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

The Trickster Month

March is a trickster month, when a farmer stands at the door, trying to decide whether to wear one layer or four. She settles on two, then flings off her coat in the sunshine, thinking Gee, isn’t it nice and warm! Then the next minute, when the wind nearly knocks her over, she grabs her coat again, thinking Gee, isn’t it nice and brisk! 

It’s the month when we farmers are glad there’s still snow holding down the greenhouse sides, so that the greenhouses don't blow away in the wind. A few days later, we’re glad that the snow has melted away, so that we can open up the sides and get some cool air into the overheated greenhouses. 

In March, we might be walking in snow or squelching in puddles as we check our pasture and garden fences, which sometimes look fine after the winter, and sometimes are a big mess. In the garden, it might be dry enough to direct-sow carrots and turnips in March, as we sometimes do. Or maybe not. 

Who knows? March likes to keep us wondering, about weather and crops and fences, and even about our own farmer moods: is this nervous excitement about the upcoming season, or is this nervous worry about the upcoming season? Can we do it again? Every year we’re a little older, and the mountain of the season looks a little higher.

But there’s one thing we do know: in March we’d better start getting into farming shape. Luckily, it is a gentle start to the season. We carry the tables into the greenhouse, set up the heat mat, roll down the big plastic curtain that divides the greenhouse into heated and unheated zones. We fill flats, sow seeds, and water them in, looking forward to the tiny cheerful green seedlings.

In March, my fellow farmer also starts taking the horses out for an occasional jaunt. These are getting ready for the working season jaunts, after a winter of eating hay and loafing around the paddock. 

Our new team, Willow and Fern, groomed and harnessed, set out with my fellow on the fore cart, a light, two-wheeled cart used to pull implements, and perfect for getting horses in shape.

“How’d it go?” I ask, after the first short jaunt.

“Great,” my fellow answers. “We went up the dirt road to the top of the hill.”

"How’d it go?” I ask after the second slightly longer jaunt. 

“Great,” my fellow answers. “We went to visit our neighbors who were boiling sap in the sugar shack on the dirt road. Also Willow bucked some.”

“That sounds nice,” I say, a little worried, “except for the bucking.”

“She didn’t like the tight turn, I guess. It was just a little bucking.”

“How’d it go?” I ask after the third even longer jaunt.

“Great,” my fellow answers. “We went around our fields and then up the dirt road. This time Willow and Fern were both bucking.”

“Hmm,” I said, a little more worried. “What’s that about?”

“Nothing much,” my fellow answered. “Just kind of remembering what it means to be getting back to work.”

Ah. We know how the horses feel.  It’s a good thing we all get to start slowly: sowing seeds, or walking up a dirt road. A little buck can’t hurt, and might even help work out the cricks and kinks: the winter’s slow stiff farmer back, slow stiff farmer shoulders, slow stiff farmer mind. 

Don’t worry, laughs March, I’ll loosen you right up. Then you can really get to work, in April.

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, April 2 - April 8, 2025