Farming Vows

Sometimes this writer-farmer takes a little break in the summer from writing about weeding to write about haying. Happily, thanks to a hot dry July, we already have all our hay in, and it is good hay, too. Only the very last load of the season got a tiny bit wet, just one small rain shower. After a marginal hay crop last year, and three horses pushing their noses through their daily doses of hay without enthusiasm, it is a relief to have a barn full of sweet-smelling hay.

It is not a relief, however, to come back to the weeding after the haying. The garden has gone completely amuck during our hay-hiatus. I begin to worry that, in fact, we are going to lose a crop entirely again to weeds this season, despite my recent claim that this hasn't happened in years.

I mean, heck, I can't even remember now what we planted under those towering weeds.

“Did we plant anything under these towering weeds?” I moan to my fellow farmer.

“Gee, I think so,” my fellow answers. “Leeks, right? And weren't you harvesting scallions out of there?”

Ah, yes. Now I remember, and one hay-free day, I dive in, and liberate the leeks. They still have a chance, valiant Welsh vegetables that they are. (I love leeks, my mother's family is Welsh, and the Welsh symbol is the leek. Therefore I start by weeding the lovely leeks. A person needs to bring some sensible order to her weeding.)

Next in the weeds is the Swiss chard. Chard is a nice big leafed sturdy vegetable, the Swiss are nice orderly people, and the chard has not been entirely overpowered either. I weed more quickly now, and then come to an abrupt halt.

Let's see, I did harvest a lot of scallions out of this section some time ago. But are there any still lingering, hanging on to life, or can I just rip out all these monstrous weeds? I rip, making relatively quick work of the weeds in the almost empty of scallions section, and we use the last few determined bunches for our lunch.

There is still a big chunk of the bed left to weed, probably 100 feet, and I peer into the weeds, hunting for food. Then it occurs to me: Oh no! The dill and cilantro!

Luckily, my fellow farmer isn't nearby to hear my muttering and cursing, because this dill and cilantro planting was a mistake in the first place.

Years ago, I announced: “No more big plantings of dill and cilantro! We can't keep it weeded! We're only going to plant a tiny bit in the herb garden from now on!”

“All right!” announced my fellow farmer back.

This is what happened too, for several seasons, until I was once again swayed by my optimistic fellow farmer, and by a big empty space in a bed, that needed something planted in it, quickly, before the weeds came on. I had foolishly forgotten my dill and cilantro vow, after so many peaceful herb years.

“How about dill and cilantro?” my fellow farmer said, also clearly forgetting my vow, or, perhaps, happily bypassing it.

“Isn't that too much?” I said, a faint bell ringing in my head.

“Nah,” said my fellow, “Everybody loves dill and cilantro.” He got the seed packets out of the storage tub.

“We're going to keep it weeded?” Bells rang more loudly.

“Of course,” he said, dumping the seeds in the seeder.

“We're going to harvest it on time? Before it bolts?”

“Of course!” he repeated, as he barreled down the empty stretch of bed with the seeder, planting dill and cilantro. A lot of it.

“I don't know if this is a good idea,” I called after him.

“It's a great idea!” said he, man of action and enthusiasm.

And so it goes.

And so I sat, glumly contemplating the huge weeds, and the supposed dill and cilantro planting. I don't even like dill all that much, I thought. And cilantro's pretty darn good in salsa, but some people are allergic, and think cilantro tastes like soap. Why are we planting this much soap?

Then my herb vow came back fully and clearly to mind, all bells clamoring. I also had a sudden understanding of my farmer-daughter's sighs and groans when sent to harvest dill and cilantro, as well as an increasing understanding of her paltry harvest.

Then and there, I made a new farming vow, or at least a new weeding vow: to write all my brilliant vows down, and announce them, at top volume, every morning, all season long. Now that sounds like a fine start to a farming day!

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, Aug 28- Sept 3, 2019

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

Can't See the Garden for the Weeds

We've come a long way in our weeding since we first started farming. Why, back in the early days, we lost entire crops to weeds.

My fellow farmer and I would go out to check the planting of carrots, recently germinated. A little weedy, we said, but not too bad. We could wait a bit to tend the carrots, surely, while we tackle the much weedier peas and salad greens.

A week passes, and we check the carrots again. We are in complete agreement: these carrots are getting urgent. We better get to them this week.

Another week. Getting urgent turns to “Oh my gosh, the carrots are desperate! We have to weed these, without fail!”

But, yes, another week passes, and the carrots have entirely disappeared, under nearly knee-high weeds.

“Don't panic,” we farmers bolster each other, “We're having a weeding and ice cream party this very weekend, and our fine CSA members will clear this out in a jiffy!”

Oh, ha ha ha. Even with our fine CSA members, and our careful work, trying to hold in the wisps of carrots while rooting out the gigantic weeds, we are able to clear about twenty feet, out of six hundred, in three hours.

“Well, we've got a good start?” we say, with more hope than sense, and rush to another crisis in the garden.

The next week, one stalwart volunteer returns. We are surprised to see him. “I just wanted to help you finish those carrots,” he says.

“Oh,” we answer, looking quickly at one another. We don't want to break this kind member's heart, but we have to admit the the sensible truth. “We, uh, we realized, we didn't think, there was no way, without losing everything else, the weeds were just so big, the carrots didn't germinate all that well, we just had to . . .” we stumble around, and finally get it out: “We plowed them under.”

“Oh!” the nice fellow says, not seeming heartbroken at all, but looking rather jaunty. His whole afternoon has opened up before him, and he makes his escape, before we suggest yet another crop desperate for weeding.

Now, we can't say we've gotten to be better, faster weeders over the years; in fact, we may be just a smidge slower and creakier than we were 25 years ago.

But we are smarter weeders. Since we couldn't see the garden for the weeds, so to speak, we decided to open up a little more garden land, in order to rest garden sections in yearly succession, rather than having every bit of the garden in production all the time. Over the long-term, what with bare fallowing and cover cropping, we've been able to knock back the weed seed bank considerably.

In the short-term, we've been able to prioritize our weeding. We look at how vigorous the crop is, and how long it needs to stay in the ground. Those carrots, for example, need serious and speedy weeding. Carrots take three weeks to germinate, which means most weeds already have a head start. Carrots also have such fine feathery tops that they're not able to compete with any broad-leafed and vigorous weed, or really even any narrow-leafed and not very vigorous weed. Carrots also stay in the ground a long time, compared to some other crops. Salad turnips are sown at the same time, but they grow quickly, and so are harvested quickly, which means a different weeding technique altogether. We have another vivid memory of a volunteer, in a salad turnip bed, who was wading in weeds. Her progress, not surprisingly, was very slow.

We went over to see how it was going, and realized she was taking out every weed, from the giant to the miniscule. She also had a look of weeding despair on her face. We recognized that look, and we knew how to help.

“Oh,” we said gaily, realizing we hadn't explained what we meant: “These salad turnips will be out of the ground and into people's stomachs in less than two weeks! You don't really have to weed them! You just have to find them!”

We demonstrated: finding a crop means cutting out the giant weeds with a pair of clippers, so that we can see the vegetables to harvest. Things speeded up considerably, and our volunteer began to whistle.

Of course, we are still all about weeding, here on our sustainable vegetable farm, especially in July. But happily, we haven't even had to “find” a crop, or plow a crop under, in many years, which is excellent progress. Speaking of which, I believe I'll go out and weed those carrots.

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, July 3-July 9, 2019

Equine, Feline, Avian, Apian . . . Farmerian?

Many things happened on our New Hampshire vegetable farm in May that were supposed to happen.

Most importantly, according to the equine department, the horses went out on pasture, galloping and kicking up their heels and rolling and very happily munching on the green grass.

Secondarily, for the horses, the paddock and stable area were cleared of their deep winter pack of hay, bedding, and manure. This gives a horse a light-footed, heady feeling too, or at least it gives a horse farmer that feeling: ah, the winter accumulation has been cleared out! No snow, no ice, no below zero temperatures, and a tidy barn to boot.

According to the feline department on the farm, however, the most important thing in May was the fact that the farmers started getting up nice and early, and thus letting the kitty out to greet the dawn.

Secondarily, for the kitty, despite the fact that May ought to be warm and spring-like, the farmers had to keep the greenhouse heated to a balmy 65 degrees to protect the seedlings. This is very pleasing to a kitty who needs a daytime nap, especially since the farmers no longer fire up the woodstove in the house in May, no matter how cold and rainy it gets. The kitty can curl up in the straw pathways in the greenhouse, as long as she can find room next to the (hard-working, of course, not napping) farmers.

The best of May, according to the avian and the apian departments on the farm, most likely comes from the stronger and longer light, and the bugs and worms poking up their snoots for a hungry bird, and the nectar and pollen for a hungry honey bee or bumble bee.

Secondarily, for the bees and birds, the farmers continue to provide ample nesting area in the stable and over the back porch door, and there is plenty of room and healthy habitat on the farm for all manner of birds and wild bees and wasps. There is also the friendly local beekeeper who helps the honey bee colonies he tends on the farm thrive.

Now, according to the most minor of departments on the farm, which would be the farmerine (or farmerian, if you prefer) department, the primary thing in May is planting, planting, planting! There is planting in the greenhouses, and there is planting in the fields. The planting in the greenhouses has been going just fine, with its preparatory weeding, digging, composting, raking, and watering the beds. We've planted spinach and tomatoes, peppers and lettuce, strawberries and greens, among other things, and they're happily flourishing.

But with rain nearly every day in May, the field plantings have been a little trickier. In fact, the rain has prompted us to fill our greenhouses even more than usual, with kohlrabi and pac choi and scallions, which are usually outside crops for us. But it's been plenty cool enough for those crops to thrive in the greenhouses this year.

Outside of the greenhouses, the farmers race between raindrops, fill the spreader with compost, groom and harness the horses, spread the compost, disc the compost in, harrow the area, and make beds. Then the horses rest, while the farmers rake the beds, and finally sow the beets, the carrots, the snap and snow peas, the salad turnips and the salad greens. The farmers also transplant kale and chard, and cabbage and broccoli, and second batches of lettuce and scallions and greens. The crops that get chewed on by bugs are covered, and the horses are unharnessed, and led back to pasture.

At last the farmers go in for the evening, sighing with relief that they've actually gotten something in the ground, despite the soggy conditions. Supper, on more than one hectic planting occasion, has consisted of a bowl of oatmeal, or a dish of popcorn: nice hot meals for a cold, cloudy, wet month of May!

Secondarily, for the farmers, May means fixing fences, spreading fertilizer (composted chicken manure) in the hayfields, mowing the garden pathways, replacing greenhouse baseboards, tidying up the farm in general, putting screens back on the windows, potting up and watering, farm paperwork, clearing off the front porch, and keeping track of all the equine, feline, avian, and apian departments.

All of this is supposed to happen, in May, and happily, there's been only a few things that weren't supposed to happen: first the rain, rain, rain, and then the farm truck died, and then the plastic ripped off on our little greenhouse, and then the lawn mower wouldn't start.

But that's not too bad for one month, especially if all the things that were supposed to happen in May on a vegetable farm lead to all the things that are supposed to happen in June: bountiful CSA harvest, and a full stall at the Farmers' Market. In other words, vegetables, vegetables, vegetables!

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, June 5-11, 2019