Day: May 8, 2013

It is one of the great ironies of American life to me that so many people dream of having a farm while our entire system of work, transportation, politics, lobbying, government regulation, agriculture, the environment and economics work to make farming difficult or impossible for all but corporate farms. Family farms – once the backbone of American farming – are vanishing in unprecedented numbers. Wendell Berry argues that our economists and politicians have ruled farms too inefficient for real farmers, they only work for people who love farms but don’t really farm – this would be people like me. Our policies are ruining the land as well as farmers and their families.

I know a lot of farmers know, many are my friends. They are pleased that I can make my farm work and keep it as a farm, however I do it.  I tell the farmers I meet that I do work my farm, my crop is stories and I grow them here. Some years, it is a good crop, sometimes I feel the policies of the world are set against me, and I am drowning in a sea of change,  just like a real farmer might feel. I think we dream of farms because they evoke so many good and simple things that many of us do or have missed in our lives – a connection to nature, to animals, to peace and quiet, to the rituals of the seasons, the rhythms of the land, the beauty of the world. There is something timeless about a farm, something that is fixed, places of connection in a world of disconnection. If you own a farm, you are close to nature in the most elemental way. If you own a farm with animals, you reconnect to them as well, a powerful, necessary and healing part of the human experience for me. Just as photography draws me to understand and seek out light, a farm draws me to watch the clouds, care about the weather, study the land.

Every person with a farm is an animal advocate and an environmentalist in one way or another, it literally comes with the territory. The seasons really mean something, in the Spring we instantly begin preparing for winter, in the winter we are plotting our hay and wondering about summer. Our lives are bounded by the chores that never end and are never completed. Every day, a broken fence, some rotten barnboard, a broken lawnmower, a heated tank that isn’t warm, snakes in the barn, a hive in a bad place, an animal with a limp, a gate that suddenly won’t close,  feces, manure and waste move around. Real farmers fix most of these things themselves, they are every busy, they are never done. Sometimes we need help to fix these things, more and more we can do it ourselves.

A farm was never a dream for me, at least not a conscious one,  I never thought of living on one until I drove past Bedlam Farm and fell in love and it changed my life, more than any dog or donkey. I suppose it must have been some kind of dream for me or I wouldn’t have bought the farm on the spot without even seeing it. It is still possible. There are lots of farms on the market looking for people to love them, just as there are so many dogs in shelters  waiting for a home.

From the first day on my farm, I knew I had come home and had to stay. It was exhilarating, beyond anything I have ever known. The farm taught me so many things about the world – about money, animals, fences, hay, water, drainage – including a grave sense of responsibility that has never left me. I left my life and found it there.  If you live on a farm, it is the Mother and the Father, you never stop worrying about it, caring for it, thinking of it. It gets into your head, your bones, your smell and all over your shoes, it tracks all kinds of stuff into your house. Animals bear watching, they cannot be forgotten. It is not a perfect life to be on a farm, any more than moving to another place will fulfill all of your dreams. Life is life, wherever you are, and a perfect life is not for human beings, it is not for me, it would be an empty and meaningless life.

But the farm reminds us of simpler times, of shared values, of independence, ritual and coherence. Farmers are a community, whatever their motives, they share a language and an understanding. The truth about farm dreams is this, I think. Farms speak to something old and deep inside of us, when we are called to them, we go. If we are meant to be on one, we cannot resist the call. I suppose I was always looking for love, and I found it on a farm, along with many other things. It was the destination of my hero journey, the place I was seeking and was meant to find, the last and final stop on my long search for a fulfilling life.

I never set foot on a farm until I  bought Bedlam Farm, it is an enduring wish that I will die on this one. It is a dream.

Why are farm dreams so powerful even as the farms that inspire them are vanishing? Because farms are part of our cultural and social history, they are woven into our subconscious, they are still more natural to many of us than the clogged and overpowering cities and suburbs where most Americans now live. Everything has its time and place, but no matter how many farms shut down or are gobbled up by corporate power, farm dreams live and endure. I imagine they always will.

I ran into a neighbor, a nice but slightly grumpy farmer down the road. He asked me if I wanted to buy first cut hay for the donkeys and I told him I gave them second cut hay and he almost dropped the cap he was holding. “Second cut for donkeys?, you must be from New York!”

Then we got into a bit of a disagreement about whether chickens were smart or not. I used to think that chickens were dumb, I said, but I was chastised for that and properly and watching the news from Congress that slips through when I am not thinking, I realized that there were many living things that were dumber than chickens. My farmer friend said he would never waste a bullet on a hen or rooster, they were not worth a bullet, an axe would do. He cracked up when I mentioned Congress, though, almost knocked my glasses off with a big whack on the back and was laughing so hard his belly was heaving in and out.

“Say,” he said, “you got me on that one. Congressmen are definitely dumber than any chicken I have ever had, and they are useless – you can’t even eat them and they don’t lay eggs.” Then he asked what the most useful thing I could mention that Congress has ever done, and I said that was easy: go on recess. And he loved that, and smacked me on the back again – and hard – and he said even though I knew nothing about hay, I had a good sense of humor. I think we are friends now, despite the second cut hay (it is richer in nutrients than first cut, a a bit more expensive).

I like making a new farmer friend, I have a bunch already. I known they think I am dumber than chickens, but perhaps not as dumb as members of Congress. And the more I think about members of Congress, the more I feel like apologizing to the chickens for ever calling them dumb. They are useful and quite intelligent I come to see.

So I slaved over a hot stove to make some multi-grain pizza last night – tomato sauce, cauliflower, squash and kale soaked in virgin olive oil and salted and I put on some garlic a friend gave us a gift. The wife is not fond of garlic but usually loves the pizza anyway. This time there was much complaint and lament – too much garlic, it hurt her tongue, upset her stomach, made her feel funny. To add insult to injury she took the remaining pizza – it was supposed to be lunch – and fed it to the chickens.

This has caused a bit of a rift. To try and smooth things over, I bought her a wondrous blueberry scone from the Round House Cafe, which she devoured, but she is still complaining about the garlic, she says she smells of it now. People think of Maria as being gentle and sweet, but the former girlfriend is Sicilian and when she does not like something, I hear about it. I tell you she is not serene. When I began the wooing of Maria, I used to sneak into the Studio Barn and leave chocolates and cheese. She was like a barn cat,  you never saw her eat any of it but it was always gone in the morning. She appreciates being given food. But not garlic.

I think she is over-reacting. The chickens, by the way, loved the pizza, garlic and all. No complaints. I told my friends about it, and they all said they loved garlic. Maybe I did put in too much. I think I put in a whole garlic, not just a few cloves.

It’s clouding up, rain coming, which we need. (Farmers say that every year, and I suppose it’s true lately).

Bought a beautiful hand-craft vase from my friend Jack Metzger, who made this out of an old antique candle stand and a brass pipe. It is very elegant and it’s going on our fireplace mantle.