientific Publishing Company, 1999).
42 United States Department of Agriculture, National Agricultural Statistics Service, Quick Stats, www.nass.usda.gov/quickstats.
43 United States Department of Agriculture, National Agricultural Statistics Service, Quick Stats, www.nass.usda.gov/quickstats. Includes both fresh and processing corn.
44 David Biello, “Insects Provide Billions in Free Services,” Scientific American (April 3, 2006), www.scientificamerican.com.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Without the decision of two lovers decades ago, Foggy River Farm would never have come to fruition. So my first thank-you goes to Emmett’s grandparents, John and Kay. They settled on these rolling hills and fertile floodplains and made the land their home. I wish I could have known them—al
though in some way, I think I do. Though gone now, they will both be here always.
A farm takes intergenerational commitment. The first to farm would have been the last were it not for those who followed: in this case, Bob and Toni. Thanks for offering wisdom and solace in turn, supporting our efforts with space and equipment, and tolerating our loudmouthed roosters, alpacas, sheep, goats, and dogs—not to mention our redneck porch constantly covered in feed sacks, buckets, lug bins, boots, and chicken turds. I’m starting to learn that grapes are pretty cool, too.
Emmett and I are not the only ones whose hands have touched Foggy River Farm: we appreciate the contributions of Enrique, Ismael, Susana and Austin, Sofie, poet Will, Angel and Socorro, and the Amys. And of course our hardworking hens, insane goats, beet-brained sheep, rodent-controlling cats, and dedicated farm dogs (including dear Kea who herds nothing but buzzards).
That covers the farm end of things, but a book takes an entirely different community. First thanks goes to my mom, who purchased countless books for her reading-obsessed daughter and always held firm in her belief that I could become a doctor, sled-dog racer in Alaska, or even an author—whatever I set my mind to. Her support has carried me far, and I’m still working on her guesthouse. Mom, you’re the best. I’m so glad you’ve brought Kevin and Marilyn into our lives; I couldn’t ask for a better family.
I’d also like to thank Elizabeth Kaplan, without whom the book would have remained a distant dream. (Am I seriously a published author? Pinch me.) I am truly honored to have Elizabeth’s dedication, follow-through, passion, and good humor on my side. She’s one of those people who just gets things.
The Wisdom of the Radish Page 21
