Crazy Mushroom Farmers

We've been growing shiitake and oyster mushrooms on logs in our little patch of woods for the past seven years. I love mushrooms, which pair so well with all the vegetables we grow. My fellow farmer doesn't love mushrooms, but he does love new projects. 

The first mushroom year, we bought the bolts, which are logs sawed into four foot lengths, from a local logger. That way we could efficiently use some of the oak and sugar maple limbs that were too small for lumber.

But we soon ran into trouble. For one thing, the bark needs to be intact on the logs, so that they don't dry out too quickly and the mushroom spawn can grow. It's hard when you're a logger using heavy equipment to protect the bark on the fiddly bits of wood for some crazy mushroom farmers.

Also the crazy mushroom farmers want bolts 6 inches or less in diameter, and the nice logger would have been hard-pressed to whip out his tape measure at every conceivable bolt. Thus we ended up with some of the bolts approaching 12-inch diameters. 

This didn't seem like too big of a deal in year one. We didn't mind the weight of the 12-inchers much when we were in the inoculation and the year-long colonization period. 

But in year two of mushroom production, when we actually started harvesting, we had second thoughts. We soak the bolts for 24 hours in a big tub of water, and a soaked four foot long 12-incher is a whole different story. It was too blasted heavy. 

By year three, we started begging our nice logger for smaller bolts. By year four, we tried another nice local logger. The bolts she provided were nicely-sized. We were pleased. We slung those little soaked bolts around like nobody's business.

Alas, this logger's lumber crop consisted of mostly red maple, which we discovered was not nearly as productive or long-lasting as the oak and sugar maple.

My fellow came up with a great new plan. Now that we had a better idea of what we were doing, he would cut just the right size and types of trees in our own woods. This great new plan involved buying a great new electric chainsaw, which required extensive lobbying to the budget committee.

My fellow started out with high enthusiasm. His enthusiasm waned when he realized that his count of appropriate mushroom trees was not quite accurate. Plus it turns out that when you find a tree you think is perfect for mushroom logs, only a little bit of it is exactly the right size. Most of it is too small or too big. 

Seems like it's a little harder to produce perfect bolts than we thought. 

“We're going to soak these giant things?” I said with disbelief.

“No, no,” said my fellow, sighing. “We could use them for firewood.”

“But we don't have nearly enough bolts.”

“I know,” he said sadly, hugging his new quiet, exhaust-free chainsaw, which he loved, for comfort, and to keep it out of the budget committee's clutches. 

Back to the drawing board, or rather the google research. My fellow presented his next great plan. This plan also involved the new chainsaw, since the more he used it, the less grumpy the budget committee would be.

“We can make totems,” my fellow said, “By cutting the big bolts into cross-sections, layering the mushroom spawn in between, and stacking up the sections. Isn't that great? Now we can use all our bolts, no matter what size. Plus we can use empty horse grain bags to keep the totems in for a year while the spawn does its work. That's efficient, right?”

“That's a good idea. The bags are kind of ugly to have in our pretty mushroom yard. But I guess nothing's perfect.”

“Yeah,” said my fellow. “Except for my new chainsaw.”

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, June 24 - June 30, 2026

I'm Glad I Don't Have to Do This All Day Long

I have two favorite phrases about vegetable farming. 

The first one is “I'm glad I don't have to do this all day long.” Which is kind of funny, considering that raising vegetables is how I make my living, and also that I like raising vegetables. But what I really mean is that I am glad for the variety of tasks I have as a small farmer. It's a rare day when I have to do the same thing all day long.

If it is 92 in May and we are not used to that kind of heat yet but still have to water in our greenhouse transplants by hand, I am glad the task only takes an hour. I don't have to drip with sweat all day long. (Drip with sweat or start getting chills, which means I better get out of the greenhouse right away to cool off.)

If we are transplanting peas in the field and somehow the fluffy bed of soil got compacted as we tried to figure out our new landscape fabric system, I am glad I don't have to lean my weight on the dibble all day long to make holes for the transplants. The task feels endless because it is harder than normal, but it really only takes a few hours. (Go, strong pea roots, go! You can grow in concrete!) 

If we are wrestling our way through the farm accounts or trying to organize the CSA pick-up schedule, I am glad it only takes an hour or two. I don't have to sit in front of the computer all day long, cursing at the things I accidentally make the computer do. (Where did those 5 million numbers I just painstakingly entered suddenly go?)

Even if we are potting up seedlings in the greenhouse, a job I love, I am still glad I don't have to do it all day long, because the potting up muscles in the neck and shoulders begin to object. Same with close hand-weeding, of carrots for example: I love that kind of fine work, but my knees and back start to say I've done enough.

My phrase also works for the crops we plant in larger quantities, such as potatoes and onions, since they cover a relatively small area compared to other bigger farms. Our vegetable farmer friends might be planting onions for days. My fellow and I spend four hours. (That doesn't count the half a day loading the spreader by hand with compost or the discing, harrowing, and bed-making with the horses, which are different tasks than actually planting, of course.) 

 Visiting our farmer friends leads to my second farming phrase: “Wow, it sure is nice to talk to somebody who really gets it!” As in, a white-footed mouse dug up and ate four flats of spinach seeds in the greenhouse in one night, or the voles just ate a quarter of the kale transplants. As in, there's too much rain or not enough rain. As in, potting soil and irrigation parts and everything else get more and more expensive, and it's hard to stay in the small farm business.

We are the only vegetables growers in our farmer group that work with horses, so sometimes we also have farmers-with-livestock problems, such as making hay. Luckily we know some small thrifty farmers with cows or horses too.

In fact, our farrier was here recently. He trims and shoes horses and makes hay to feed his own horses and to sell. My fellow was telling the farrier about unloading the expensive potting soil from our truck and realizing that the gas tank was hanging six inches above the ground. 

“I put a strap on it to hold it up,” my fellow said. “The garage won't touch it.”

“I've done that,” said our farrier. “It works great!” 

It sure is nice to talk to somebody who gets it. I sure am glad I don't to have to strap up gas tanks all day long.

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, May 27 - June 2, 2026

Three Chances for my Furry Friend

Every year in March or April my farmer fellow frost-seeds our pastures and hayfields. He uses a hand-held broadcast seeder, spreading red and white clover over the 7 and 5 and 3 acre sections.

Last year, after a long campaign with the budget committee, my fellow bought a chain harrow to use in the fields. He was eager to see if it would break up the thatch and spread the piles of horse manure, which would help the clover germinate. This meant harnessing the horses and harrowing the fields, which is a good way to get the horses muscled up for heavier garden work.

It also meant that I stepped up to the broadcast seeder, in the interest of having this early spring project actually be accomplished in the early spring.

How hard can it be to walk around circles in a field cranking the seeder? I thought. Well, it isn't that hard, but it sure takes a while. Plus it was somewhat complicated by our farm pooch.

We have seen some nice signs of maturing in our just-turned-two pooch, but he's not all the way there yet. On our first day of frost-seeding, the pooch was glad to join us in the field. He was even gladder to harass the horses by running in front of them and barking. 

The horses do not like this; they buck and kick. Considering they were already feeling their oats from a winter's worth of leisure, I got worried. 

Three times I called the pooch to me. He came, but he didn't stay. Those horses were just too much fun. The fourth time I attached the dog's mid-length leash – twelve feet of clothesline – to his harness on one end and to me on the other end. 

First I tied the leash around my wrist, which interfered with my seeder. Then I tied the leash around my waist, where it kept loosening up. Finally I tied the leash to my belt loop, and that worked. By then the pooch had figured out he was spending the morning having fun with me with me and not with the horses.

It may have been the most boring walk the dog has ever had. There was no barking at horses, no stopping for interesting smells, no side jaunts to explore the woods. It was just me and him around and around and around. After two hours, we were both panting.

But we had half the field seeded and harrowed, and my fellow was jubilant about how well the harrow worked, especially after he tied two old tires on to add weight.

Back at the barn, I released the pooch to help unharness the horses. “Did you see the dog?” I asked my fellow.

“Yes, why?” he answered.

“Did you really look at him? We're going to have to shake him down!” 

My fellow called the pooch. “Wow!” he said. “Our black dog is turning white!”

“I've already rubbed him all over twice, if you can believe that,” I said.

“You're going to grow a whole field of clover, pooch!” My fellow laughed and rubbed the dog some more. Tiny white seeds flew out of his thick curly coat.

The next morning we all started out again: my fellow, the horses, and the harrow; me, the seeder, and the pooch. “You've got three chances,” I said to my furry friend.

He looked askance at me. I don't need three chances, he seemed to say. I'm not the least interested in those horses. I am a very mature dog.

The very mature dog spent the morning with us, sniffing interesting places, taking side jaunts to the woods, and lying down in the middle of the field to observe the action. Not once did he bark or run at the horses. 

“My,” I said in passing. “What a good dog! What a mature dog!” 

He wagged his seed-free tail. He didn't even bother to get up, so mature was he.

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, April 29 - May 5, 2026
 

Starting Off With a Bang

Our farming season usually starts out gently, with some pleasant sowing of seeds in flats in the greenhouse. But this year we started off with a bang. 

It was a literal bang, a bang so loud we winced and ducked our heads. Soon enough there was another enormous bang, and we farmers looked nervously at each other. Our propane heater had a few things to say, and they were mighty loud.

The heater has been with us since our very first year of farming, 25 years ago. It has chugged along, heating the greenhouse from March to May, allowing us to start our own seeds and have sturdy early transplants. It's been lightly to moderately banging for a number of years, and we've had various repair people look it over. It keeps banging and working. 

This year, however, the banging was so forceful that it repeatedly blew out the pilot light, which was not conducive to steady heat in the greenhouse. 

At first we thought it was the thermostat, and my fellow fiddled around to get the right temperature: set it at 35 and the heater gave us about 75 degrees. We ordered a new thermostat and had a few blissful hours with it until the pilot light went out again after another bang.

We gave in and called a repair person. He shook his head. He said the heater was shot. He said the banging was from rust catching in the manifold. Then the built-up force of the gas would shoot the rust out and extinguish the pilot light. He also said he wouldn't even try to start the heater.

The next day we called a different repair person. He said, “Who put this sticker on it?”

“What sticker?” said my fellow.

“The one that says condemned.”

That person wouldn't try to start it either.

Part of the issue was that we were applying for a grant to replace the heater and the grant wouldn't come through until June. So we really wanted the heater to last for one more season. No, said the heater. No, said the repair people.

My fellow moved a little electric space heater into the greenhouse. We researched supplemental heat sources. We brought our twenty flats of valiant seedlings in and out of our living room morning and evening so they wouldn't freeze overnight but would still get sunlight during the day.

We did mountains of research, from propane to pellet to electric stoves and back again. We talked to the grant person to see if there was any leeway. Maybe, she said, but you have to install a certain type of heater. 

We got quotes from hither and yon. The first one was more than half of our bank account balance. The second, including the heater that would have satisfied the grant requirements, was three-quarters of our bank balance. The partial grant wouldn't cover enough of the cost.

We were nearing desperation when my fellow thought to call a friend who has been doing heating and cooling work for thirty plus years. Our friend said, “I'll be there tomorrow.” 

He and my fellow went to Griffin Greenhouse in Massachusetts and bought the new version of our old heater (only a quarter of our bank balance!). Then they spent nine hours taking out the old heater and installing the new one. They hooked it up. They tried three times to start it, with no luck. 

It was dark by then in the greenhouse. “Maybe we should read the manual a little more?” said our friend, getting out his flashlight. Turns out there was an on/off switch. 

Now we've got heat! We can catch up on our sowing. We can work in the greenhouse without wincing and ducking our heads. But the funniest thing? That very first night my fellow could hardly sleep, worrying whether the heater was working. There wasn't a single bang.


Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, April 1 - April 7, 2026