The Honey Wagon, Or Romance on the Farm

We New Hampshire vegetable farmers spend a lot of our time these fine spring days with our beloved honey wagon. A honey wagon conjures up visions of flowers and sunshine and sweetness and abundance, does it not? Yet the honey wagon, should your farm-implements-knowledge need refreshing, is also known as a manure spreader.

And manure, should your farm-products-knowledge need refreshing as well, is also called stinky, icky, yukky, gross, and other choice words by some of our younger farm visitors. However, we do have some adventurous young souls who delight in walking barefoot in horse manure of any vintage, equally pleased with the feel on the child's foot and the look on the parent's face.

But happily, no matter how a person feels about manure, sustainable farming practices mean that the stinky, the icky, the yukky and the gross miraculously turn into sweetness and abundance: the honey of compost. It tales a year to happen, but it's amazing to see the beautiful result.

So, hey, it's not so bad when my farmer fellow invites me, one lovely spring day, to fill the honey wagon. We take our forks and our shovels, and we fill up the spreader with rich, dark, handsome compost. It takes the two of us about twenty minutes of steady work to fill up the spreader with a thousand lbs of compost, and then it takes about twenty seconds for two of our horses to empty the spreader on a garden section. This doesn't give the shoveling farmers much of a break, but the pulling horses enjoy their twenty minute rest while the shovelers get back to work.

Luckily, now that we've incorporated “green manuring” (a strange term that means plowing cover crops under for soil fertility) into our system, we don't have to fill the honey wagon quite so many times in one day. We need less total compost to prepare each garden section for planting, thanks to the cover cropping.

But our top record, our all-time high, back in the days of our farming youth and of our lack of sufficient garden space to cover crop and green manure, was ten spreader loads in one day. We started early, we sweated hard, and we wore our youthful selves out by mid-afternoon, when we were considerably slower than twenty minutes a pop in filling our loads.

Of course, this record doesn't include the halcyon days when our neighbor used to own a little tractor with a bucket loader, which we oh-so-gratefully borrowed on spreader filling days. Alas, when our nice neighbors realized we were using the tractor more than they were, they sold it.

We were back to forks and shovels, which our horses were happy about: more rest, and something about that roaring noise as the bucket lifted high above made our horses decidedly anxious. I would “head” the horses, standing next to their heads to provide gentle reassurance and certain proof that standing still was exactly the right thing to do at that moment, while my fellow loaded the spreader with the tractor. Certainly this was easier on the shovelers' bodies, but it was harder on their spirits: smelly from the exhaust fumes, noisy, and stressful.

In any case, once the spreader is full, either by means of tractor or muscle, it's time to spread the load in the garden. This is a rather clankety-clunkety, rattly, jostly, jouncy affair. The horses move right along, the spreader bounces right along, the farmer on the seat jounces right along, and the compost is flung into the air and plummets to the ground. The jostlier, jouncier of the farmers doesn't mind all this, and in fact seems to enjoy it.

However, the serene and peaceful farmer does not. Recently, though, the serene and peaceful farmer forgot how much she doesn't like to ride on the spreader. The jouncy farmer invited her so sweetly to join him, taking a turn around the field on the honey wagon, that she momentarily lost her good, serene, peaceful sense and agreed.

“Here we go,” said the honey-wagon driver, “Hold on!”

I lurched and bounced, gripping the seat, as we crossed the field, and then suddenly I bellowed

“Ow!” Instead of the seat, I gripped the back of my head, which a flying rock, hiding in the compost, had just struck.

“I swear,” said my sweet-talkin' fellow, “that hasn’t happened to me ever, in all the fourteen years I’ve been using this spreader! I swear!”

Ah, romance on the farm . . .

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, May 13-19, 2015

Visiting Auntie Hoophouse

If the earth is our Mother, then surely our heated hoop house is a Beloved Old Auntie. She is a warm and welcoming Auntie, and we farmers spend lots of time with her in early spring, helping her dig her garden beds, helping her get her seeds started, helping her stay just the right temperature.

Warmth. Auntie Hoop House likes to be just the right temperature. She basks between 70 and 80 degrees, and it is especially nice to visit her in March, or even April, when it can still be mighty cold outside (as well as a little cold in the farmers' house, because the farmers can't decide if it's chilly enough to start a fire in the wood stove, and thus use up the dwindling wood supply.) Whatever the weather, Auntie insists on being warm (and she has the propane bill to show for it!).

But Auntie doesn't like to get too hot, either. On a sunny day, she can heat up ten degrees in a matter of minutes, and she begins to feel faint. She needs a lot of attention in early spring, because her circumstances have to be adjusted frequently during the day: one front door open, two front doors open, inner plastic door cover rolled up, inner plastic wall hauled up in degrees by ropes, back door blanket taken down, back inner plastic door cover rolled up, back door open, one fan on, two fans on, three fans on. And then there's reversing all that, depending on the sun and the wind and the outside temperature.

Food. Auntie Hoop House knows how to provide for her guests. In summer, of course, there are the luscious early tomatoes, the fragrant basil bouquets, the sweet red peppers, and the glossy eggplants. But even in March and April, our Auntie wants to feed us. If she can't find any spinach overwintering from the last garden season, she will gladly produce delicious wild dandelion greens. This will please her guests no end, as they dine on dandelion quiche and sauteed dandelions and the ever-popular dandelion dal. (As our then 6th-grader moaned a few years ago, “Oh geesh. I'm going to ask everybody else in my class if they're having dandelion dal for lunch.” Strangely enough, no one else was.)

Ambiance. Auntie makes her house inviting. There is the pleasant sound of gentle rain plopping on her plastic top. There is the wild mint not yet weeded out of the beds, blooming tiny purple flowers. There is the comfortable furniture, two weather beaten wooden and canvas chairs, one of which periodically and unexpectedly collapses when a guest is relaxing on it, chatting perhaps, or finishing a good novel, and maybe feeling reluctant to get up and get moving. (“Whump!” says the collapsing chair. “Oof!” says the collapsing farmer. “Yes!” says wise old Auntie. “It's time to get up and get moving!”)

Taking Care of the Babies. Surely this is Auntie Hoop House's most endearing quality. She nurtures our tiny little seeds into seedlings, and then into plants, and then into delicious food. She takes care of our yogurt babies and our bread dough babies, providing a steady warm temperature for yogging and rising. She nurtured our little human baby too, who slept in the bassinet, played in the dirt as a toddler, learned to plant and pot up and water and weed and harvest, and now frequents the collapsing chair, which adds a little zest to her high school homework.

Even though our dear Auntie can be a little forgetful sometimes – for example, she (or perhaps someone closely related to her . . . ) forgot to check and make sure the propane people really did fill up the tank when we thought they would, and the propane people didn't, which meant the propane ran out, which meant Auntie got the shivers, which meant the farmers brought 30 flats of seedlings into their house, which meant all the floor space in two rooms, and baby gates to keep the kitty out, and quite a challenge getting to the phone and the bathroom for two days and nights – still we love our Auntie Hoop House. Such a kind, good Auntie, helping us extend the garden season and strengthen the local food system. We couldn't get along without her.

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, April 15-21, 2015

Ragtag March on the Farm

 

We're a ragtag bunch on the farm this time of year. In the winter the farm horses (and the farmers!) are fuzzy and round, and by the summer we''re all sleek and trim. But in March?

In March our horses are patchy and scratchy, shedding clumps of hair, rolling in the muddy-slushy barnyard, itching on the stalls and the posts in the barn, and itching on the farmers too, if the farmers are handy.

We are often handy, in March, since there's not much more satisfying than helping an itchy horse shed. The horses swoon with pleasure when we start brushing; in fact, Molly, our lovey-dovey Belgian mare, follows us around the barnyard, nudging us with her nose. Brush me! Brush me! she says, even if we're merely passing though on another errand, and have no brush available.

But Molly doesn't need a brush for happiness. Itch me, itch me instead! she says. We scratch her chin; we scratch her neck. Nudge, nudge, she pushes with her nose, You've got two hands, why aren't you using both of them?

“Molly's so funny,” I say to my fellow farmer. “she's just like you. So friendly and enthusiastic.”

“And such a hard worker, too,” my fellow adds, brushing Molly's back.

“Oh, indeed.” I scratch Molly under her mane, and she arches her neck, entirely pleased with this double attention.

Moon, Molly's Belgian brother, is standing nearby, and he is another critter entirely. He's a fine horse, too, if not exactly eager for work, and rather reserved. Even in the itchy days of March, Moon is not generally receptive to a free-standing grooming session, though once he's haltered and tied, he relaxes a bit, even allowing that a brushing on a certain spot near his front leg might feel kind of good. Even so, it takes a little while in the spring to get Moon used to the whole idea of being groomed regularly again, as a prelude to working regularly again. Luckily, it is only March, and we have time to take it slowly with him.

“Moon's so funny,” my fellow says, ”isn't he? Kind of reserved, kind of easily offended, kind of hangs back with the work, you know, kind of like . . . ahem . . . kind of like . . .”

“Now listen, my friend,” I look askance at my fellow. “Is that a sustainable, productive way to address one's beloved partner in life and in work?”

“Hee hee hee,” answers my fellow devilishly, and heads toward another itchy horse with the currycomb.

Ben, our black Percheron gelding, is our biggest, goofiest, itchy horse, and he has a funny backward flop to his ears on occasion. Sometimes I am not so sure of big ol' Benny: Is he unhappy? Is he pinning his ears back? Does he like this? Does he not want anything to do with it?

“Let me watch you groom him,” I say to my fellow, “I want to see what he does. I don't know how to read him, exactly.”

My fellow starts a vigorous brushing. Benny stands stock still, with the backward flop with his ears.

“You know, he's so big and goofy, I try not to read him too much,” my fellow remarks, which makes me laugh. And look at that, Benny has his eyes closed, and his back leg flopped out, in the bliss of having his inner leg brushed. His funny black flop ear is perfectly matched by his funny back flop leg.

“Well, he does seem pretty happy about that,” I say, going to Betsy, our black Percheron mare, sway-backed and retired, who is waiting sleepily in the sun for me. Along with the wisdom and calming presence that Betsey has acquired in her old age, she's also developed the incredibly thick and long coat of an older horse.

Betsey is our March poster horse, our most stunning equine example of ragtag March (and April, and even May and June, as she takes ages now to shed out). She has gobs of loose hair hanging all over her body. When she walks, a shower of hair attends her. She itches herself fiercely on manger and post, leaving clumps and mats and entire carpets of hair behind. This is all despite our grooming, which we soon finish for the day with a hairy flourish.

Pleased, we look around at our slightly tidier, for a few minutes at least, herd of four fine work horses. As soon as we leave the barnyard, of course, they will start rolling and itching again. But for now they look lovely, and we farmers?

We farmers are ragtag March all over: muddy and slushy, friendly and reserved, patchy and scratchy, hardworking and sleepy, and, oh yes, covered head to toe with horse hair. My fellow looks me over, and takes a currycomb to my coat, brushing gently in circles.

“There now,” he says, “Isn't this a nice, sustainable, productive way to treat one's beloved partner in life and work?”

“Hee hee hee,” I say. It tickles.

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, March 18- 24, 2015

Sappy on the Farm

 

Five years ago, my enthusiastic farming fellow convinced me that making maple syrup would be an ideal addition to our operation. It would be fun, exciting, new!

February and March, of course, would be the perfect time of year for another project, since we were rested up from the last garden season, and not completely submerged yet into the next one. Hauling sap would get the work horses in shape for plowing. Boiling sap would be a great use for the enormous pile of pine, mixed in with hardwood for our wood stove, that had been deposited in our driveway months ago, thanks to a friendly local professional tree-cutter.

Plus, said my fellow, we'll have a handy little money-making enterprise, to go along with our vegetables and herbs and apples and flowers.

The budget and exactly-how-much-energy-do-two-farmers-have committee, me, that would be, was somewhat skeptical, but we finally decided to invest in second-hand taps and buckets, and a second-hand pan. In the overhang of our woodshed, we rigged up an arch with cement blocks and mud caulking and a stovepipe. We fitted our old beat-up cart with a water trough, plastic, and plywood, for collecting the sap with our work horses. Near the barnyard, we clanged and banged and dropped the buckets, and we twanged and tossed the bucket covers, so the horses wouldn't worry about the scary new sounds of collecting sap.

Happily, from the beginning, our team of black Percherons didn't bat an eye at any of this new activity. They pulled that rattly, squeaky cart right up the hill, and waited patiently as we poured in our first full buckets of sap. It seemed miraculous, all that incredible sap, all that abundance from the trees and the world!

It still seems miraculous, five years later, and we have learned many things about making syrup, including: how to burn the pan; how to endlessly scrub and scrape the burn off; how to haul the pan to your neighbor's for soldering, after you've boiled one chamber too dry, and melted the old weld; how to fashion annoying, difficult hooks out of wire, after you've lost the clever, easy hooks that came with the taps; how long it takes a full trough of sap to ferment in the sun during an unexpectedly warm spell; and how our newer team of Belgian horses bat all their eyes and tuck all their tails and wish to gallop all the way up and down the hill with the terrifying sap cart.

But mostly sap gathering is an idyllic hour, when, every two or three days, we hitch up the horses and set out. Oh, the beautiful New England winter landscape, the horse harness jingling, the exquisite drip, drip, drip of the sap in a just emptied bucket! And oh, the sweet cold sap!

Then comes the rattle-splash down the hill, and the lighting of the sap fire, and the first bubble bubble bubble in the pan. That's pretty nice too. The sap fire is a good warm way to spend an extended time outdoors, just when you're feeling February-cabin-feverish.

Extended is the key word here, meaning hours upon hours upon hours, and we know just how long we can leave the fire and the pan before the smell of burning begins. Not long enough to eat supper, for example: we have our suppers on a tray outside by the fire. We also play board games outside by the fire, and we have homework and clarinet-playing sessions outside by the fire. We sample the sap becoming syrup, we listen to the radio, we write in our journals, we fix tools, we read books and magazines. We boil eggs in the sap, make sugar on snow, brew the most delicious tea in the world with sap. And we split pine wood. We tend the flames. We add sap and we add sap and we add sap.

But as the daylight begins to wane, the skeptical, sleepy farmer also begins to wane, and it is the enthusiastic, energetic farmer who is up until the wee hours, night after night, with the fun project. Still, it is awfully tasty, on the other end, to pour that delicious (local, sustainable!) syrup on our yogurt and pancakes and cornbread and ice cream.

And our most important maple syrup learning? No, we do not, in fact, have a handy little money-making enterprise. Instead, we have just the opposite: a fine appreciation of why maple syrup is so very delicious, and so very expensive. As we tally up our little take of eleven or twelve gallons a year, plenty for us, and for gifts too, we humbly bow down to all the stalwart and productive maple syrup makers of the world.

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, February 18 -24, 2015