Farmers' Winter Torpor

Here on our New Hampshire vegetable farm, we get slower and slower as the weather gets colder and colder. Instead of farmers growing vegetables, it is farmers becoming vegetables.

In fact, on our very last farmers' market harvest, we were so slow we barely made it to the market. Granted, we had been dithering about whether we had enough produce to sell, and “Let's not go,” we moaned. “We're too tired.”

Unfortunately, the idea of not going pepped us up enough to remember just how much food we had left. We had some onions, and potatoes, some winter squash and carrots, some red and green peppers, a few tomatoes.

“We can eat all that this winter,” we bolstered ourselves.

“But what about all that cabbage?” we groaned in unison.

And what about all that lettuce and spinach and pac choi that has only just gotten big enough, staying alive with the help of propane heat in the greenhouse, just so we could take them to market?

We gave in, to the prodigious cabbage, to the budget-bashing propane. Not only did we give in, but we give in big: we would go to not one, but two farmers' markets, at the same time.

First there was the Stonewall Farm Fare, on both Friday night and Saturday, 9-3. Then there was the Walpole Farmers' Market, on Saturday, 9-1. We hustled and harvested, washed and bagged and bundled.

To our credit, we genuinely thought that the Friday night market started at five, so when my fellow drove in at 4:30, pleased to have plenty of time to set up, he was surprised to see the fare already open. The other farmers, minding their booths in the brisk outside air, assured him he hadn't missed much in the first half hour, and he enjoyed the outdoor fire, and the other vegetable (-like!) farmers' company.

On Saturday morning, we thought we had given ourselves plenty of time, rolling out of bed a few minutes before seven. Alas, readying for two markets is not the same as readying for one, which we might have realized if we weren't already falling into our winter torpor, or stupor, you might say.

We packed two vehicles, with matching crates and buckets of veggies, and I finally sent my fellow off to Walpole, at ten of nine, as it would take him longer to get to his market. I myself left after nine, and we both got to our respective markets right on time: i.e., half an hour late.

“Are you a vendor, or a shopper?” asked the friendly Stonewall parking person.

“I am a terribly late vendor,” I admitted, and the friendly person laughed and waved me on. I set up my table with the the help of the other farmers, who assured me I hadn't missed much in the first half hour, and then we enjoyed the fire and the company. Plus we all sold some vegetables, though not much cabbage, and some of our kale (just one tiny leaf) went to feed the Stonewall Farm bunny.

At around one, we farmers all felt limp, since normal market hours are nine to one, not nine to three. But we cheered ourselves with the thought of my fellow coming to join us from the Walpole market. Happily, he was just in time for me to go admire the craft vendors' wares inside the building, and to help all the farmers pack up their tables. Then we two drove home in our two vehicles.

“It's a good thing we weren't driving together,” I said, when we got home, “or we might have stopped for pizza.”

“Shucks!” said my fellow, who loves pizza. He had had water and a piece of cheese for lunch, and I had had peanut butter and carrots.

“We would have used up all our profits,” I said.

“People before profits!” answered my pizza-and-political-slogan loving fellow.

“Don't you mean pizza before profits?” I said. We both laughed a lot, in our limp, vegetable-like way, and threw together a fast and easy tomato soup.

I sighed happily, eating my soup. “Well, that's done for the year.”

“Well, I was thinking just one more. The Keene market, right before Christmas. Because we get one guest vendor slot in the winter market.”

“Wow,” I said. “Wow. I might have to lie down on the couch to think about that one.”

“You could lie down on a bag of cabbage instead, my vegetable friend,” my fellow suggested.

“Come join me,” I answered, and he did.

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, Dec 18- Dec 24, 2019

Foolish and Annoying on the Farm

November on our New Hampshire vegetable farm means clearing out greenhouse beds, rolling up irrigation, storing crates and buckets, repairing tools, and, of course, celebrating. We did it again! We made it through another round of vegetables, and now we can both glory in the garden's goodness and revel that the season is over!

Ah, but wait: we still have to review the year and plan for next season. We need to do it right now, before the revels, and much, much before March or April, when we are giddy with warm weather and the fresh green of the world, and when we think we can do everything, twice over.

Yes, right now, when we are tired, and a little cranky, and the memories of the year have not yet faded into funny stories. All season we groaned to each other about everything annoying and foolish we did or didn't do this year, and with both farmers now hitting our fifties, we are considering our knees and our backs and our energies and next year's work more than ever.

We have to be realistic, we say firmly to one another, and plunge into the depths of foolish and annoying: why, for example, did we not get nearly as many potatoes as usual this year? Well, because we are planting more than we can look after.

“Let's plant less, and take care of them better,” my fellow suggests.

“I like that,” I say, writing it down. “So simple, yet so elegant.”

“We'll get just as many potatoes with less work, I bet,” says my fellow farmer. “Less work! More money!”

I laugh. “Don't you mean 'Less work! Better crops!' ”

“Yes! Less work! More money! Better crops! Write that down!”

I write it down, still laughing, and go on to our second question. Why was our eggplant crop so pathetic? Well, because the eggplant was to be planted in the old strawberry beds in the greenhouse, but the old strawberries were so prolific that we kept picking and picking, and didn't dig the plants up until much later than we planned, which meant the eggplant got in really late, after being in pots too long, and after the tomatoes in the nearby rows had gotten big enough to shade their small new neighbors.

“Let's not do that again,” I say.

“We won't need to dig up the new planting of strawberries for a couple years, anyway,” says my fellow.

“Let's figure out a plan before we have that crisis again, in a couple of years. I'd like to use our greenhouse space much more efficiently, anyway. I want to plant all the cutting greens inside, so that the weed pressure isn't so high, and the greens will be easier to harvest.”

“Maybe we could devote a whole greenhouse bed to greens. And then, with the strawbs, we can just plan on digging them up when they're done, and then put in a later-season crop, something for the fall istead.”

“Good, good,” I say, scribbling away. “Why didn't we think of this before?”

“Because we didn't have time to think!” says my fellow farmer. “What's next?'

“Well, dill and cilantro, which we knew were a problem right when we sowed them. We put in way too much and then of course they got totally overrun with weeds, which goes back to . . .”

“Less work! More money! Better crops!”

“But here's a different question: why were the cherry tomatoes so hard to pick this year?” “Because one of the posts broke, and the whole fence sagged over to the side of the greenhouse, and we didn't have room to pick easily.”

“We could put the cherry tomatoes in a bed closer to the center of the greenhouse,” I say.

“Or we could have fixed the post,” my fellow suggests.

I look askance at him. “I want bigger solutions,” I say, “more far-reaching ones.”

“Less work! More money! Better crops!” hollers my fellow farmer gleefully.

“But we don't need a better crop. We had a fantastic cherry tomato year.”

“We need more money and less work then!” says my fellow. “And we had great sweet red and green peppers, and onions, and a ton of winter squash. And lots of other good things. Nice, huh?”

“Yeah, but we're supposed to be focusing on the bad.”

“We are. We're going to fix it all! Ready? Ready?” I give in to my fellow's irrepressible good cheer, and we both holler it out: “Less work! More money! Better crops!”

Thus, our realistic review session dissolves into general end-of-season hilarity. Ah, November on the farm . . .

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, Nov 20- Nov 27, 2019

Farm TV Stars

Not long ago, we had a message on our phone. A person said carefully, “We'd like to come out to your farm – your horse-powered farm – ” very precisely, as if she was reading a script, or as if we might try to have her come to one of our other farms, our tractor-powered farm, or our camel-powered farm, for instance.

“But who is it?” I said.

“It's the TV!” my fellow farmer answered, gleefully. “They want us to be on TV!”

I grumbled. “I don't want to be on TV. We don't even have a TV. We haven't had one for twenty years. It'll be weird and sensationalist like everything these days.”

My fellow grinned at me, probably wondering what exactly we would do on our fam that could possibly be sensationalistic. “You can get it on the Internet too. Come watch the show with me. It's really hokey. You'll love it.”

“Oh, geesh,” I said, but we did watch a segment of NH Chronicles, which is hokey in the nicest possible way, in the way that we use the word hokey on our farm, to mean wholesome and pleasing, genuine and a little goofy. The show covers a variety of interesting stories in New Hampshire.

“Well, I'm good at hokey,” I said.

“I'll set up a date!” my fellow said quickly, before I changed my mind.

Of course, when the day came, and we were frantically tidying up around the place, I was very nervous about the whole thing, and regretful indeed that I hadn't changed my mind.

“You're great at hokey,” my fellow encouraged me. “Here they come!”

There they were, just one regular car, and two regular people: a very nice reporter named Karen, and a very nice photographer named Jason. Karen had an umbrella, and Jason had a camera, and they looked worriedly at the sky. There were predictions of rain, so we went right away to the field for a draft horse demonstration.

My fellow farmer, and Molly and Ben the horses, set to discing the spring section, in preparation for a cover crop. The disc hit a big rock, and my fellow made a big leap, landing on his feet. He smiled and waved, and hopped back on the disc. But not for long.

Another abrupt stop, another smile and wave from my fellow TV star: this time the wheel had fallen completely off the disc. The photographer put down his camera, and kindly carried the wheel over to the disc. Meanwhile I ran for some locking pliers, and we rigged the wheel back up.

Then the photographer wanted a different view of discing. My fellow offered the seat on the disc, and he walked along, driving the horses.

Karen and I watched, appreciating the interesting angle of the camera. The horses stepped ahead, the disc moved ahead, and the photographer . . . seemed to be leaning quite far backwards. In a slow motion move worthy of fine cinematography, the photographer leaned further and further back, more and more and more, and then he incrementally, gracefully fell right off the disc, still clutching his camera.

Oh no! We all rushed to his aid, as he gimped upright again. “What happened? Are you all right? Is your camera all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine,” he said. wincing. “I'm all right. The seat broke.”

First the farmer, then the wheel, then the photographer . . . (who by the way, did not smile and wave). We offered menthol salve and aspirin, and the high compliment that he was the only person besides my fellow who had ever had the honor of falling off one of our implements.

Jason nodded, rubbing his side gingerly, not looking especially honored. But he did persevere in the shoot: the horses discing, plowing, and cultivating, the farmers weeding and harvesting. Then we scrambled into the barn, just as the rain began, and Karen interviewed us in front of our blissfully full hay mow, and our tables of curing garlic.

“Now, don't worry,” she said, “This is very low-key, very casual, informal, and it doesn't matter if you say something you don't mean, or even if you swear, we can edit it out. It's not live.”

My fellow farmer smiled at me: See? People who are worried about swearing on TV in this day and age? Now that's hokey.

It was kind of fun, too, telling stories about our farm, and then we had a break in the rain to look at the greenhouses and the cutting flowers and the horse machinery, and to watch the horses rolling in the field after their work. It was also fascinating to get a glimpse of this other work, TV work. After four hours of filming, and many more hours of writing and editing, the segment would be only six minutes long.

“That's really long,” said Karen, “You get a minute and a half on the news. That's why I like to do this, so I can meet people and learn about things.”

“Wow,” we said. It's like boiling down 40 gallons of sap into a gallon of maple syrup. Or maybe like spending six months growing a red pepper, and then eating it in six luscious minutes.

If you'd like to see six luscious minutes of your local hokey famers on TV, tune in to NH Chronicles on Channel 9 WMUR at 7 p.m. on Thursday, October 17th, or after the 17th, use the website link: https://www.wmur.com/chronicle .

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, Oct 23 - 29, 2019

The Humorous Carrot Recites Limericks

This vegetable farmer has spent a lot of time weeding this summer, and a fair amount of time writing about weeding. Now I've outdone myself, by writing while weeding, or perhaps weeding while writing. Not long ago, on a hot dry day, as I weeded carrots for several hours, I made up several poems in my head.

Now, these were not serious poems. In fact, they were quite silly, especially since they were limericks, and especially since they were limericks about a certain carrot we had harvested the day before.

We've had odd carrots before, with two roots and legs, or carrots bent at 90 degree angles, exactly as if they were sitting in a chair, or two carrots twined around each other, or twins joined together at the carrot hip. But never had we an eight-rooted, eight-legged carrot as we had this year. They were short little legs, on a very wide carrot, and inspired me no end, particularly since I knew that the Guilford Vermont Fair was coming right up.

The Guilford Fair is a wonderful small old-fashioned country fair, with a horse show and a cattle show, sheep-shearing and vegetable and food and craft exhibits, along with live music and other attractions (such as cotton candy, and caramel apples). We entered vegetables and fruit and flowers this year, and we happily collected 15 blue, 4 red, and 6 yellow ribbons.

We were especially pleased with the blue ribbon on our giant heirloom tomato, weighing two and a half pounds, and in beautiful condition. We also had a blue on our three peaches, thanks to an unexpected peach yield from the tree on our lawn (well, it's really a pasture for our three workhorses, but it used to be a lawn). I picked through dozens of peaches for the perfect trio, and clearly the judges were as impressed as we were.

Another blue came from a miniature flower arrangement, not more than four inches in any direction. This was a little-bitty bucket from my collection of dollhouse furnishings, filled with the tiniest of wildflowers: a pink star-like bloom, a minute “daisy” (from our vigorous weed hairy galinsoga, or hairy gorgonzola, as we call it – which is another story, and one I believe I have told here before!), and the little yellow blooms of sourgrass. Oh, gee, it was cuter than you can imagine, and I had a fine time arranging it, and a fine time knowing that my farmer-fellow was, at the very same moment, at the Farmers' Market, upholding the productive, money-earning end of the farm.

But the crowning glory was, of course, my entry into the Richard J. Blazej Humorous Vegetable Contest. A humorous vegetable would, of course, be a vegetable who tells jokes, and I've had some good comedian-vegetables over the years.

This year my humorous vegetable was the eight-rooted, eight-legged carrot, and here follows those riotously funny limericks:

The Humorous Carrot Recites Limericks

There once was a carrot so odd
It grew a most marvellous bod.
One root wouldn't suffice,
But eight were quite nice,
And delighted the Great Carrot God.

There once was a carrot of choler
Who announced in an angry holler,
“I have to be me!
Unique will I be!”
And didn't earn the farmers a dollar.

The Humorous Carrot Can't Stop

The carrot had a very strong hunch
It could gow itself into a bunch,
Then go the the fair
Where folks gasp and stare,
And the farmers wouldn't eat it for lunch.

There once was a carrot with a curse
Of growing roots and reciting verse.
“All of this must cease,”
the carrot begged, “Please!
Because these rhymes go from bad to worse!”

Yes, the Humorous Carrot earned a blue ribbon. (And not only that, the Vermont fairs are so generous in their cash awards that we earned nearly $100 for our entries! What a productive, limerick-writing, mini-flower arranging, money-earning farmer am I!)

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, Sept 25 - Oct 1, 2019