Greenhorns

by Paula Manalo

  A walk-behind BCS rototiller is the largest piece of machinery we use to tend the four-acre patchwork of borrowed farmland peppered throughout our hillside village. It was this machine that was responsible for digging the furrows into which we dropped countless spuds. This year we had too many rows to hill by hand with a hoe, so we bartered with old Neil Campbell for the use of his tractor-drawn potato hoe. When it finally came time to harvest the fifteen hundred row feet of storage potatoes, our saving grace was not the mechanical power of the tractor, but rather the many hands of our fellow villagers.

  In the spirit of old-fashioned harvest celebrations, we called a Potato ShinDIG: “Come help us reap the harvest and take home your winter supply of taters. Revel in the soil with friends and cider on tap. May we get down and dirty.”

  I arrived late to the ShinDIG, because of a last-second snafu with the keg of cider at our farmhouse. By the time I reached the potato field, I was expecting the digging crew to have just begun. Lo and behold, most of the spuds had already been unearthed, and folks were chatting casually as they dug. It was warm for a late-October afternoon in the hills of Vermont, but the soil was cold and wet, leaving the digging crew swathed in mud. I stopped for a moment to take in the scene: bodies of all shapes, sizes, ages, and abilities bent in varied poses, fishing food out of the ground.

  Before all the potatoes had been gathered into baskets, the cider was tapped and a celebratory spirit permeated the group. We stood around, covered head to toe in black earth, sharing the cider from last year’s apples. The setting sun cast its glow over our village as we reflected on what a rich and fruitful year it had been for the town of Barnard. What would have taken us weeks to harvest, our community had done in an hour.

  My brother and I were born not on the farm, but instead at the intersection of rural and suburban culture. Our family made annual trips to local farms for our pumpkins, Christmas trees, corn on the cob, and apples. Beyond these quintessential farm visits, though, it was rare to have a hand in agriculture. Our upbringing was dominated by academics and athletics, both of which demanded discipline and a work ethic that unwittingly prepared us for our unlikely future as farmers.

  I graduated from college with a liberal arts degree, my brother turned down a grad school program, and our collective commitment fell on the soil in blind faith. I actually didn’t know where the village of Barnard was before November 2007, when Joe (a beef farmer we lease land from) carved out a two-acre vegetable plot for us on his farm. This newly upturned loam represented the boldest decision we had ever made. It wasn’t long before Farmer Joe became Grandpa Joe.

  That February, we built our greenhouse, digging through four feet of snow to reach the ground. Meanwhile, we spread the word about our vegetable CSA venture across billboards and in local papers and sought a place to rent. By the thaw of ’08 we had found a place to live in the village center and developed a twenty-five-member CSA called Fable Farm. We moved to Barnard knowing not a soul; what we discovered was a community eager to help and a village boasting a rich agricultural past. Thanks to our scavenging abilities and thrift, and thanks to the CSA members we’d recruited that winter, we didn’t have to approach a bank and thus avoided sinking into the black hole of debt.

  Now, three years later, we offer a hundred vegetable shares and sell to select markets. We don’t own any land, but we do have increasing access to rent-free farmland throughout our village, thanks to the generosity of some townspeople who recognize the severe shortage of available land and want to see our enterprise survive. After three growing seasons (with winters off), my twenty-six-year-old self has been able to save some money. Confronted by the classic hurdle of inflated land prices, it’s not cash that will buy us land to tend in perpetuity, but rather the currency of human connection. I no longer question where I should settle, for it would be sheer stupidity to walk away from the networks of friends and supporters here in Barnard.

  In the beginning, though, we needed to prove to the townspeople that we were capable of growing good food and that we were not afraid of hard work. We were blessed that first year to be farming on Grandpa Joe’s well-cared-for, rotationally grazed beef farm. With the grace of the fertile loam below our bare feet, our vegetables grew in abundance. The only complaint we got from our CSA members was that we gave them too many veggies.

  The second year brought us more into the town. Cherishing his privacy, Grandpa Joe told us we needed to find a new site for our CSA pickup days. It just so happened that an old farmhouse sitting on half an acre in the village center was for rent. Its owners were looking for tenants willing to work on the house in exchange for reduced rent. They permitted us to plow up the backyard and use the space for our CSA pickup. Despite the fact that the length of our lease was uncertain, we built an earth oven in the backyard — a clay temple that’s becoming the hearth of our village.

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  What would have taken us weeks to harvest, our community had done in an hour.

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  Barnard is a rural town that reached its cultural peak in the late 1800s, then declined with the broadening of a globalized economy. The population of nineteenth-century Barnard was double what it is today, and everyone had a hand in the production of goods, whether by farm or factory. The lack of mechanization required people to work together in order to reap the harvests, thresh the grain, and bale the hay. Their survival depended on community. As small farms and cottage industries failed or left, what it meant to live in community began to shift. The local gathering places closed their doors as fewer people were making their livelihood in town.

  Still, today this is a good place to raise a family, but when children grow up and need to earn a living, most leave for the cities. That is, until recently: With the recession, many are returning home to Barnard, to reinvent themselves and stimulate a rural economy.

  My brother and I are some of those younger people who are migrating to our nation’s small towns. We started farming not only to feed ourselves and to live within our means, but also because we saw it as a means of community service. Growing healthy food and building soil are important to us.

  And so our CSA pickup is not just an exchange of vegetables. It’s a place for children to run free through the nooks and crannies of the U-pick garden. It’s a place where people can relax with neighbors over a cup of cider and some flatbread from our earth oven. It’s a place to get together and celebrate the harvest, one another, and the changing of the seasons, all to the sounds of music coming from under an apple tree beside the hearth. (We host live music and other performance arts at every pickup, providing a venue for local musicians and artists.)

  During our weekly pickups, the backyard becomes a free market-place where people sell other agricultural goods such as raw milk and butter, fresh pasta, fermented foods, breads, and meats. On the pickup days when we don’t bake flatbreads, we host community-wide pot-lucks, which go into the night and end around the fire.

  You don’t have to belong to our CSA to enter through the white picket fence into this garden in the village center. Here among the vegetables, flowers, herbs, and earth oven everyone is welcome, and it’s not uncommon to find ninth-generation Vermonters mingling with second-home owners and farmers shooting the breeze with lawyers.

  It’s through these celebrations of food and agriculture that many people, some of whom haven’t been in a garden since their childhood, develop a desire to labor on the farm. What starts around the distribution of vegetables wends its way into the fields where corn needs shocking or barley needs threshing.

  So it was on that muddy October afternoon. There were vegetables to be picked up at the farmhouse but also heaps of potatoes to be dug and much to be thankful for. People were eager to sink their hands into the heavy soil, to be in touch with where their winter potatoes came from, and to pause in appreciation of community and the fields of plenty.

  Social Farming

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  BY JEN AND JEFF MILLER

 
The owners of Dea Dia Organics, in Grayslake, Illinois, Jen and Jeff Miller recently joined forces with a mentor, Sandhill Organics. This is the latest chapter in their collaborative farming experience. The combined farm will comprise approximately twenty acres and produce organic vegetables and pastured eggs for families in the greater Chicago area.

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  We were drawn to farming because we love to work hard and eat well. Although our education is in landscape architecture, art, and marketing, we found our passion in farming. As with many other farmers, we didn’t become farmers because we were looking to socialize; we were looking for solitude. We wanted to own a business that enabled us to slow down and enjoy our lives each day. We wanted to do everything from developing business plans to working in the soil. We wanted to figure it all out ourselves and “own” the process.

  So, during the winter of 2005, we got to work networking, to discover how to get started. We learned the business side of farming through Stateline Farm Beginnings, a farmer-training program. We visited farms throughout southern Wisconsin and northern Illinois to learn from working farms. During this time, we sought a place to get our hands dirty, and were introduced to the idea of a farming incubator (a training program that offers access to land, equipment, and mentorship while you develop your farm business).

  Our farm began its operations the following spring as part of the Farm Business Development Center (FBDC) at Prairie Crossing Farm. The FBDC, located in Grayslake, Illinois (forty miles north of Chicago), was created as a way to help farms get started in a supportive environment, without the large capital investment normally required. We share space, some equipment, and, most important, ideas. After joining the FBDC, we rapidly began to see the beauty of farming “collaboratively.” We work alongside other farms, some with more experience, some with less. At first we were mentored by more experienced farmers; gradually, we became mentors to the newest ones.

  Thus we began farming not in isolation but as a small group, members contributing a different set of skills, varied knowledge, and diverse resources. These farmers became our friends. Our collaboration dramatically improved our learning curve, and we embraced this social type of farming. Working alongside others also made us realize that we wanted to be more active participants in the community.

  Community has always been an important part of farming. From barn raisings to bringing in the harvest, working together makes our job what it is — though challenging, it is also feasible and enjoyable. We like hosting social events at the farm: These events provide others with the opportunity to get to know each other, at the same time helping us transplant tomato seedlings, for example. Later in the season, we gather at the farm to see how those transplants have grown, then reap the harvest together.

  Though nothing can replace this face-to-face time with our CSA and community members, some of our most valued relationships developed through an online dialogue. This made us wonder: How do we as farmers connect the people online to our delicious tomatoes? We’ve grown into farmers during a huge evolution in online media. We can engage with our fans, friends, and family while sitting at the computer. We provide a realistic picture of what goes into growing food, which generally opens up a dialogue about farming (and how it seems like a lot of work).

  We’re not just broadcasting; we’re engaging and building deeper connections with those who support our farm. Each social tool has its purpose. For example, we use Twitter for quick shout-outs: On a Monday, we might send out a short note to let people know about a project we’re working. Then, when members come for produce on Saturday, they ask us how the project turned out.

  We also use Facebook to engage with our farming community. Once we posted a picture to see if anyone could guess what our newest homemade contraption was. The caption following the picture was “A dozen eggs to the first person who can guess what this is. Parts include a cordless drill, wheelbarrow, car battery, plastic drum, and a hose coming out the bottom.” The responses ranged from a new kind of port-a-potty, a solar water pasteurizer, and a salad spinner to “Are you making butter?”

  The conversation lasted for a few days, and involved eight people and many thumbs up. (The actual contraption was a side dresser for fertilizing crops.)

  Our blog serves as our main tool for communicating longer stories, as well as our CSA newsletter. It gives members valuable information, and they’re more supportive because they’re learning something new. Like other farmers who have experienced major flooding or crop loss, we share how difficult weather affects our ability to grow the fingerling potatoes we hoped to offer that week. Our customers get a good sense of all the planning and work that go into each product, enabling them to more fully appreciate their food and embrace the CSA experience. Our best customers seem to be those who read our weekly blog, contribute to the conversation, and are eager to learn more about how we manage to grow such a wide variety of crops.

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  Though nothing can replace this face-to-face time with our CSA and community members, some of our most valued relationships developed through an online dialogue.

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  As farmers and farm business owners, we have a responsibility to both our online and our offline communities. We may work alone on a project during the day, but we always carry along the tools to capture the experience through pictures, videos, and posts. This is one way we share why we do what we do and engage people in a discussion about how and where their food is produced. This ongoing conversation not only benefits our online social community, but it also feeds our passion to be intimately involved.

  On the farm we can escape the type of one-upmanship we used to feel (and dislike) in the careers we once had. We’ve realized, though, that we didn’t have to achieve this through solitude. As it turns out, we weren’t really seeking solitude as much as we were looking for a community that embraces hard work, good food, and sharing.

  Who Says You Can’t Go Home?

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  BY BRANDON PUGH

  Brandon Pugh lives and farms on his family’s land in Proctor, Arkansas. His farm is called Delta Sol Farm and includes livestock, vegetables, and flowers. He prefers being a part of renegade markets and eating good food, and he loves living in the Mississippi Delta, where he can hear boats on the river while he’s farming.

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  I grew up and now farm in Proctor, Arkansas. My farm is called Delta Sol Farm, and it’s located five miles from the Mississippi River and a twenty-five-minute drive from Memphis. This is river-bottom soil, so the land is flat and rich from years upon years of flooding. The summers are long, hot, and muggy, which makes this place perfect for quick-growing weeds, bugs, fungi, mildew, and more bugs. But you can also raise lots of crops. We have an amazing growing season; winters can dip down into freezing, but are usually mild. The heat of summer is what can drop-kick you in the face.

  The majority of farmers in my area, including my big brother, grow soybeans, cotton, grain sorghum, rice, and winter wheat. It’s big-time conventional ag with all the GMO-pesticide-subsidy-crop-duster junk we all just love. My family has been in this area for more than four generations, and I’m currently farming on an old four-acre pasture behind the house I grew up in. What I do is small potatoes compared to my brother and other farmers who have more than thirty-five hundred acres in production. It’s pretty hard to imagine being responsible for all that land when my four acres keep me busy day and night. However, it sure is nice having a brother who farms because I can always count on him or one of his workers to help me out when something on my farm breaks.

  I was able to go away for college, and received a degree in environmental studies with a focus on sustainable agriculture. From there I went to work and apprenticed on small, diverse farms from New Hampshire to California and met some amazing farmers. My farm-land back home was always in the back of my mind, though, and after spending five years in the San Francisco Bay Area, I felt it was finally time for me to go home. The resources and opportuni
ties just couldn’t be passed up. There was land to farm, housing available, and my dad would even let me use his small tractor. All these things are extremely important for getting a small farming business off the ground and making it successful. Also, this area of the country is very affordable to live in and the “buy local” trend is really catching on.

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  Being here means I get to create a sustainable farm in the middle of big industrial ag, and I can be a pioneer in the local food scene.

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  It was great to be back home around my old neighbors. There was support for my endeavor from the community I grew up in; it was sort of the talk of the town. Folks were excited that Brandon Pugh was moving home from “out West” to do “that organic-vegetable thing.”

  The first year I did my CSA, it mostly consisted of my mom’s friends, who really just wanted to be supportive. I don’t think too many of them were ready for all the produce coming their way. The CSA pickup was a time for conversation. Folks discussed how the bingo went last night, who was sick, what they were gonna do about that new road being built, and other important town news. Also, people enjoyed “shoulding” on me. And they still do. Everyone wants to tell you what you should grow, where you should sell and other brilliant ideas that you “should” do. They say things like “You really should grow two acres of okra” and “Have you ever thought about growing catmint?” I’ve learned to act like I’m listening and nod my head.

  My family’s resources were helpful in starting my farm, but it was still pretty crazy building a greenhouse, irrigation system, washing/packing shed, and cold room all at the same time that I was growing and marketing my first season of produce. It turned out to be a great time to know folks in my area who could come help me build structures and set up pipes.