Then Again . . . July on the Farm

Oh, July. Is it even possible to write about July on a vegetable farm in New Hampshire?

I could write about harvesting, which took a few hours on CSA harvest day in early June, and now takes four days of every week, shoehorned on top of all the other work. Peas and raspberries, broccoli and cabbage and beans, beets and cherry and paste and slicing tomatoes, kale and chard and lettuce and zucchini and yellow squash and cucumbers. In fact, a week or two ago, we spent 10 plus hours times three farmers (30 plus hours that would be, total) picking 104 quarts of raspberries. That's a lot of hours, and a lot of berries.

Then again, I could write how wonderful it is to have all these delicious berries and vegetables, and to have the garden producing well, and remind myself, that harvest is, after all, pretty much the point of all this farming.

Or I could write about weeds, how our garden was looking so grand in the dry days of June, because we could irrigate exactly where we wanted to, i.e. the vegetables, and very few weeds germinated.

Then again, I could write about how grateful we were for the recent rain, because the pastures for the draft horses were getting mighty short, and the hay crop was looking weak, and the pond was slowly sinking from all our irrigation. Even though weeds love rain, and our garden is now a big weedy mess, so do vegetables love rain, and they are big and bountiful.

I could write about woodchucks, who have risen to new heights this year, chomping at the garden from three different directions, harvesting happily away, evading our Havahart traps, baited with the most tasty of peanut butters, plum jams of our own making, and stale bread. I could write how we are frantically covering all the woodchuck delights, especially the brassicas, with row cover, and I could write about our great state of dismay when we found that at least one chuck is now chewing through the brand new row cover to get at the almost brand new kale, and completely ignoring our bait.

Then again, I could write how woodchucks are part of the marvelous diversity of our world, and how very much I want to affirm that there is food enough for all. (Of course, I think the chucks ought to be eating that nice grass and other wild vegetation we leave as borders, and not our crops, but hey, who am I to say?)

I could write about making hay, another kind of harvest, which is always pressing in July, and we've got all this bothersome garden work to do, which doesn't allow us to hay easily. I could grouse about the weather and the hay: too dry to grow hay, then too wet to make hay, now too hot to think about hay. (Would that "too hot" was a reasonable excuse for not making hay! Alas, it is not.)

Then again, I could write about the bobolinks in the hayfield, and the brown-eyed susans, and how lovely it feels when all the hay forces coalesce, and we are coming down the hill at nine o'clock with the last load of the day, the horses as eager as we are for a rest, and the fireflies and a big orange moon rising.

I could write about Clyde, our new horse, who is very steady with the machinery, in fact so steady that he is nearly asleep in the harness. We need to use a “tickler,” as our wise horse friends say, a long stick to scratch at the root of Clyde's tail to wake him up a little and join his teammate in the work. “Step up, Clyde,” we say, “Step up!” Also I might mention that Clyde is an excellent harvester himself, very eager to eat grass at every opportunity, whether that is grazing in the pasture, or more problematically, grazing as he is supposed to be cultivating pathways. (Plus he's happier to mow the hay with his teeth than with the sickle bar.)

Then again, I could write what a funny sweet horse Clyde is, with his good disposition and his droopy lip and his big head and his beautiful kind eye and lovely coloring, reddish-brown with black points, and how he has a gorgeous floating trot, and how we are looking forward to riding him (when this bothersome garden harvest settles down).

Or I could write about the farm kitchen, with its dishes so long dirty that the spiders and spider webs have moved in, or its fridge so bursting full that things fall out when you open the door. Oops, there comes that cabbage again! Bump, bump, bump!

Then again, I could write about all the delicious food that we're eating, so delicious that you wonder why we are so lucky, and that brings me right back to my starting point, which is, of course, harvesting. Which is, yes, July.

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, July 29 - Aug 4, 2020

Clyde Comes Clopping

We were excited and nervous about bringing our new horse to our vegetable farm. Mostly we were nervous because the last time we brought horses home, we had our hands full.

Several years ago, we bought a team of Belgians, Molly and Moon, who were a good age, with sweet dispositions, good health, and good training. As a horse-owning friend said, “They've got no demons in 'em.” They were, and are, honest and kind. But, gee, they were not used to farm life.

Before farm life even commenced, there were the introductions to our resident horses. We read about how to introduce new horses, slowly, over fences and in stalls, and we divided our barnyard into two: one side for Molly and Moon, and one side for long-time residents and black Percherons Betsy and Ben.

There were lots of squeals and snorts during the afternoon, but things seemed to be working according to plan. We said good night, and went to bed. However, in the morning, we discovered the electric fence down, and the new horses trapped in the stalls by the resident horses. Whoops, we said. Happily, no one got hurt, and soon they were acting like they'd been on the farm together all their lives.

Except of course, when it came to farm machinery. Molly and Moon had never seen, heard, or pulled a manure/compost spreader, a disc, a harrow, a cultivator, a mower bar, a hayloader. None of it was to their liking, and we wondered if we were even going to be able to farm with these two horses.

That summer, we had more than one pasture break-out and more than one machinery runaway, including Molly and Moon hitched to a hayrake galloping down our little dirt road on to the main road, with my teamster-fellow running desperately behind. It was a hairy season, trying to get all the garden work done, the hay in, and acclimate two new horses to everything scary on the farm.

These days you would never know that Molly and Moon hadn't grown up here. But, as you may imagine, we awaited the new horse's arrival with some trepidation.

As soon as we haltered our resident horses, now Molly, Moon and Ben, they knew right away something was up: “Oh great! Finally, it's time to go out to pasture! This is what we've been waiting for!” But then we tied them to the barn, which was definitely not going to the pasture. And then they heard a noise.

Clop, clop, clop. All heads went way up in the air. All ears pricked forward.

There he was. The new horse. One horse called. The others vibrated at the end of their lead ropes. We all stood there breathless for a moment, absorbing the news.

Then we led Clyde into the stall area, blocked off from the paddock with heavy planks, and turned him free. One by one, we let the other horses loose to come over for introductions. Again, there were a lot of snuffs and snorts, some chomping and threats of kicking. But the planks held, and thus began the week of serious horse meetings, with every possible combination of horses in stalls and paddock.

Moon seemed to like Clyde. Molly was all right with Clyde. Ben did not like Clyde. No, no, he did not. Ben, teeth bared, would rush at Clyde, and Clyde would turn his heels to him, and Ben would rush away again, only to repeat it all.

We also worked Clyde with the other horses, as a kind of “chaperoned” event. It went great with Moon, as he is pretty much retired, and didn't need a chaperoned event. It went fine with Molly and Clyde, discing and harrowing the garden.

And then there was Ben, whose umbrage at the interloper was powerful. Ben was not at all interested in being harnessed with Clyde, or in working with him. He only wanted to threaten and kick and bite Clyde, which made it rather difficult to go ahead with the disc. Finally I walked beside Ben, chirping him along, and distracting him enough from Clyde that Ben could actually move forward, which he did, at last, and at quite a lively pace.

But the most wonderful thing was that Clyde was not a bit worried about the noise of the disc or harrow. He didn't think that much of Ben's behavior, but so far the machinery was all right with him. We breathed a big sigh of relief. Maybe this season would be a gentle clopping one, instead of a hairy break-out, run-away one.

Despite a few fireworks in the paddock too, mostly it was pretty peaceful, compared to the last time we brought in new horses. Finally, after a week, all four horses were loose together, and getting along, more or less.

That very night we had a big thunderstorm. What would the horses think of all that charge in the air? Well, they galloped around together in the paddock, led by Molly. In a bunch.

“Ahhh,” we breathed. They've done it. They've become a herd, a herd of four. Our new horse is really home.
 

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, July 1-7, 2020

Vegetables? No, Horses!

You might think that vegetable farmers in New Hampshire would have only one thing on their minds this time of year: vegetables. But no! What we're thinking about instead is: horses!

We have a new horse on the place, which is exciting news for our little farm, for us farmers, and for our three draft horses: Belgians Molly and Moon, and black Percheron Ben, are 22, 23, and 18, respectively. Molly, our super-peppy horse, is beginning to be worn out after a long hot day of summer haying, and Moon has believed he should be in full retirement for some time now, and Ben, our baby, born right here on the farm, is no longer a spring chicken himself.

We started putting out new horse feelers a while ago, at the end of last season, calling the horse people we knew, checking out lists on the computer. My fellow thought of going to an auction in the spring, but I didn't like the idea much. Auctions are very stressful, I find, on the animals and on the bidders, and you're never quite sure if what you end up with is going to be quite the same as what you've bid on.

“I'm not going to jump at the first one I see,” my fellow reassured me.

“No?” I said.

“I mean, I know I'm a jumper, and all,” he went on.

“You sure are a jumper,” I laughed, and he proved his jumping mettle that very day by finding a fine team of Percherons on the Internet, eight and ten years old. He was ready to race off.

“But wait!” I said. “We only have three stalls, and then a fourth sort of stall! We have three horses already! We can't get a team! Think of all that hay we'll need!'”

“Oh, yeah,” he said.

“Let's keep looking,” I suggested. “We're not in a hurry. Couldn't we get along with our three again this season, if we planned it well? You know, had the garden sections ready right on time, so there's no desperate knee-high quack grass plowing in blazingly hot July, that kind of thing?”

“Well, yeah, I guess,” said my fellow, looking sadly at his team of Percherons disappearing from the computer screen.

Luckily, the vegetables began to loom ever larger in our minds, and the idea of a new horse settled down to a gentle simmer. I made a gentle simmer horse prayer: “Oh, horse that is ready to come to us, we are ready for you: we have nice company for you, good work, good grass, and we would love someone sound and kind and steady and a little younger to come to us.”

And then we got the call. It was from a family we knew and trusted. They had five horses, which was too many. They had a nice American Brabant/American Belgian cross that they might sell, to a good home. He was a little older than we planned, at 16, but he was very experienced on farm machinery. Did we want to come look at him?

Yes, we did. What fun to drive up to northern Vermont, after not going anywhere for weeks because of the virus. What fun to see the sheep and chickens and the five horses and two dogs and our old friend and her family! What fun to see Clyde, quiet and kind-eyed, harnessed up and spreading compost with his team mate!

“We're just trying to get a little work done, in case you want him,” our friend laughed.

It was the perfect introduction. Clyde was big, beautiful, calm, and steady. My fellow took a turn driving the team and spreader, while I talked to our friend. She told me horse stories, about how they had tried selling another horse, and he was mistreated, and they brought him back home. They wanted a good home for Clyde, and they would always take him back if it didn't work out. My fellow came back glowing from his drive, and I was glowing from my conversation. We asked all our horse-buying questions, from feed to farrier work, from stalls to stamina. Our friends ended with, “Just let us know. You can think about him.”

My fellow and I walked over to our car, talking, and for once we were both jumping at the same time. We walked back, check in hand. Suddenly our brains were more full of horses than vegetables!

Who was this new being? What would he like? What would he worry about? What would he think about our horses, and what would they think about him?

It took ten days to arrange a time to borrow a truck and trailer. Then our new horse came to his new home, and everybody jumped: the horses, the farmers, even the very vegetables! But nice gentle jumps they were, just the kind oldish farmers and oldish horses and newish vegetables appreciate this hopping and jumping time of year.

 Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, June 3-9, 2020

The Glory of Greenhouses

Here on our hopeful-for-spring-weather vegetable farm, we've got our onions in the ground, and our cabbage, and our early pac choi, and our fennel, and our endive and escarole and radicchio. They're in the ground, and they're also shivering, what with snow four or more times since they've been transplanted.

Our carrots and beets and salad turnips and radishes and snap and snow peas are in the ground too, in seed form, and nary a one of them have popped up their heads yet, not surprisingly. (We do hope, however, that by the time you are reading this article, in May, there will be lots and lots of little green heads poking up.)

But the greenhouse? Now that's a different early spring story, and it's a story we New Hampshire farmers like a lot. Of course, back in our younger, brasher, more foolhardy days, we wondered about greenhouses. Sure, one greenhouse was all right, as a propagation tool, especially in northern climes, but multiple greenhouses?

What's with all this plastic, what's with all this irrigation, what's with all these thermometers and heaters and fans, what's with all this artificial coddling of plants? Let's get them out in the natural world, where they will grow hearty and brave and strong! (Not to mention, of course, that out in the natural world, i.e., the garden, we also use irrigation, and occultation tarps, and row cover, all made of various plastics.)

But then we two farmers got to be a little older, a little tireder, a little less hearty and brave and strong ourselves. We began to wonder if farming was all it was cracked up to be, considering all the uncontrollable variables of soil and air and water, hungry deer and woodchucks, bugs on plants and bugs on people (oh, those black flies! and oh! those ticks!). Then of course, there is the weather, and climate change, which are two separate issues: weather as in what's happening today, and climate change as in the really big, long-term picture.

Now greenhouses, for example, give you really good weather. Gee, it's warm in there on a cold day in spring, when you're nearly out of firewood for the house, and the sun is shining, and you've got your nice little propane heater to back things up. And gee, the seedlings love that greenhouse weather too; why, it's like a paradise of steady dependable warmth and water, and friendly farmers beaming at your green beauty.

On the other hand, aren't greenhouses themselves contributing to climate change: all that plastic, remember, all that irrigation, those fans and heaters and thermometers, all that industry and manufacture of questionable products, in order to grow food that's healthy, organic, and sustainable?

Hmmm. Sometimes we wonder if we have done the right thing(s) in our farming. We now sport four greenhouses on our little place, and they are not all that beautiful, and they are not all that cheap, and they may not even be all that sustainable, in the long run. But by golly, we love them.

First there are the obvious benefits: protection from the elements (including snow, hail, winds, frost), steady water, early and late season warmth, more robust production, and beautiful vegetables, all of which lead to better sales, and to a workable budget. Thus: happy seedlings, happy vegetables, and happy  
farmers, thanking the garden spirits for the glory of greenhouses.

We anticipated all of these advantages, but we did not forsee the fringe benefits of multiple greenhouses: after years of picking cherry tomatoes in the rain, for six hours at a stretch, it is bliss to kneel on a straw mulch pathway, and listen to the cold rain pouring on and sliding off the plastic, rather than pouring on and sliding down your neck.

It is bliss to have such beautiful tomatoes, with so few cracks, thanks to regular watering, and so very many of those tomatoes. Cherry, slicing, plum or paste, all sizes and colors: red, yellow, pink, green, black, white, puuple, orange, rainbow.

It is bliss to be able to plant our greens in the greenhouse and actually harvest more greens than weeds, as the weed population is much less under controlled conditions.

It is bliss to have red peppers hanging heavy and sweet on the plant: a record of thirteen ripe at once on a single plant!

It is bliss to have that first tender head of lettuce from the greenhouse in late May, that fragrant basil in June, those early summer squashes and kale and chard.

It is also fun to try some greenhouse experiments: how about early spinach on the edges of the pepper beds? How about scallions next to the tomatoes? How about we try some snap peas inside?

It's hard to imagine our farming life without greenhouses, and even harder to imagine farming at all without a little bit of love, a little bit of bliss, and a little bit of fun.

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, May 6-12, 2020