Here on our New Hampshire vegetable farm, we've been farming with draft horses since the beginning. We've worked with several teams, in various combinations, and each team, and each horse, has its own charms and quirks. Mostly we say nice things to our charming, quirky horses. Sometimes we say other things. Take Ben, for example, one of our black Percherons, who is our biggest, youngest, goofiest horse, born here on the farm in 2002. He likes to drink from the end of the water hose, and he likes to flip the hose right out of the trough. “Oh, Benny!” we moan, “For crying out loud, how are you going to get water to drink if it's all running down the driveway?” We might also say to Benny, on a fine spring morning,“Oh, you big, beautiful shiny horse, I bet you're ready to plow!” And he is. He is a fine, strong, steady horse, and we tell him so. He is also a fine, strong, steady horse with mighty big feet. When it's time to cultivate the narrow pathways of the garden, we are more likely to say, “Gees, Benny, every time you wiggle your big fat foot, you step on a plant!” Benny is pretty unconcerned about our little lettuce or broccoli transplants; in fact, he has finally trained the people around here to choose a different horse to cultivate, a horse with nice little feet. A horse with nice little feet comes walking right over in the barnyard. It is Molly, our lovebug, a sweet Belgian looking for someone to scratch her chin. She is a dear to work around in the stable, and we croon in her ears: “What a good horse, oh, what a nice good lovey-dovey horse.” Molly is also a hard worker. She is quite the peppy stepper in harness, instantly ready for anything, quite often more than even the teamster is ready for. “Easy, Molly,” we say. “Walk. Easy. Walk. Easy,” in slighter louder and more convincing tones each repetition. Molly is also not fond of big branches catching on the machinery she's hauling, which puts even more spring into her step. “Holy smokes,” we might say, “What are you trying to do, Molly? Win the race? Or just lose the hayloader, haywagon, and haypeople?” Molly likes to work best with her Belgian brother Moon, though we sometimes wonder why this is so. Moon has learned all the tricks of the draft horse trade, including lagging behind when there's a hard pull up a slope, and tucking ahead when there's a long downhill, which is the very time he's supposed to be helping hold the machinery from careening forward. “Step up, Moon, step up!” we encourage. Moon flicks his ears at us, and sometimes his tail: oh these pesky humans, always yakking about something. Moon is our most elegant horse, with his flowing blonde mane and tail, and his long neck. He also has the unusual and marvelous habit of stopping short when he is alarmed in harness, rather than galloping away. “Good boy,” we say, “Good good good wonderful marvelous fantastic horse,” we say, as we work out whatever noisy machinery disaster has befallen. Betsy, our other black Percheron, is our retired mare, and was known in her younger years for her snorting, wiggling ways, which occasionally actively contributed to one of those machinery disasters. We said a few stern words to her in her time, such as, “Betsey! What the heck are you doing! Whoa means Whoa! Not lurch ahead and break the mowing machine on a big rock!” Now Betsy has mellowed into the unflappable auntie. Mostly these days we say “Wow, Betsey!” instead of “Whoa, Betsey!” Two by fours falling from a great height directly in front of her? No worries. Betsey keeps drinking from the trough. Sapling catches under the saddle as we take a little ride through the woods? No problem. She keeps trotting along as the sapling rips out from under the saddle. Other three horses racing around the paddock in horror at an approaching front-end loader? No big deal. Betsy chews hay, unperturbed, at the manger. “Wow, Betsey,” we say. “You are some horse.” Betsy nods her head agreeably as she chews. She is some horse. And so are the rest of' 'em. We sure like to tell 'em so. Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, Aug 3-9, 2016 |
The Month Of Sighs
July is the month of sighs on our New Hampshire vegetable farm.
Sigh. Spring is over. Spring, when everything is fresh and new and possible, when no big farm disasters have happened yet, when it only takes a warm day after a long winter to have us feeling peppy and excited about a new farming season.
In July, however, we are hot. Very hot. Hot in the greenhouse, hot in the gardens, hot in the hayfield. It is hard to muster up peppy with all that hot, and it's hard to muster up excitement about anything but ice cream and swimming holes, neither of which pursuits seem to get the work done.
Sigh. There sure is a lot of work to do in July. We always say July is the month that crams every farming thing into it. A lot of harvesting. A lot of weeding. A lot of fall planting. A lot of haying. Did I mention a lot of weeding?
As one of our farmer friends said recently, about conversations between farmer-spouses, “In July, we can't talk about whether we'll be farming next year.” He paused. “And we can't talk about divorce, either.” We two farmer-spouses laughed a lot, and knowingly. (At least we were laughing.)
Sigh. The July sigh followed is most often followed by the July phrase: “Gee, I wish we had done that last week.”
Those beets looked pretty good last week. Now they're overrun by weeds. Those tomato plants looked pretty good last week too, and now they're in full flop, desperate for their next clipping up. Those draft horses also looked pretty good in their pasture last week. Now they're looking pretty naughty in a new pasture, otherwise known as our tolerant and forgiving neighbors' lawn, which the horses have taken upon themselves to enjoy, by busting through the pasture fence.
Sigh. The first CSA and Farmers Market harvests are over. The first harvests are greens and salad turnips and kohlrabi and bok choy and strawberries. They are all so delicious, and they are all such short season crops, only a month or less of harvesting. In June, we can finish up a bed of bok choy, and think, “There, got that done for the year!”
But in July, we're picking tomatoes. We're picking zucchini and yellow squash and cucumbers. Of course, these are also marvelous, and very much longed for. Yet once we start picking tomatoes and squash, it means we'll be picking them for the next four long months. We get to know our many tomato and squash rows very, very well.
Sigh. The sparkling clean farm kitchen is no longer sparkling. In June, there's still a hope of sparkle, still an effort made to keep ahead of dirty dishes and cluttered counters.
In July, the dirty dishes multiply almost as fast as the weeds in the garden. The dishes fill the counters, and sometimes even creep on to the floor. There's not much space to cook up a yummy meal, but hey, who needs to cook in July? Let's just slice up a tomato! If we can find a clean knife!
Sigh. Happily, the very last sigh of a July day on the farm is a good sigh, a great sigh, a fantastic sigh: it is the going to bed sigh. There's not much nicer than a good bed after a good day of work in good company, in a good place. (And, of course, with good food to eat!)
Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, July 6-July 12, 2016
The Make-Believe CSA Member
In June, we farmers always want our place to look nice. After all, it's the beginning of the harvest season, when we welcome new and returning CSA members to the greenhouses and gardens and the vegetable distribution shed. This time of year, my fellow farmer and I try to look at our farm with new eyes: we like to pretend we are brand new CSA members.
First we vroom up the farm road in our make-believe cars, on the way to our first exciting CSA pick-up. We eye the burgeoning multiflora rose hedge along the road dubiously. Did the road crew succeed in trimming it back adequately this year? Will people be able to park, without scratching their fine vehicles or their fine bare summer arms? We park our make-believe cars, which are not scratched at all. Excellent!
Then we assess the driveway. Are there any dead chipmunks and mice, or some viscera perhaps, thanks to our lovely two new kitties, ambitious in their youthful hunting years? Or are the kitties themselves there in the driveway, presenting a friendly, purring countenance to welcome everyone? (Or perhaps it is our scratch-bitey kitty, who, if not presenting a friendly countenance, at least presents a familiar one, to returning members. He has been scratching and biting CSA members for years now.)
“What cute kitties,” we croon from afar, or pet from close up, depending on the nature of the cat. “What a nice CSA farm!”
Next we check for piles of horse manure in the driveway of this nice CSA farm. Our four draft horses don't seem too concerned, on their way to and from pasture or gardens, whether our driveway is presentable. Happily the same shovel that picks up dead animals works well for horse manure too.
While the one farmer shovels, the other farmer, who is enjoying being an excited newly arrived CSA member, instead of a dead animal and manure shoveling farmer, checks out the the charming herb garden. Is it, in fact, charmingly dug and planted, reminding CSA members of their lovely summers in the lavender fields of Provence, or are the poor herbs still languishing in their pots, waiting to be transplanted and to become charming?
And another question: are the languishing herbs in the company of other languishing plants on the wooden tables next to the herb garden? Or have the farmers gotten all the tomatoes and basil and sweet peepers and squash into the greenhouse beds weeks ago, where they are now flourishing?
The CSA member/farmer peeks in the open door of the greenhouse. “'Ooo,” she says, “Look at those beautiful tomatoes! Look how big they are!” Excellent indeed. By the beginning of July, by the looks of the fruit, there will be scrumptious heirloom and standard tomatoes ready for eating.
The shoveling farmer rejoins the CSA member/farmer, and both are quite happy that there are no languishing plants that need to be planted in a hurry, before this new member tour is over. Plus the grass has been nicely mowed, which both cuts down on ticks and cuts down on the unkempt, scraggly farm look.
At last we are at the harvest shed, the true goal of excited CSA members, looking forward to the fresh crisp first greens of the season. Here we find the bamboo shades in good repair, keeping the sunlight away from the fresh and crisp, so that the fresh and crisp do not become limp and sad.
We find that the shed has been cleaned of its winter accumulation of lawnmowers, buckets, and errant tools, and that the harvest tables are in place. One CSA member/farmer shakes the tables vigorously, making sure heavy crates of produce and wooden tables don't fall upon innocent and excited new members. Luckily, the drill is handy, so we can screw the tables to the wall for a little insurance.
Then we notice that the harvest chalkboard has not been erased from last November's final CSA harvest. We admire a moment the evidence of all those vegetables we gave out so many months ago. We hope that we have a good harvest again this year. One of us erases, and then writes a fresh new greeting: “Welcome to Hillside Springs Farm!”
“Welcome! Welcome!” says one farmer to the other, offering a hearty handshake.
“I am so excited!” the other farmer shakes hands with equal gusto. “What a nice CSA farm! What a really really really nice CSA farm! Gee, I'd like to live here!”
“Gee, you're in luck!” The one farmer ceremoniously presents the dead animal and manure shovel.
The other farmer takes a step back. “Oh, no! No, thanks! I'm a newly arrived and excited CSA member! Remember?"
Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, June 8 - June 14, 2016
The Wonderful Whizzing Hose
In the fine month of May, amongst all the planting and weeding, we vegetable farmers spend a surprising amount of tine watering. Many of our transplants are still in pots, waiting for the magical June-first-post-frost planting date. In March and April, watering can be a pleasant, contemplative experience, with all the little plants in all their little plots. But in May, there's hundreds of plants, still in pots, and they don't want to be in pots anymore. They are bursting out of their pots, slurping up all available nutrients and moisture, and thus they need a substantial watering every day.
For all our years together, my fellow farmer and I have used a greenhouse watering system we've cobbled together ourselves. First there is a 100 gallon drum, a former Coca-Cola barrel (since Coca-Cola is practically a food grade substance!), filled with water from our well. The barrel filling process involves three hoses, threaded through the pile of junk in front of the barn, and catching on every possible protrusion: the various plow shares, broken wire netting, pipes, old carts, etc., all waiting to be sold or fixed or recycled. At least one of the hoses is sure to have a repaired spot, which, after catching on something, pulls apart, thus spraying water all over a farmer who prefers to stay dry.
Then it's shut off the water, stick the hose back together, turn on the water, trip over the junk, thread the hose more carefully through the junk, edge the hose under a gap in the baseboards of the greenhouse, and put the hose in the barrel. Sometimes the hose stays in the barrel. Sometimes the hose flips out, causing a flood in the greenhouse pathways, which a farmer would also prefer to stay dry, so she doesn't get her feet wet.
Now the barrel is filled, and the water is warmed by the sun (or the greenhouse's propane heater, when there is no sunshine) so as not to shock our plants. Then we plug in the submersible pump (ingenious! our favorite part of the lousy system!) which is connected to yet another hose, which we drag around the greenhouse to water both the transplants in pots on the tables, and the tomatoes that are already planted in the greenhouse beds.
Drag is the operative word here, because it is very, very bad for a farmer to crush a thriving transplant in a pot or a thriving tomato plant in the bed with a dragging hose. Thus we have an elaborate maze of concrete blocks, stakes, and digging forks anchored at the ends of the tables and beds to protect the plants. Mostly this works. Sometimes it doesn't. Inevitably the hose gets caught in the maze, requiring many trips back and forth in the greenhouse. Sometimes a farmer gets wet too, from all this hose fiddling, and that is also very, very bad.
Periodically, along our farming way, my fellow and I would visit and ogle and covet the greenhouse watering systems of other farmers. “Look at that,” we'd say, watching as a hose whizzed by on a cable and the smiling farmer quickly, efficiently, and painlessly watered the greenhouse.
“That probably cost five hundred dollars,” one of us would say gloomily.
“A thousand dollars,” said the other. “There's no way we can afford that.”
But, for once, we were blissfully wrong about fancy-farm-things prices.
“You won't believe this,” my fellow says one day, coming to untangle the hose for me as I water and grumble in the greenhouse. I muster up an interested look for his news.
“I looked up the whizzing hose on a cable in a catalog. It's only 150 dollars!”
“No!” I say.
“Yes!” he says. “We can find 150 dollars somewhere!”
“Maybe we can!” My thrifty farmer nature is momentarily overcome by the idea of a wonderful whizzing hose.
And we do! We order the hose, right away! It comes in the mail! Our fine CSA member who barters for carpentry work installs it! We test it out! It works perfectly, magnificently, whizzingly! Holy moly! We dance around the greenhouse, hollering in glee!
“Wow,” I say, “The great thing about having cruddy stuff and lousy systems is that we are so ecstatic when something better comes along! Maybe we should keep using our cruddy stuff even longer!”
“Wow!' says my fellow farmer. “You're crazy! I might have to squirt you with this whizzing hose!'
“Don't you dare!” I say, and we holler and laugh our way all the way down our quickly, efficiently, and painlessly watered greenhouse.
Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, May 11-17, 2016