The Holiday Farm Hustle: Yogurt and Unicorns

Around the winter holidays, we New Hampshire farmers have to hustle. Well, not exactly hustle. We have to get off the couch.

We want to go visit our human relatives, which means we have to set up our cat and draft horse relatives for a few days on their own. The list is always the same. Horses: food, water, fence. Cats: food, water, litter. The cats are easy; it only takes minutes to fill the food bowl and check the various sources of water. First is the actual water bowl, scrubbed and refilled.

Second is the small plastic cooler where we make yogurt once a week. The cats don’t like it when we make yogurt. They like it when the cooler is open, the jars are gone, and the water, which has kept the milk warm enough to yog, is available to drink. 

They are also fond of the leaking tap in the bathtub, a leak which drives a thrifty farmer who wants to practice sustainable water use crazy, and which now has a bucket under it, for watering houseplants. The kitties think the bucket is a perfect drinking vessel.

The litter takes longer, as we lecture the cats on how a proper sturdy farm cat wouldn’t need a litter box at all. Our long-time kitty Cricket finds this no problem, as she is fuzzy and happy to be outside. She says she is only using the litter box because we won’t be here to let her out. 

But our new kitty, who is sleek and not fuzzy, and therefore cold, says I never meant to be a sturdy farm cat. You’re the one who brought me here.

But you didn’t use a litter box at your last house, I say.

I had a cat door, he replies. Make me a cat door.

What if skunks get in, I say.

I will curl up with them, he says. They are warm.

Hmm, I say, as I put fresh litter in the box. At least we use softwood pellets, meant for a pellet stove, which means it is kind of sustainable.

Now for the horses: checking the electric fence is easy. Filling the water trough is easy. Then there’s food: seven meals worth, for four horses, which is a lot of hay, especially when it is in the form of our own loose hay, and not tidy bales. 

One of us forks the hay down from the mow. The other weighs it out on a platform scale, and tosses it into the mangers, which are actually sheep panels tied into a circle, handy for hay when we are away. 

Then the farm daughter gets in the manger too, tromping down the hay, and as the stack gets taller, so does the daughter, until she finds herself looking down at our big horse Clyde, who is helpfully eating out of the manger as we try to stuff it full.

“Look at your daughter,” laughs my farmer fellow, and I stop flinging hay around to look. There she is, standing high above Clyde, braiding his abundant forelock into three braids, and then the three into one, which is so thick it sticks out like a unicorn. 

We all find this most amusing, which will give you the sense of the fun you can have on a vegetable farm while hustling for the holidays. Now all we have to do, before we go, is visit our nice neighbors, and ask them to keep an eye on things for us, bringing them a basket of root veggies as thanks. Plus we have to pet the horses and kitties a while, and wish them a happy holiday, with a little help from more root veggies, and a spoonful of yogurt.

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, Jan 12-18, 2022

Haying with Horses

Haying with horses on a New Hampshire farm is an enjoyable experience. Sometimes.

This season, haying has been dreadful. All that rain in July meant either no, or bad, haying. It also meant that the new growth was pushing up into the old growth, making for a miserable mowing in August, with big clots of grass binding up the sickle bar and the farmers' and the farmhorses' tempers.

The raking and the loading were also unhappy affairs, thanks to those same heavy, wet, sure-to-mold-in-the-barn clots. We would toss the wet off the wagon in the field, feeling the kind of grump that comes after you've spent a long time making a nice supper, and it turns out badly. There it is, the same amount of work, but it doesn't taste that great, which is probably what our horses will be saying about the hay all winter.

On top of that, all the hayings ran right up against our little bit o' summer fun.

First was the long-delayed-by-the-pandemic visit to my family. We didn't arrive until 11:30 p.m., after the haying. But our nice sleepy relatives cheered our arrival.

Second was my fellow's family visit, here on the farm, also pandemic-delayed. These nice alert relatives helped us hay and ordered take-out for us, so that we could have a meal together at 8:30 p.m., after the haying.

Third was our nice Philadelphia friends' visit, who also helped us hay, and made us a delicious supper, which we ate at 9 p.m., after the gloomy haying. 

“Did it turn out the way you wanted it to?” the supper-maker asked kindly.

“Kind of hard to tell, isn't it?” We sort-of laughed, thinking of the crummy hay in the barn.

Most recently, the hay ran up against a much-anticipated Rhiannon Giddens concert.

That day, we got out to the field by three, hoping the hay would be dry. We should have had plenty of time, except there was way more hay than could fit in one load; and the horses were grumpy and not working well together; and the farmers were grumpy and not working well together. In fact, I accidentally hit my fellow with my pitchfork tines, which caused him to swear and me to profusely apologize. 

Then, since we had to unload the wagon in order to pick up the second load, and the barn is getting full, which means a long slow unloading, with my fellow on the wagon, and me stuffing the hay into the rafters, and hay occasionally falling back down, which is maddening, and causes my fellow to really push those forkfuls of hay up firmly, and causes me to really grab hold of the hay firmly, all of which then caused my fellow to accidentally hit me with his pitchfork tines.

Then I swore, and he apologized profusely.

We got the last of the hay on the second wagon at 4:59. I wanted to leave at five, after my pleasant shower and change into fancy clothes. Instead, I raced in to swipe off the worst of the sweat and grub, and to gather snacks, vaccination cards, tickets, water, wallets, and keys. My fellow unharnessed the horses, and by the time I ran out to help lead the horses to pasture, my fellow had already taken all four at once up the narrow lane, which did not please them. But there was my sweet fellow, running down the lane with his shirt off, preparing to put on his fancy clothes.

Here is the nice end of the story: we got to the concert on time, and it was wonderful. I wish I could also say this was the end of the haying and my complaining, but alas, it is not, as we still have a section and a half to go. 

Of course, haying with horses still could be enjoyable, even in this season. But I'm not holding my breath. 

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, Sept 22 – Sept 28, 2021

The Literal Learning Curve: Haying with Horses

Sometimes when we talk about the learning curve in haying with horses, we like to actually show it: our literal learning curve.

There are two curves, to be precise, one on each of the massive posts that frame the doorway of our barn.

“Come on over,” we say, “Here it is! Our learning curve!” We point out the elegant curve that has been carved out each of the posts, just at the height of the floorboards of our haywagon. Yes, indeed, it took more than a few tries to gauge the width of the haywagon, and the width of the barn door, and the width of the swing necessary with the horses from the right, and the width of the swing necessary with the horses from the left.

Of course, given that the haywagon is eight feet eight inches wide, and the doorway is nine feet one inch wide, and that the hay on a loaded wagon sticks out a good foot on either side, there's no wonder we have a literal learning curve. In fact, it is only my fellow farmer, the teamster here, who can take credit for the learning curve, as he both carved it out of the posts, and finally conquered all the widths and swings.

For our part, my farmer-daughter and I, riding on the top of the full wagon, do our best to ensure all will go well while entering the barn by hiding our heads and squeezing our eyes shut, in order to ward off the big thunk. We must be doing our part very nicely, along with the teamster and the horses, because we haven't had a big thunk and an abrupt stop in years.

We all like this very much, including the horses. The horses pull hard up the slight incline to the barn door, and they are not delighted when they come to a thumping halt, nor are they especially fond of the load becoming unexpectedly heavier as the post is being carved by the wagon floorboards.

We've also have had a few instances when it wasn't the floorboards that halted the works, but the hay itself. When the load is both big and unbalanced, the hay tends to gets stuck in the doorway. Then the horses have to hold the load steady while we riders slide down the load and race for the chucks.

We chuck the wagon to take the weight off the horses, and then we chuck off some of the hay, and ask the horses to pull again. They do, willing and strong horses that they are. Once we actually get the wagon into the barn, we unload the hay into the mow, which can be quick and easy, in a clear spot, or long and hard, if we have to stuff the hay up in the rafters. After unloading, there are the two massive posts on the exit door to navigate. Generally this is much easier, and these two posts don't show much learning curve wear.

But we do have a vivid memory of one year, when our big horse Ben was new to the haywagon, and my fellow farmer was giving Ben some practice in making small adjustments to an empty wagon that was just slightly too far to one side as it went out the exit door. This is finer work, not requiring brawn so much as precision. Backing up is already very fiddly work for a horse, and backing up a few steps, going forward at a slight angle, backing up, over and over again, was all just too much for a green horse. At one point, Benny had a complete fit in the harness, not going backwards or forwards, but somehow making his entire body into fits of frustration visible to all.

“Oh, Benny,” we said, sympathizing and laughing at the same time, and we unhitched him then and there, and brought in his wise old auntie Betsey while he had a rest in his stall.

Now wise old Auntie Betsey is buried underneath our apple tree, right across from the barn doors, where she can keep track of things, and Ben has become much older and wiser himself, twelve or more years later.

Whether we can say the same for the farmers is another matter, since here we are, learning curves, head-hiding, eye-closing and all, still crazily making hay.

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, July 31- Aug 6, 2019