Ask a Farmer to Write, or Is It Ask a Writer to Farm?

I've been writing my farming column for nine years, and for the first time I have three columns due in one month, as I'm a substitute columnist for this week. Perhaps you are so fond of my regular column that you will be delighted to read the first bit of my yet-to-be-published middle grade novel (about a farm girl)!

Thistle was standing at the top of the world. It was the first day of summer and she was ten years old, and from the top of Apple Hill where she was whistling cheerfully she could see everything all at once: sky, farm, road.

In the sky swallows wheeled and darted and plummeted, catching their supper. In the farm lane, her brothers pushed the cows along to the barn for evening milking. On the road, just coming around the bend, someone was slowly riding a goldy-brown pony.

Thistle started and leaned forward, frowning now, watching. The someone was a stranger, but the pony was not. Thistle saw the pony give a funny half skip before it trotted, just like her pony did. She put her hands on her hips. The pony shook its forelock; there was a white star underneath. Why, it was her pony! Her pony Tug! and some strange boy riding him!

Thistle turned and pelted down the hill.

She was halfway to the road when she remembered that her mother had told her to be gone not one minute longer than it took the boys to bring the cows in; Thistle was supposed to help milk. The path she was following would take her right by the house and her mother, who would surely see her.

Thistle stopped and scrambled backwards and took the long way around instead, hoping her pony would buck the boy off and then stand innocently and happily nearby eating the grass on the side of the dirt road. That would serve the boy right for taking her pony. Besides, she'd never catch up to them otherwise.

Thistle jumped the creek and crashed through the alders to the cow lane, landing just in front of one of the cows. It was Red, with her nervous ears, her quick hooves, skittish and worried. Now she threw up her head violently, and twisted back around in the narrow lane. 

Thistle twisted too, out of Red's way and then by her, by and through the eight cows, who were all in a panic now. Some kept moving forward, some stopped, some turned around with Red, back the way they’d just come, while Thistle’s twin brothers waved and hollered, at the cows, at Thistle.

Thistle was still running, yelling, “Somebody’s got my pony!” back to her brothers, and her brothers yelled too. “He’s not yours! He’s not your pony! Thistle! Thistle! Get back here!”

Thistle rounded the corner, blocking out everything behind her, the sounds of the cows, her older brothers. Her heart was like a drum in her, enormous and loud, her ears bursting with it. Tug! Tug! Tug! Her pony!

Thistle ran through the pasture, her calloused dirty feet dodging the pats of cow manure, or almost dodging them. The manure was wet and new, but it didn’t matter, it didn’t matter – 

There was the one fence to cross, tight, shiny, new barbed wire, and Thistle flung herself on the ground and rolled underneath and then she was almost there, the road, the road – and then she burst out into the middle of it.

The road was empty. It was absolutely quiet. There was no one there, in either direction. No round brown pony streaking away with somebody strange riding him, no round brown pony chewing on the roadside grass, waiting for the somebody to get up warily from the ground and try to catch him again. 

Thistle was too late.

She stamped her foot. She blew her hair up off her forehead. Not even a bird squawked. There was no sound except for Thistle’s heart drumming. Thistle stood there in the road, furious, getting her breath back. Then she wheeled around and ran all the way back home. The cows had been in such a tangle in the lane she might beat them all back again, and not be late at all for milking. Her feet beat a rhythm as her heart cried out. Tug! Tug! Tug!

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, Oct 22 - 28, 2025

The Lesson of Porcupine

The first porcupine we ever saw was in October of 2008, according to the nature logbook we keep here on the farm. We were taking an autumn walk in the hayfield, and we were astonished by the porcupine. Such a majestic bristly silvery self! It seemed less impressed by us, as it slowly wandered away. 

Years later, we found the second porcupine in the woodchuck trap in our garden. The closer we got, the bigger the porcupine looked, all puffed up in its black and white glory. We opened the trap, and this porcupine waddled away as fast as a porcupine can. Then we picked up the pretty little quills from under the trap and put them on our mantle.

The third porcupine we didn't actually see. We only saw its quills in the muzzle and fetlock of our overly curious draft horse Moon. For some reason that event didn't make it into the logbook, and we can't remember if we got the quills out, or had to call the vet. That time we did not put the pretty little quills on our mantle.

The fourth porcupine appeared this fall, when I was taking an evening walk with our farm pooch through the fields. My, I thought, that is a strange dark pile of horse manure. Then the pile moved and I realized it was a cute little porcupine, nearly all black, and wondering what I was doing in its field. 

Happily, the pooch did not spy the porcupine, and we took the long way around. The next evening we took a walk about the same time in about the same place. Apparently porcupines are creatures of habit, just as people and pooches are. There was my prickly little friend again. This time my dog was right nearby, and there was no stopping him.

The pooch bounced and barked in a gleeful ring around the porcupine, who was revolving in slow and ever more bristly circles to keep the dog at bay. Meanwhile, I was issuing every command this dog has ever learned in daily training sessions and eight (yes, eight!) training classes. I used my commands in a friendly fashion, a stern fashion, a desperate fashion. The pooch merrily bounced and barked.

It happened to be a Sunday evening, and my fellow was away, and the next day was a holiday, and I did not want a dog full of quills, no indeed. I was carrying a 15 foot dog lead, which has a small snap on the end, and I swung that snap in the dog's direction. The bonk distracted him for the seconds I needed to get hold of him. Then I marched him away.

The next day I avoided the hayfield altogether, and we did not see the little porcupine. Instead my pooch and I went for a nice walk down the shady lane, where we came upon an enormous porcupine. 

Bounce, bounce, bark, bark, said my pooch. 

Cut it out, right now, said the porcupine. 

Am I glad I have the lead attached to you today, said I, to the dog. I stepped on the end of the lead, the dog stopped, and the porcupine skedaddled away over the stone wall.

But soon enough, on another walk, another evening – a Sunday evening, when we have company –  my pooch decides to go up the hill by himself, which is unusual. Hmm, I think, I wonder what that's about. 

Bark, bark, bark! I hear. I sigh, and trudge up the hill. The barking stops. Good, I think, the porcupine went under the busted hayloader, and the dog is trying to get under the hayloader too. 

Alas, the porcupine is slowly walking away, and my pooch is on the ground, rubbing his muzzle with his paws. Oh, he is a very sad pooch, with a mouthful of quills. Oh, we hope he has learned the Lesson of Porcupine.
 

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, Oct 15 - Oct 21, 2025

You Never Know When Something Might Break Down

We have five sections of hay to cut each summer. The first four went splendidly with our new horses. When we got to the fifth section, our daughter, who was kindly helping us, yet again, said, “It's a lot nicer to hay when it cools off in the evening. Let's start at five instead of noon.”

I agreed with the first statement, but couldn't agree to the second. “You never know if something's going to break down, and the forecast might change. It could rain tomorrow.” It had not rained in weeks, but the laws of haying are firm: if it's not raining, you must hay.

My daughter groaned. My fellow and the horses groaned, as they went from the shade of the barn to the blazingly sunny field.

We figured there were four loads, so we would finish around five, in time to make supper. We got two loads in before the first hayloader broke. My fellow and our daughter spent an hour and a half trying to replace links in the chain. No luck.

“We could run it until the chain on the other side breaks,” I suggested. I was unloading the haywagon. The load of hay seemed a lot bigger when I was working by myself.

“But then we'd have two broken chains,” said my fellow, “and still might not get the hay off today.”

“Why don't we just use the other hayloader? Don't we have two for exactly this reason?”

“Yes,” answered my fellow, “but it's going to take a while to grease it up.”

“Well, I've still got a lot to unload here,” I said grumpily.

Finally we took the second hayloader up to the field. We went 100 feet before we heard the banging. One of the thing-a-ma-jigs that shuffle the hay up was broken.

My fellow balanced precariously on the back edge of the haywagon, while my daughter handed him twine. I stood in front of the horses to keep them from moving ahead in case my fellow fell off. He did not fall off. We went another 100 feet. More banging. The twine had broken.

We repeat the precarious procedure with wire. A hundred more feet. The wire breaks, or maybe this time it is more pieces of the thing-a-ma-jing.

“Looks like we're picking the rest of this hay up by hand,” says my fellow.

“We don't have enough daylight,” I moan.

“I'm calling everyone we know,” says our daughter, which translates into the handful of people who might help us in the heat. One is at work, three are in Maine, and the fifth is at work and has evening plans with his spouse. But he comes anyway.

“Are we glad to see you!” we say.

The evening comes on quickly. We have to make smaller loads, working by hand, and that takes even more time. Dusk brings out the giant flies, buzzing, landing, and biting, which means horses bucking, kicking, and wanting to run.

My fellow stands in front of the team, talking firmly and calmly, using a long whip to chase off the flies. But it is a little dicey, and maybe it's good that our friend might not fully realize that, as repeatedly he hops up on the load to stomp the hay down.

My daughter and I pitch hay for all we're worth. The dog, who's had it with being tied around my waist and having to go with me for every forkful of hay, is excited by the bucking and kicking. He wants to stand in front of the horses and bark. Instead he gets tied to a tree and barks.

Then it is dark. We can't see the hay anymore. We might have it all.

“Good enough,” I say wearily, and we all go back down the hill. “I wish we had a nice supper to offer you,” we say to our friend. “How about some cold water?”

“That sounds good,” he says.

Last load of hay in the barn and no one hurt. That sounds good too.

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, Sept 17 - Sept 20, 2025

The Big Hayloader Moment

Our new team of horses was going to be haying with us for the first time, and I was nervous.

On mowing day, Willow and Fern were not daunted by the strange clackety-clack of the sickle bar mower. The next day, they weren't bothered by the whir-whir of the tedder. The third day, there was no problem with the quiet rake.

But the next step was the big one: introducing the hayloader. If draft horses are going to be afraid of farm machinery, it's often the hayloader that worries them. It's a big noise coming from behind, high up, and some horses do not like that at all, which is why I was nervous.

After the raking, the horses rested in the barn with hay and water, while the farmers got the barn ready.

Ideally, this would have been done well ahead of time, but every year, it gets done the hour before the first load of hay comes in. Or, rather, the hours. We had to move out the two hayloaders, the spreader, the tools, the piles of junk accumulated over the winter. We had to move a million greenhouse tables that had been set outside in the way.

I got more and more nervous as the hours ticked by. I wanted to get the first haying over with, so I could quit imagining disasters.

Luckily our daughter was home, with a visiting friend, who wanted to help hay. The vigor of two twenty-five-year-olds got us through the hours of junk and table moving. Plus I couldn't let my nervousness turn to outright grumpiness when we had a guest. So when my fellow remembered he had to put a new pole on the hay wagon, and we needed to cart a lot of musty old hay from the barn to the compost pile, I had to grin and bear it. Or just bear it.

Finally we were ready for the big moment. I worked hard to imagine everything going smoothly instead of runaways and smash-ups and horses getting hurt and farmers getting hurt and daughters getting hurt and guests getting hurt.

First we hitched the horses to the wagon and hayloader in the driveway, and my thankfully calm, confident fellow asked the team to walk just a few steps, with the hayloader out of gear, to minimize the noise. Willow and Fern flicked their ears back, listening, but weren't alarmed.

Then came the pull up the hill, including the top of the hayloader catching on branches, and the rattle and bang over rocks in the lane. I walked briskly ahead, with a pounding heart, in case I had to try and stop stampeding horses. At least it is a steep hill, so the horses would have to work hard to run away pulling the haywagon and hayloader.

But Willow and Fern weren't even considering running away.

In the field was the last test: putting the hayloader into gear, which made more strange new noises. Willow and Fern didn't blink an eye. Then the full glory of this new team of horses was revealed. Tried and true, slow and steady, their classic funeral pace proved to be a blissful match for hayloader work.

My fellow farmer, our daughter, and this nervous farmer were all exulting. How easy! How fun! How downright relaxing to make hay with these fine and slow horses!

Our guest seemed surprised by the nervousness/borderline grumpiness turned to glee. “I guess I came on a good day to hay,” she said.

“You sure did,” we burbled. “No smash-ups, no break-downs, no runaways, not even a person falling down over and over trying to load the hay while the wagon jerks and jolts and bounces behind a trotting horse!”

“Wow,” said our sweaty, chaff-covered, worn-out guest, who was probably glad we hadn't mentioned such possibilities earlier.

“Yes!” we said. “This is heavenly haymaking! Lo, the hay angels are singing!” (Well, we didn't really say that last bit, because we didn't want our guest to think we were entirely wacky.)

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, Aug 20 - Aug 26, 2025