Laughing or Crying: July on a Vegetable Farm

You know it's July on a New Hampshire vegetable farm when the best fantasy a farmer can muster up is washing the dishes.

Why, washing the dishes could take two or three hours, since there's no clean silverware, plates, bowls, glasses, pots or pans. Two or three hours, in the nice shady cool house, standing up, as opposed to kneeling and weeding the endless rows of vegetables in the blazingly hot garden.

Washing dishes sounds like fun! It might even lead to a meal, since there will be both clean pots to cook in, and clean surfaces to chop on, and clean dishes to eat from.

Washing dishes wouldn't take much muscle, and not much brain power either, since a farmer's muscles and brain are both sagging in July. Harvesting three times a week, both for fifty-plus CSA members and for the farmers' market, means a fair amount of organization and detail, not to mention physical labor. 

We are also sowing and transplanting the fall crops, irrigating, stringing up and pruning the tomatoes, trying to keep the cucumbers on the fence, trying to keep the woodchucks out of the greenhouses, the squash bugs away from the zucchini, the flea beetles away from the brassicas, the Colorado potato beetles out of the potatoes and the eggplant, the deer out of the garden, the horses in the fences, the farm pooch on a good walking schedule. 

We can't forget the farm kitty, who must be pet at least once every few days, when she's not busy doing her rabbit-catching job in the garden. We are making hay with our horses, too, and the hay picking-up keeps coinciding with the 90 plus degree days. All the time the weeds are growing, everywhere at once, and our nightmares are of bindweed and quack grass and hairy galinsoga. 

This is July, on a vegetable farm.

My other July fantasy is blinders. Work horses wear blinders on their bridles to help them focus on their task, and not be startled or distracted by everything they see with their nearly 360 degrees of vision. This farmer wants some blinders. I need help focusing on my task, of planting the fall broccoli, say, because the minute I step out of the house, a thousand million vegetables call for my help. Weed me! Water me! Feed me! Love me! 

Oh, oh, oh, July.

Recently our dear daughter came to visit for the weekend. Why she came in July is a mystery.

“How's it going?” she asked me, which is a kind question, considering she knows exactly what July means here on this farm.

“Well, I'm a little overwhelmed,” I answered.

“Tell me about it,” she said, which was even kinder. Who wants to hear their parents list all the work that needs to be done? Especially if visiting for the weekend might mean doing some of that work?

“Really?” I said. “Tell you everything?”

“Yes,” she said, laughing at my eagerness. 

I went through every crop in every greenhouse and garden section and told her every single thing that needed to be done. It took a long time.

“Wow,” said my daughter, “I can see why you feel overwhelmed,” and that was the kindest thing of all. A little sympathy goes a long way with this farmer, and pretty soon we were both laughing, about how much there was to do, and how we weren't doing it. 

Instead we were nudging the dirty dishes over on the table, so that we could eat some chocolate chips and peanuts. Never mind the delicious snap peas, the delicious cherry tomatoes in July. Hee hee hee, we said. Chocolate chips and peanuts!

It's laughing or crying this time of year, it seems like. Or a good farmer fantasy, such as washing the dishes.


Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, July 23 - July 29, 2025

The Wary Writer, the Generous Farmer, and the Bouncing Dog

Recently my fellow farmer asked if I would tend the farmers' market stall for a few hours so he could go to a volunteer-thank-you barbecue.

“I have to be there a little early,” my fellow said, “to help get ready.”

“How early?” I asked warily. I love when my farm fellow, the farm vegetables, and the farm pooch go off to the market, leaving my Saturday morning free for writing, 

“Just a little bit,” answered my fellow. The little bit got bigger and bigger: he needed to set up tents, bring the drinks and ice, pick up some charcoal on the way . . . my generous fellow was volunteering for the very barbecue he was supposed to attend to be thanked for volunteering.

We got up especially early that morning, to pack everything for the market and for the barbecue.  The everything would not fit efficiently into one vehicle, as was the plan. The morning sped by, as the farmers got harried and grumpy. It was pouring rain, which didn't help any. 

Finally my fellow roared off in the truck with barely enough time to get the stand set up before the market opened. I had 15 minutes to mourn my lost writing hours, then I roared off too. 

At the market, my fellow and I hurried to transfer the barbecue things from the car to the truck, while keeping an eye out for customers. My fellow had everything ready for me to take over: the tent, the table, the scale, the veggies, the farm pooch . . .

Well, maybe not the farm pooch. “You won't believe this,” said my fellow, “but we forgot to pack the leash.”

I groaned. 

“I used the ratchet strap instead. It's nice and sturdy,” said my fellow.

“But you need the strap to keep the tailgate on the truck, so all your coolers of ice and drinks don't fall out!”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I don't know what to do. I'm going to be late!”

I rooted around in the car and found a piece of sturdyish twine for a tether. My fellow strapped up the tailgate, and rushed away.

The pooch, tethered now with the twine, jumped in the hatchback of the car to enjoy a chewy treat I brought. He could take a nap in the car, or visit with me, or greet customers. 

Of course, it was still pouring, which meant only the most stalwart of market-goers appeared, with their raincoats and umbrellas. When everybody asked where my fellow farmer was, I said, “I don't know if it's worse to be at a barbecue in the pouring rain, or at the farmers' market in the pouring rain!”

After a while, the rain eased, and more people came by, including the first dog person of the day. She happened to be the very one who had helped us with training in our wild puppy days, and also happened to have her own dog with her.

“Oh, good morning,” I said, “How nice to see you!” At the same time there was a little commotion behind me. I turned around to see my pooch bouncing over to greet the dog. 

“The string broke!” my market stall neighbors called. Luckily I was able to corral my pooch before he could begin an all-out play session in the middle of the stall.

Our dog trainer friend had also brought her family: her husband held my dog, while her son held her dog, and she bought some spinach. Then her husband kept holding my dog, while I sold some lettuce to another customer, and rooted around in the car again. This time I came up with the dog seat belt, which made a fine, if short, leash. I offered thanks all around, including to the sun, now peeking out.

In the end, I sold all the produce, my market neighbor helped me take down the tent, and me and the pooch went home for a long nap. Plus the sun came out at the barbeque too.

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, June 25 - July 1, 2025

Help! or A Call to Farms!

A month ago we two farmers were dithering about what to do. We were dreadfully behind on several farm projects, as opposed to our usual worryingly behind. But were we dreadfully behind enough to send a call for help? Or could we recover and manage on our own? The gardening days were ticking by, and we were feeling more and more pitiful. 

"Should I ask our CSA members? Or not?" I said to my fellow. I didn't want to press too hard on the community in Community Supported Agriculture. "What do you think?" I was holding my sore shoulder, and he was holding his sore head.

"Yes," answered my fellow. "You could say it's a call to farms!"

"Hee, hee," I said. "That's a perfect title." Buoyed by my fellow's funny joke, I sent an email to our CSA members. The message went like this: 

"Would you like to learn how to inoculate a log to grow shiitake mushrooms? Or prep a greenhouse bed? Or hang tomato strings? Or transplant? Or a million other farm tasks all happening right now?

We have multiple sowing, transplanting, and greenhouse projects going, and we just picked up our mushroom logs. The logs were supposed to be here in March, and inoculated and in the mushroom yard already. But they've only just arrived. Add that to Frank's recent bonk on the head and concussion, and Kim's tear in the something-something tendon of her shoulder, and your farmers are feeling overwhelmed. We're sending out a call for volunteer help!" 

What a lovely response we had from our committed community! Eight helpers came that very Sunday, including our long-distance volunteer award winner from near Albany, NY (my sister!). Then we had our most faithful volunteer award winner, who already comes once a week, appear an extra time to help. (Not only that, she took us out for pizza earlier that week, and claimed that she needed to make up for distracting us from farming with pizza!)

That same Sunday, we had two brave souls, brand new CSA members, who had never been to the farm before, come and lend a hand. To top it off, we had two more CSA people, who brought their six month old baby and their peppy dog. The smiley baby helped us all feel cheerful at our work, and the peppy dog kept our farm pooch entertained, so that the people could get lots of work done.

In the next two weeks, we had two seventy-plus former CSA members come to help, plus two people on our CSA membership waiting list. We had long-time members, and another new member and his mom. We had our daughter, visiting from Boston. Some people stayed an hour, some stayed for five. Some came once, some came more than once. We had a grand total of 18 helpers, and nearly everyone worked on the mushroom logs, which is not a hard project, but it is a long project.

But by the end of two weeks, we had every log ready to go to the mushroom yard, and a vigorous volunteer to help us load the 220 bolts (three foot log sections) onto the truck, then unload them, then hoof them into the yard over a plank across the stream, over a stone wall, down a path, and then stack them up on pallets. 

"We're very glad you're here," I said, as the bolts got heavier and heavier, and the path got longer and longer.

The volunteer said back, "I'm very glad you're here! I wouldn't want to do this by myself."

"I hope you like mushrooms, at least," I said.

"Love 'em," was the answer.

That's how we felt at the end of the two weeks: very glad for all our CSA member volunteers being here. Love 'em. 

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, May 28 - June 3, 2025

Really Glad It Wasn't Worse

Not long ago, when I was working in the greenhouse, I heard our farm pooch barking, “Wow, the horses are working and it’s really exciting and I’m going to run back and forth in front of them and bark as they pull the disc!” This is highly annoying to both horses and farmers, so I went to rescue the situation by fetching the dog to some other enticing project, such as chasing the frisbee, or chasing the cat (also annoying, but the pooch is a work in progress, as we all are).

However, when I got closer, my fellow wasn't seated on the disc, resting the horses for a minute, as I had expected. Instead he was standing about ten feet away, saying something. The only two words I heard were “got hurt,” and since horses, man, and dog were all standing, I didn’t know what had happened.

I sped up considerably, saying “Who got hurt? Who got hurt?”

My fellow answered with considerable vigor: “I got hurt! I got hurt!”

“Oh, no,” I answered, “What happened?”

"The jack slipped out from under the disc and slammed into the side of my head!”

“That’s terrible,” I said, feeling it all the way to my gut. “We have to fix it.”

“No!” my fellow shouted, in his hurt and distress. “No! I don’t want to fix it! I want a new one!”

“Okay, yes, of course,” I said in my most soothing tones, “We’ll get a new one. What can I do right now to help?”

My fellow asked for three pain-relievers. I ran to get them. I came back, and he said, “I can’t disc any more. I’m bringing the horses in."

The fact that he was even considering discing more was a surprise to me, and I was relieved to help unharness the horses, and shepherd my fellow to the couch. The nice pooch rested his head on my fellow's leg, looking sadly and sympathetically at him.

The next day my fellow woke up with a shiner and a headache, and he couldn’t open his mouth very much. He was pretty miserable, though somewhat calmer.

The budget committee delicately broached the matter. “I understood that we agreed that you would just try to get through the end of last year with the disc, since the three different people we had look at it couldn't fix it. Then we would really fix it for this year.”

Last fall, we had developed a system of my fellow heaving on the bottom of the disc while I worked the lever to get the disc to rise up and down in order to make the turns at the end of every pass. This was awkward and inconvenient and frustrating, but it worked. This year muscle power wasn’t enough, which was why my fellow was using the jack for the lifting, and then pushing the lever. That worked a few times. Then the jack slipped.

Now my fellow looked at the budget committee a little warily, or maybe it was the effect of the black eye. “I thought you said the budget couldn’t afford the new part. It cost almost $500.”

“That was last year’s budget. This year’s budget factors in the new part. Plus last year you didn’t get cracked on the side of the head, trying to disc.”

“I’m ordering the part right this minute then,” said my fellow, as he opened up the computer.

“Great,” I said. “What’s the thing actually called?”

My fellow had a ghost of a smile. “It’s called the 11.34" Stroke 1000 lbs 12 Volt DC Linear Actuator GlideForce LACT12-1000B.”

I laughed. “Wow. That sounds like it’ll fix everything on this farm.” Then I kissed the top of my fellow's head, well away from the swollen and bruised areas. “I’m really glad it wasn’t worse,” I said. “It could have been a lot worse.”

“Yeah," he answered. “You and me both.” 

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, April 30- May 6, 2025