Magic Beans

This morning I put up a fence to keep the chickens out of the heritage seed garden. Made with orange plastic "caution" fence the kind with long squared off ovals. It only covers the front side but the chickens aren't keen to venture around the high-tunnels that way. They may still get in. As I am doing this the girls are in Fabio right next to me cutting in a new bed. Using hoes they are ripping the soil apart six to eight inches deep. Okay, the soil is already dead so who cares? I try and use a pitch fork to break up the sub layer without complete disturbance, where I have worked gets gone over with the hoes anyway. I'm not in the mood to defend my case about soil that is already dust bowl bound. It gets quite hot in under plastic quickly, and without water I'm suffering. Meg comes by with a Sicilian squash that is about four and a half feet long and curled up into a circle, it is slug over her shoulders like a championship title belt. She has also collected a jar full of tomato horn worms, and I mistake them for beans. It is startling when I see them move.

Speaking of beans we are headed out to harvest dry beans. These are not long bean pods that you eat, the seed inside is what we are after. The beans them selves are pink in the dragon tongue variety, and others are black and white that were called Calypso in the seed catalog which look like Orca whales to me, some others that are magenta colored but might be mistaken for a regularly red bean although I don't think they are as typical. Down the rows we go, filling a lug to the brim with them. Selective breeding and color theory give us beans of plenty.

Lunch is interrupted by Fred asking us to unload some hay and straw from a large trailer that has arrived to fill an order that Kristen has made. We all go out and pull down the many bails of straw out in the field waiting for Fred to bring us pallets, he watches from a far. The straw will be used to mulch some rows. Then the truck backs up to the cow barn to unload the hay. Hay is for horses. We all jump on the back, my first hayride on the farm, perhaps the last. There are some pallets but not enough for all the hay, many bails end up stacked outside. The bails are not too heavy but I am working up a good sweat trying to keep up with Meg who decides to carry two off the trailer each trip.

Cow on the Lamb

I started out watering in the high-tunnels. I was under the impression that we had managed to plant most of the seedlings as Fabio, the interim hardening off house, has become empty. Somehow trays full of new seedling have sprouted in the greenhouse, which I know eventually will need planted out. Last week after all the cucurbits, but one, were pulled out due to powdery mildew the beds were reseeded with salad greens.

Met up with the girls who were about finished harvesting corn for today's CSA, the ears looking big and good. Bridget and I picked 380 basil tops respectively. Well almost, Meg showed up near the end and snagged them so fast that I couldn't even pick half of what she did in the same time. I don't know her methods, she doesn't seem to go any faster, maybe she slows down time. I got stung on the thumb by I don't know what. It hurt like hell for a few minutes then went away, never saw a stinger. I slapped chewed up plantain poultice on it. The bees love the basil; now going to flower.

Of course we were weeding beets for over an hour until lunch. Then we seeded some more winter crops directly into the ground. Seems late but I wouldn't be surprised if they do alright. Lunch was leftover pork and kale from the CSA picnic. I believe that John made this dish. I was glad to have it; it tasted quite good.

After lunch we were back to weeding beets, nothing special here. Afterwards we were in the club car heading down to our next project when I spotted that Ella (the Jersey cow) had escaped from her temporary grazing pen. Bridget drove us over to find her harness. Of the farm things that have happened recently this takes the cake. Ella did not want to be caught. As Bridget tried to wrangle her I drove around and tried to cut her off or keep her from crashing through the corn field. Eventually Bridget left to find Meg and I had my shot at taming the beast. The ol' girl has moves which I was not expecting and weighing in a around 600 lbs. she really can be intimidating. I chased her for a long while until Meg appeared and snagged her in two tries. "Helps to know the animal, her limits, and how to handle her."

Bridget and I move "Reame" row covers over the brassica patch on hilltop 8, assuaged by Kristen that it would be an easy job. Rolling out long white cloth, carrying it down to the row, stretching it out and burring the ends takes a bit of time. It was not the worst project ever, and it got done without too much pain. The worst is when the row cover is all twisted up, we would have to go hand over hand to undo the rat tail. Afterwards I drove us out, we turned off the irrigation system that had been running since last night. I had thrown my fishing rod on the back of the golf cart so I stopped at the "cock dock" to cast a few lines. The dock, recently installed by Chris, was one strip of wooden planks kept afloat by two plastic barrels, a design that didn't take into account how it would appear.

My new rod, and this is the first time I have used it. It was snagged out of a dumpster at an Estate sale. It seems to be a good rod, and would bring in a much bigger fish than I should be able to catch in this pond. I was able to catch a few blue-gills that were caught by dragging my line as far out as the rod in front of me. I thew them back as all were too small to eat. Got a few good casts when I tied on a weight, but the line kept catching and stopping dead in mid air. Not in a mood to fix another rat's nest.

Walking up from the pond I find Fred and Sam in front of the wood fired oven, stoking it so that Fred can roast some coffee and make biochar. Sam is talkative and smells of alcohol, not sure how many he has had, but there are two growlers from this weekend's picnic in a cooler, one of "Hettle" mead, heather and stinging nettle honey wine, and one of a pear cider. I start drinking a hot hot hot ginger beer, it is quite good, the slightly warm finish to a long day.

Brown Town

My friend Colin joined me at the farm today. Monday was a farm holiday, there was a picnic and a dinner at the farm during the weekend and all who participated were very tired and so they decided to take the day off. I received a message in the early hours of the night and didn't notice till morning that this Monday, there would be a day of rest. I drove Colin up with me, his bike on the back of the car so he could ride home 20 miles (a small joy for him).

The chickens ate the heirloom tomatoes. Bastards.

We harvested the musk melons, many of them were past ripe and so soft that the seeds fell right out when they were picked up. I suppose a watchful eye might have saved this crop from it's mushy fate, but we only harvest before a pick-up date. The black plastic that the melons were sitting on was no help at all in my opinion. How are they supposed to breathe on this impermeable surface?

The crew plus Colin moved on to the ground cherries and tomatillos. There are tons of ripe ones today and so we picked them for a few hours.

Colin's parents - who were on vacation - called him part way through the morning. His father had left his medication behind and would need him to mail it right away. So Colin left right after lunch, 2 o'clock.

Bridget Lynn and I did work in the barn. Then planted cauliflower in the hillside fields where earlier cabbage seedlings had died. Too much sun, too little water. The sun set on us as we worked.

The Golden Globes

We picked a bunch of golden midget melons and musk mellons. These are a kind of mini cantaloupe with the same sweet honey like taste. Many were rotten, I would like to go back and collect seeds that fell out.

Doing a serious ground cherry harvest I am tempted a few times to taste the product. Auntie Anne's is the variety of pineapple tomatillo, blue ribbon winner for taste and a heritage variety. Husk cherries have a sweet smell of almond and notes of pineapple, the sweet insides have tiny little seeds that are unobtrusive and a firm but succulent flesh. Their papery shell, when ripe, secures their cleanliness like individually wrapped candies in a rich golden color. We offer each other a million different recipes to add them to. Ground cherry ice cream, beer, smoothies, salsa, Pineapple ground cherry up-side-down cake...

While picking the tomatillos in the same field I was stung by a bee. A bumble bee got stuck in my shirt, they are wildly attracted to the flowers of the tomatillos. I tried vigorously to shake her out, and when I could not she finally decided to resort to a last resort defense. The initial sting was nothing more than a tiny prick but the toxins injected through the throbbing stinger coursed through my bloodstream. I immediately got a plantain poultice on the site. Chew up plantain and smear on the affected area. Although I was stung on my back and thus impossible for me to see, the poultice helped greatly. Fingers crossed there is no further reaction.

We harvested basil that had bolted with purple flowers, which Meg had us cut off, I protested but the boss always wins. I figured the CSA members would enjoy the flowers, oh well.

After lunch Bridget, Meg, and I are harvesting tomatoes, interesting tomatoes that I have never seen in person. The Striped German is a very large heirloom tomato that goes from red on the bottom yellow in the middle and green on top. I have not had the chance to taste it but will soon I am sure. The second type of tomato we harvested was the Indigo Rose, a saladette. Where the sun hits the tomato directly it is a dark purple that looks almost black. They are green like most tomatoes when unripe, and then turn red. There is a Waspakinnian Peach tomato which is yellow and soft in appearance, have not tasted this one yet either.

Not sure where the regular helpers are, but Bridget and I spend the rest of the afternoon in the basement of the barn processing the days harvest. Putting cherry tomatoes in pint cartons, washing and counting peppers and basil, all the while listening to BOB FM, and talking about a farmer's market publicity stunt. At our booth we would tell people that the produce is not for eating, just for still life painting, the colors are very appealing after all.

I just bottled the nut brown beer in the basement that was left by the three male interns before me; a.k.a. the little brothers. This beer is weak in a first tasting before bottling. It is an interesting process that as the end result of months of me not waiting was easy to accomplish. A blowout earlier in the process let air enter the glass cask, commonly called a carboy. A fine white mold had grown on top, Fred assures me there is nothing to worry about. First some bottles need washing. Kristen helps me by scrubbing them while I blast them with hot water. Second a activation or priming sugar simple syrup is created and added to the beer before bottling. This sugar will reactivate the yeast creating the CO2 for carbonation. Our third move is to siphon from the moldy jug into another jug leaving the mold behind. Now I simply siphon the beer into the bottles and cap, labeling each one as "NB" for nut brown.  Now that the carboy is empty I may be able to brew my own alcoholic beverage. I also get to enjoy the fruits of others labor.

Wake up!

Cock-a-doddle doo! Seriously that is how Vito the rooster sounds, but his alarm is late around 9:00 a.m. . I try to grab a moment of sleep behind the greenhouse, that doesn't work. I am tired. The peppers are starting to become apparent in the heritage garden, as I weed around them this morning. I find a few large Beaver Dam peppers, that are either squashed, or off the vine. Seeds can be collected from these for storage.

I guess Meg was milking the cow, I didn't see her even though I was working only thirty yards away. By the time I got up to the new bed in the poly tunnel, she was already there weeding the turnips.

We then pulled some squash and cucumber plants that were on their way out, possibly due to old age. They were destroyed by bugs, and as we pull back the plastic mulch I see the soil underneath is dead as can be. How do you bury the soil when it dies? I suppose I can answer that, with mulch. Six inches will do.

Finally a row of cauliflower is planted.

Intense

The heritage garden is a neglected gem. These rare plants have been passed down from generations of care for their specific genetic traits. For instance the "Fish" peppers have a variegated leaf, only attained by a specific genetic anomaly. It garners it name from the flavor it gives to spicy fish dishes. This new trait when it first appeared, was then purposefully chosen from plant to plant, year after year for this characteristic, giving us stripes of white down a regularly green pepper.

All I did was make a comment about the heritage garden tucked away between two high tunnels and here I am, you guessed it, weeding. This does seem like my own project which can be done to my liking. I break out the machete and hack down some grass, probably not killing it but shortening it considerably, all the while hoping dearly that it wasn't some heritage wheat I was slashing. I err on the side of caution, not knowing at first if the morning glories were some rare heritage beans or not, I can confidently identify them now.

Seven to eight in the morning is a time for individual tasks, someone milks the cow, or waters the high tunnels. There is an unofficial and official schedule towards these, my work is mainly unofficial. I make some headway in the heritage garden, but I don't want to keep Meg waiting too long over in the melons. She is taking them out of the aisle and putting them back in the row so that the weeds can be cut down. We do this task up until lunch. I think of a hand drawn maze made of a tangled mess of watermelon vines, this compares quite well.


Down By the Bay

Down by the bay
where the watermelons grow,
back to my home
I dare not go,
for my mother will say
"Did you ever do a dance without any pants?"
Down by the bay

repeat x infinity

"Did you ever seen a llama wearing pajamas?"
"Did you ever see a bear combing his hair?"


A crew of students from Slippery Rock University have come down as volunteers to install a grape trellis. At the begging of the season, before my time 48 Norton grape vines were planted along the bottom of what Fred calls the "future" food forest on the hill side. Norton is a special variety that is not extremely popular with growers, but has good commercial value for wine. Fred explains that he intends to use these grapes as nursery grapes for sale to other farmers who would like to grow them. I eventually see their hard work, without close inspecting, the job looks well done. During the process Fred was stung by a wasp from a ground nest, on his upper lip - which has now become swollen. A hazard that better he received than a student. Yet it is painful and takes some effort to keep his spirits up for the visitors. A plantain poultice is a good remedy for a sting, but should be applied promptly.


"Did you ever seen a bee with a sun burnt knee?"
Down by the bay.

Freedom and Resonsibility

I get the kitchen to myself again in the morning. Kristen did beat me out, I kind of let her. Always an early riser, she has a bunch of chores down in the barn that she has to take care of, none of which she can shirk or delay on. It's the last CSA pickup and she wants things to go out on a good note. I wonder if the bat poop is bad this time of year. Not sure that I mentioned this, but the barn is  of bats who live in the rafters.

Again I am watering the green houses. There are minor hurdles to completing the task. A clogged spray nozzle, a hose with a gash in it, a hose that is not long enough. I do believe that this is an important daily task that is operating poorly and should be remedied if not completely automated. I could spend more time giving a deep watering to the beds, but there are things to do.

I am now autonomous, without the girls I am free to make decisions based on what I think is right. It is quite liberating, and changes my outlook on the day. There are the menial tasks which I endure, moving produce around and packaging it. Harvesting another two lugs of arugula. Another plus, I get to drive the golf cart all day, and I rip it hard without any passengers.

Finally my big break, after lunch Kristen tells me she would like me to prune the grape vines. I knew this job was going to be far better than weeding, but I didn't realize it was going to be this good. The young Norton grape vines are small but have been allowed to grow all season long, just being planted this year. I take great pride in making the best cuts choosing the best canes and tidying up loose ends. I have some grape pruning experience with my own vines at home, but they are set up much differently. The farms grapes are set in a traditional ease of harvest post and guy-wire trellis. Wires at 18", 24", and 32" from the ground are strung between posts 6' apart. With the recommendation of Kristen's Pruning book I choose the best two canes going in opposite directions along the wires and cut them back to four buds. Simple really, but I find making these decisions far better than mindlessly ripping plants from the ground. It doesn't hurt that is it an incredibly gorgeous afternoon.



I take my grape prunings and head to the barn where I start collecting the garlic scraps that have been peeled off both seed garlic and garlic going to market. There is a full truck load, but I can't get the Custom to start so the small bucket on the back of the golf cart has to suffice. The dust that this job stirs up is hard to bare, I find myself holding my breath then dodging thick clouds. I move slow and deliberate. All the scraps are headed to the compost pile up the drive next to home field. When I arrive I see that Ella who has been tethered to a yard screw has pulled it from the ground, but has not gone too far. I swing by to screw it back in, knowing that this beast will pull it back out soon enough, but hoping she will be content where she is, and that it won't matter.

I help Kristen close up the barn and that's it, summer CSA is done. Let the winter CSA commence.

N.P.K.

Weeding.

Leafy plants ex: spinach, lettuce and cabbage Nitrogen (N) promotes dark green color and quick growth

Fruiting Plants ex: tomatoes, melons and squash Phosphorus (P)  is essential for root flower and fruit development.

Root crops ex: garlic, carrots, and radishes Potassium (K) Protects from cold and disease help from drying out

Legume crops ex: all beans and peas put nitrogen back into the soil.

RED Alert

I dropped off three citrus trees in the greenhouse that I picked up for Fred at a garage sale this weekend. Something is going on in there, all the apple tree cutting that have been rooted in buckets were moved around. I hope that it's not Nate's plan to take them all when he leaves. I enter the house where Kate and Kristen are working on some canning in the kitchen. I have brought some grapes from my home arbor that I think will be a great treat, two small bunches. Turns out that Kristen had harvested five lugs full from a friends vines that are 30 years old. My vines are only four. She says it's like bringing coal to some Pennsylvania coal town, the name of which could be many. She has juiced them and I am sipping on some juice right now, it is quite good. Meg is in the high tunnel they tell me, this is code for go out there and help her with whatever she is doing. Weeding. Same high tunnel I weeded last week, the thistle came back like the cat. This is a losing game, and yet we always play. When that was done, we planted scallions. Rows planted every four inches. It will be interesting to see just how thick these little guys will grow in. The seedling tray has slots no bigger than your thumb, the scallions are as thin as twine.

John, Meg's boyfriend is here, he had spent the night in the a-frame and is doing a little fishing in the pond. I almost grabbed my rod today before leaving home, but wouldn't have had time to join him.

The couple heads out to the woods to pick mushrooms. Chanterelles I presume, a small orange trumpet fungi. Kate and I are sent to the beets. Weeding. This job I loath, the sun is hot and the weekend too short, I try and lounge and pick but no position is too comfortable. Then salvation; Kristen on the club car holding baby Evelyn. She wants to know if one of us will help Fred manage the fence. Not knowing what exactly this means, I hesitate. Luckily Kate does not jump on the opportunity. Kristen instructs me to scoot around the fence in the golf cart and pull the electric fence out of the weeds, tie any broken strands back together, and move the posts once Fred has mowed the lane. Simple enough, and I get to drive around. Out riding fences I still feel lazy, the cart is giving me the rest I need, this desperado takes his time traversing the weeds.

I hit all the fences, Fred with the tractor plus brush hog are nowhere in sight. I decide to be proactive. There are some fallen branches on the fence and I am sure that a hand saws can be found in the garage. I have become a wiz with a saw in my childhood days of wood prep for fires, and the occasional branch in our yard after a storm. Besides this will kill more time that won't be spent weeding. Bing, Bang, Done. I return the saws to the house and Kriten spots me. She has prepared lunch, I courier the message to the girls. They are moving mellon vines out of the rows so the weeds can be trimmed tomorrow. Essentially more weeding.

What a spread! Roasted beets, cantaloupe, grapes of course, chard with pork steak, cucumber salad with sun golds, and squash salad. I find the beets very tasty and have seconds, then thirds. Gangs all here, except for Bridget; taking the day off for her pinball tourney, although Meg suggests there is a boy involved. 

 

Fred tells me that he has a design project in mind, a label for his new composting project. I say I will do it. It is fantastic if this internship can legitimately include digital design, in-farmhouse designer it will read on my résumé.

The Brush Hog is a large orange attachment for the tractor that has a large cutting blade, approx. 5' wide. Fred starts his first pass and I follow on the golf cart hoping I can figure out my roll, not knowing for sure If I should be there at all. Things are going fine, I follow close behind moving the steaks back into the area that Fred has just cut so that he may cut the other side. When I look up I see that Fred has stopped the tractor and is sitting beneath the brush hog. I am hoping for the sake of this job he didn't get caught on the fence tape. Of course he has. In a matter of moments the fencing wrapped around the blade so many times that it will take some effort to release. Fred says "Thanks for the help but that is all the work we can do on this today." He is frustrated, but not at me. It turns out that this fence has not been electrified for quite some time, he set it up but feels that it was not his responsibility to manage it after that. Then suddenly changing his mind he cuts the wire. After this small set-back we start rolling and the job gets done with nary a hitch. I believe Fred to be recognizing my competence. I take the Custom and load some hay we found on the job into the bed. Then drop it by the compost.  I read "Ford Motor Vehicles" on the hub cap.

The girls are still in the melons. Sugar baby and stars and moons watermelon, there are cantaloupes here too. This job is not too bad, but the watermelons have a tendency to grab on to things and weave around. Whilst it is not too hard to pull them out, they are fragile and every once in a while they fall off the vine. Unripe melon can't be sold so we take them back to the house to see just how ripe they are. The largest one is cut open. Slightly pink inside and sweet to boot. I've had worse.

Into the municipal forest behind the farm, we are now on our own hunt for chanterelles, or a hunt to make Meg some money. She knows a chef in town that she can sell them to. I don't mind, I would rather be in the woods then out in the field most times. A few pounds of mushrooms are found, but they seem past their prime. I finally eat a little, and find it barely has flavor at this point. Disappointing but I am willing to give them another shot.

A small seeding project in the greenhouse is to conclude our night. I learn their secret formula for seed starting media. One bag of top soil, to three scoops of vermiculite. Add water and stir. Some chard, kale and cauliflower are being started. I wonder if Meg added it to the Farm Notes.

I head to the bathroom. Oh my god, my urine is reddish orange colored! This would have alarmed me if I did not overhear a conversation a few days back about beets making your piss turn colors. No need to call the doctor.

Milking a Cow

Harvest in the morning, weed in the afternoon, and plant in the evening. Really there is not much more to say about this. I did start my day with Jen milking Ella the cow. This process I have seen twice now, but I am sure to forget some of the important stuff. Writing it down here, for my memories sake.

Collect rags and warm soapy water, then the milk receptacle. load in golf cart.
Close gate after entering the stall, place milk jug aside, muck out stall. Put new straw down under milking zone. Straw on left, hay on right of bin.
Find Ella and harness her in. Rope goes under her chin and over her ears. Tie her to the eye hooks giving her six to eight inches leeway.
Take rags and soapy water and wipe down her utters making sure surrounding area is clean. Clear out utters with finger, pulling down and away.
Milk saddle goes over her hips, place the jug over adjusting how close it is to utters. Insert a quarter to turn on vacuum pump. (or was it a nickle)
Insert into milk receptacle, adjust speed with screw. Crimp hose and place over utter. Wait five to seven minutes, until Ella begins to kick, then she is done.
Congrats you now have two and a half to three gallons of milk, but wait.
Turn off vacuum pump, break seal on utters. Move to golf cart. Close gate.
Give Ella four scoops of wet oats, remove saddle and Harness. Get out of the way.
Don't forget to let the chickens out.



There is a whole other process for cleaning the milking supplies, prepping them for the next days milking, and jarring and labeling the milk. Along with other ways to process the milk, skimming it for example, having one milk cow is a large undertaking.

The weekly cycle continues, although there were not as many CSA member/volunteers here today. This made for extra helpings at lunch, but I fear more work in the field.

Bridget and I were weeding in the High tunnel when I stepped into the bed for some plants I could not reach.

        "You really shouldn't stand in there," she said.
        "This isn't sacred ground."
        "I know, but it makes the water soak in poorly if you do."
        "I didn't want to, but the thistle made me do it."

Hot Water

Five minutes before my alarm today I awoke, good. I ate a quick breakfast, then before any work had begun I set out to water the green house, all the poly-tunnels actually. Surprisingly enough Lynn, who showed up in the morning as I was walking out, is already at the greenhouse door to tell me that she and Bridget will be across the road planting kale. I join them shortly, then Mary joins us too. She is tasked with dropping the seedlings on the plastic while Bridget and I place and push them in the holes made by Lynn ahead of us with the dibble stick. Mary is alright for a retiree, any help is welcome in my book. She was a nurse I find out later in the leeks. 

 

Weeding. 

 

Kate shows up but is visibly in pain. Her back or tailbone might have a pinched nerve she thinks, and asks me what she might do. I hate to see her in pain like this, a hot shower might have been nice but it was a little late for that. Beyond stretching, some pain meds is all I can suggest. She eventually quits weeding due to the pain and we don't see her until later. She wings by on the golf cart with Fred, looking stiff and trying hard to keep it together, then she is gone.

Bridget and I are sent up the hill across the street to string up tomatoes. I am silent for a long time enjoying or loathing the job. Bridget was not in a good mood this morning I had deduced and to steer clear is the best policy with her. Then Bridget asks me if I have plans for the weekend, breaking the silence. I do have a trip to Treasure lake I tell her. She is headed to the Pinball World Championship held in Pittsburgh every year. She is excited. Eventually Meg arrives in the Custom to take us down to lunch. She has made a quinoa salad with some fresh vegetables, I like how her quinoa is always red from the beets. Michaela, Mary, and Fred were also there. There is some interesting talk about seeding cow patties. Each one is its own mulch and fertilizer, a perfect medium for growing. Fred also mentions selling his elderberries to a juice bar downtown.

Fred has purchased an industrial grade pressure washer. It can send water up to a temperature far above boiling.  He can mix in a selected ratio of chemical cleaner if need be. He has collected hundreds of four gallon peanut butter buckets from the same candy company that has sold him 275 gallon barrels that used to contain corn syrup and honey. He intends to rent the buckets for $5 a week so that people can put kitchen scraps in the buckets and return them for the farm to compost, closing the loop. It is a good idea I think, as long as I don't have to pressure-wash moldy peanut butter.

All Pain No Gain

Work work work. First with planting broccoli under some black plastic. A few long rows, I was meaning to count the cells in the planting tray, never got the chance. I'm guessing 125. Bridget is always on top of the job, and in the morning her pace is set to beat the sun. Again, it is all I can do to keep up. Meg walks in front of us to stab holes in the ground with a "dibble" stick. I think this method is good for my fingers and Meg's back, but sucks for the seedlings. First off it compacts the dirt, so when I plant the little guy he is just sitting on top of the dirt and will have to jack hammer his way through the soil. Second, the spacing, too much room around the plants, wasted space in my opinion. This broccoli does not care if it is cozzied up next to it's neighbor, give them some space but over a foot is too much. I hold my tongue, what could I the lowly intern know about it?

Yesterday the group of volunteers miscounted their beets so now we are picking just twelve bunches of six to eight beets. This goes quickly. We drop them off at the barn. at some point we collect one hundred stalks of kale and ten more bunches for market. Then someone gets the bright idea that I should run the push string trimmer, that Fred has just fixed, along the corn. This is a six horse power monster which weighs about 60 lbs., essentially it is a powerful lawnmower with plastic blades. Fred takes some time off of his tractor The White "field boss", to tell me everything and nothing about his fix job. "Added a screw here, and cleaned the carburetor", he instructs me to, "cut the rows on one side, then the next, then down the middle. Clear the top, here, this is part of the cooling system." About every quarter of a row the air intake would in fact fill with grass and the machine would stop. I knelt down, wearing gloves luckily, and my cowboy/sultan outfit, to wipe off the machine. Then I had to wait about a minute or five, whichever suited me, for it to cool down. I took this time to hide amongst the corn, hunkered down avoiding all contact with sun on my bare skin. At this point I am red and even a moment of exposure becomes hot and painful. This job is putting me on the edge. This is about the time I start thinking up plots, that I will never carry out, to sabotage all the string trimmers or turn something upside down for my amusement. I would be getting paid twenty dollars just to mow a family yard, not have to dodge corn stalks and rocks and the sun. Did I mention the string trimmer is not self propelled. I think that I am done, when I realize there are three or four more rows of corn that are only about six inches to a foot off the ground, providing me with no shade what-so-ever. As I get to the end of the final row of tall corn, Meg is there motioning me to turn the machine off.  Lunch break.

I have requested to do something in the barn basement, my body can not handle any more sun. What it might have done to my mind is now only speculation. I spend my time washing a few beets then peeling a fair amount of onions. CSA members pick up their goods above me, I hear their footsteps and talking through the wood slat floor. I hum a song or two, think about things away from the farm. Alone in my head again.

Back to planting with the girls, this time cabbage. Same old story. I finally comment on Bridget's Bruce Springsteen t-shirt. She has not been to a concert but does like him very much. The Boss is alright with me. I make a game of tossing the seedlings into the holes made by the dibble stick, the game is somewhat like lawn darts. The real bonus is if I sink the shot all I have to do when I come back around is give them a little push down in to the dirt. Fred shows up later with the tractor and helps us for about a second. He's got a three hundred gallon tank filled with more fish and kelp that is pumped off the tractors engine. 

 

He begins spraying the mornings seedlings with a blast of water directed at the holes in the black plastic. Some of the mornings transplants already look as if they were dead. Good luck little fellas, if this were my farm I would have waited till the thunder storm that is rolling in right about now, this evenings planting will be soaked in for sure. We finish planting and before we leave Meg asks Fred if he needs help, he doesn't hear her, so I yell. He says "yes". Meg has to go downtown because her friend needs a character reference for a date with the magistrate, she and Bridget are already in the cabin of the custom, I hop off the tailgate and bend over to take my punishment.

Misdirection

I walked out to the tomatillo field to meet Meg to find she was not there, but found her instead picking islander peppers. She was done picking a lug full, so we headed over to the shade of the other side of the shelter belt. Both of us picked a few ripe tomatillos first thing, but after a few minutes realized that there really were not that many ripe one out there. Ripe tomatillos are full in their papery shell which is an enlarged flower leaf, sometimes they even split it wide open. Bridget was awake, I knew it but she was not out here with us. Turns out she was sent to the hilltop field by Fred on accident. We meet her as we take the custom down the hill towards the barn.

We; Molly, Kate, Meg, Bridget, and I spend most of the morning picking rainbow chard, with red green and yellow stems, cucumbers, and yellow crookneck squash on the hill. Tuesday, work-share helpers day, and upon returning to home field we find a good sized group weeding the beets. We join in. James is there and he tells me that he has a fig tree at home, I tell him that the farm has some too, in the greenhouse. I tell him about my pawpaws. He knows what they are, but another weed picker, a bald guy his forearm tattooed with it's skeletal structure close by does not. I explain to him the small green fruit, a custard apple, that some say tastes like a banana. We all revel in the thought of it, though we have never had one. James mentions the pawpaw festival in Ohio, we all agree it would be great to go. 

 

Weeding the beets is creating a monoculture as we find carrots growing in amongst the beets that people in this group are weeding out. I tell James that I don't weed out clover because of its nitrogen fixing properties. I point at the dry dead dirt and say "look at this, exposed to the sun - horrible", James agrees it is not great but he has seen worse. James has volunteered at a few farms. I start placing my weeds down around the beets as a mulch, I am working as slow as possible as this job does not enthuse me. 

 

Finally, lunch. The best part, desert is a pound cake with peaches.

I'm tasked with string trimming around the rows of eggplants, whilst everyone else peels onions. This job sucks. Especially in this heat, I grab a white piece of cloth and stuff it in my hat so I look like an Arabian sultan. Too much time alone my head to think of how I don't care for such work on a $10 a day salary. If this is what working here gets me then I don't need it. Oh, I need to mention I didn't cut down a single eggplant.

I take my time finding the crew after my whack job, I enjoy some sparkling lemonade that I find in the fridge. Eventually Kristen sends Meg a text. Weeding, in the leeks with James are, wearing possibly his girlfriends t-shirt on his head, she is a bottled blonde in pajama bottoms named Jayne, and has tattoos of some kind of flower on her breasts. It's hard to find common ground and conversations are short, jokes keep the mood light. The light from the sun is finally falling behind the trees, I am getting a serious farmers tan, hopefully not too burnt.

Meg and Bridget call it a night a little early as they have plans to attend their friend's band's first show, The Crappy Funeral. I say goodbye to the volunteers and head inside.

As I stand there in the kitchen I start reading through the "Farm Notes" three ring binder. A detailed list of seed plantings in the greenhouse is somewhat interesting. They start with some hardy ones in February, onions, leeks, kale for instance. Then after that a steady flow of sowing. The list goes on and on for a few pages a few months; so many varieties of plants. Then I realize I have to poop, and it's coming on quickly. I head for the bathroom. Oh no, Meg is in the shower getting ready for her concert, who knows how long this could take. I think I could hold it, on second thought, no. I head outside grab my shoes, and see that Bridget is standing by the supply truck smoking her end of the day cigarette. So I head out the front of the breezeway down toward the fledgling orchard to the pine trees that surround it. A deer goes dashing through the field and Maggie the Australian sheep dog comes barking after it. I hear Fred egging her on, "get that deer", it has already got away. The dog and I make eye contact right before I dip into the outhouse. She barks at me now.

The sheep have chewed on the trees in the orchard. Fred thought that it was a good idea to introduce the two. Deer love to eat these leaves and sheep are known for their habit of eating many things; so I don't know why he let them in there. I dance around to avoid the poison ivy and enjoy the evening light. I see the girls go by in Meg's truck, Oscar.

Later in my room I begin to read the Humanure Handbook, a guide to composting human manure, 2nd edition.

Chicken Little Pox

I am late getting to the farm. My weekend was not as productive as I wanted it to be due to an inflamed knee. The culprit, a bad case of poison ivy. I spent a few minutes bandaging it up to keep the weeping cellular fluid from soaking my pant leg, I hadn't packed for the farm because of how swollen and uncomfortable it was. I was supposed to be here at 8, I pull in around 9. 

 

As I walk in Meg walks out, apparently I wasn't the only one who was late. Working in Fabio, weeding, Meg finds a tomato horn worm. They are quite large, she squishes it. Not before Kate or Molly suggest that someone eat it, green tomato leaf puree slimes out. No thanks. 

 

We head out to the land of tomatillos. Weeding. These plants have really taken over the area which has kept the number of weeds down - thankfully. The rows are filled on both sides with little paper lanterns. I find out that salsa verde is made with the tomatillos. Why yes, of course, these guys are pretty popular.

 

Luckily in the morning the first couple rows are shaded by a belt of trees, I appreciate the respite from the sun, but it may have made the plants "leggy", in other words long and lanky as they reach out for more sun. The shade has done them the same favor it has done for me. It becomes apparent as we are working that Bridget is very late. I wonder about it for a moment, but no one else seems to be concerned so I let it pass. Bridget shows up at lunch, my tardiness is forgotten; if it was even noticed. We eat chicken of the woods, a mushroom that grows primarily on oak, it really does taste like chicken.

We then hoe weeds in the beet field, or we beat with hoes in the weed field, one can never tell. Another pathetic row of crops, and we are trying to save the few insignificant plants that made it. I don't know when these were planted, so it is hard for me to surmise how they ended up this way. I wish I could think of a better way to plant them then in a barren dirt patch tilled and killed by a plow then hoed over once more by hand. I remind myself to look into Masanobu Fukuoka's no till farming. Low growing cover crops seems to be my untested theory, a green mulch of sorts.

Nate and Abby, the latter I have never met, are leaving the farm. They have been packing up their things into a POD outside the farm house. I got the nerve to ask Meg why they were leaving and she tells me that they just weren't getting along. This is hard for me to believe as I have been treated very well here, but I do sense an undercurrent of unrest. Meg is leaving this fall as well, and makes some remarks while "we got the beet we got the beet, yeah wegotthebeet", goes through my head over and over again, that she is not all that happy to have lived with her employer. I don't want to miss quote her, but it seems that something has been rubbing her the wrong way. She walks down the freshly tilled row with a seeding machine which drops new beet seeds in a trough with a metal wedge and combs the dirt back over them with a small cord of chain link.

Fred has requested that I accompany him to pick up a new hutch for the dinning room as the last one was Nate's, now packed away. As it turns out Kristen and baby Evelyn are coming too. Now for a forty five minute drive in the Ford F150. Fred turns on a CD of a P.A.S.A. conference talk on poly tunnels, it is mildly interesting. "Que Pasa?" Fred doesn't get it, but I hear Kristen huff in the back seat. P.A.S.A. stands for Pennsylvania Assosciation for Sustainable Agriculture. I try and say how glass is superior, Fred says glass breaks. So does plastic. "Plastic doesn't cut you, and get in your crops." I see where this is going, and I surrender. 

Upon return I feel that my time in the truck was a good break and decide to make my poison ivy tincture. One part jewel weed, one part plantains, two parts cheap vodka in a glass mason jar, a farm house staple. Meg is covered in rashes like myself and we will probably get more, but next time I hope to neutralize the oils before it gets it's destructive little chemicals inside of me.

the Long and Short of It

Oops I slept in today, I awake at 7:30 to a few dishes clanking in the kitchen. Kristen has bought cereal and I get my first taste of fresh farm milk in my bowl of honey nut O's. Meg has left a message that she is out in the poly tunnel, and to see her there. When I arrive she instructs me to collect all the brassica seedlings from the green house and put them in Fabio, the name for the largest and first in the row of poly tunnels. I do not yet know the reason it has been given this name. The reasoning behind moving the seedlings I infer is to harden them off. Eventually Meg shows up and helps with the project, Bridget joins in after watering rounds.

We all begin to clean up an area that belongs to a hardening off station for seedlings outside of the poly tunnels that has been neglected, was full of dead plants, and some that had hung on. I immediately found some stevia plants. I am over joyed to find this plant, I try a leaf. Like any new thing you stick in your mouth the mind wants to question the move, in this case my mind was blown. Pleasure centers must have gone off all over the cerebral cortex, this stuff is swwwweeeet. There are some other plants of varying interest, purple cone flower, sorrel, parsley. All of these plants are root-bound and are practically unsalable.

Meg gives me the word that I am to start string trimming around the poly tunnels. I had noticed the amount of tall weeds that were going to seed, only to cause more problems down the road. I head back to the house to find Fred in the kitchen. The farm house has a policy when you enter you are to take off your shoes. I have been wearing boots that come off by unhooking the string, but I am also wearing socks unlike some of the farm hands, I take them off. I go through this process because I have some special equipment in the house for just this contingency.

 

Inside my duffel bag are a pair of sound dampening head phones and a dust mask. I tell Kristen and Fred I never mow a lawn without them. Fred hands me the trimmer with not a string but a metal cutting head. These are no small weeds, in fact they are the size of small trees and are about as woody. Unfortunately, the saw head is dull and the machine is heavy, I try my best to control it. No matter how careful I am I can not help but nick the poly tunnel plastic. No serious damage is done. At this point the sun is getting high and the temperature has risen up in the 80's. Sweat runs down my face as I engage my obliques to maneuver the long neck of the cutting end against the two stroke engine on the other. 

 

Gash after nick I become more frustrated. These are minor cuts but not the kind of damage that I want to be placing on my first go with the trimmer in my first week. I ask Kristen about some clear plastic tape, she tells me about some official patch tape in the greenhouse. I find the worst hole and patch it. Then I see a large hole in the door of Fabio, I assumed an animal had got inside and when it couldn't escape it ripped it's way out. When I ask Kristen about it she tells me that Fred had ran into it with the tractor, this takes some of the pressure off. People are pleased with my hard work.

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Fred has a very special project for he and I to work on, we are going to survey some fields so that he can plow them and add a cover crop. One of the farms biggest problems is the amount of weeds; from disturbing the soil by tilling no doubt. Milkweeds, butterfly weed (hardly a weed in my book), Queen Anne's lace (wild carrot), red clover (a cover crop in my mind), thistle, a few grasses, and the worst of all poison ivy. There is so much poison ivy on the farm that it is hard to go anywhere without coming in contact with it. I am developing some pustules as the day wears on. I must have had some under my knee at some point which I thoroughly crushed. Although I had jeans on the oils wept through. 

 

Surveying for the farm field is pretty simple. The idea is to work out a line that is on contour with the land, this means following a level line around the field. We mark a spot that Fred thinks might be the edge of a starting row that will follow the contour and not go off into the road or another field. Make adjustments when this happens. Fred has purchased a Lewis and Clark antique set of surveying equipment. There is an eyeglass like a pirates telescope and a pole that has matching cross-hairs. First you level them out by placing the pole on the ground in front of the eyepiece. Walk out twenty five paces line them up an voila you have a level line on contour, mark it with a bamboo pole. We worked six or so fields creating plenty of tractor work for Fred.
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I find the girls in the barn basement peeling onions. They all have a nice pile of skins, dirt and stalks beneath their chairs, they have been at it for a while. I decide to give chase. The surveying was not extremely physically taxing, although it was hot and poison ivy surrounded me. Onion peeling is a game of fast fingers, concentration, and numbers. I would be best served by showing commitment to the team effort. I remember a few things whilst we sit and shuck. First a visit from Chris during our surveying, who had promised to build a dock for the farm's pond. He got married at the farm for cheap, a gift from Fred and Kristen. Bridget is excited to hear that Chris is making good on his word. 

 

Yesterday whilst Meg was trying to remove a matt in one of her cats fur she cut much more than she intended and wounded the poor animal, leaving a deep gash. Naturally she feels horrible about it and was planing on staying all weekend with him. Usually she would take the weekend off and go to the city. I suggest that she make a poultice with comfrey or yarrow which are a proven healers. Eventually Meg and Kate quit peeling both of them feeling ill, as if they had been reading a book in a car. Meg postulates that the amount of finger and onion concentration has worn on them. I think it is a good theory, as I continue to concentrate on my onions.

This evening a photographer from Kitchen, a cooking and lifestyle magazine is coming out to take pictures of the wood fired oven, built by Nate, and pizzas will be made for dinner! Kristen creates interesting toppings like capers and nasturtium flowers, to put on Fred's sourdough crusts. Chris who evidently has cooked a pizza before and has half finished the dock in the mean time is tossing the dough and posing for the camera. The oven cooks pizza in about one minute at 600 degrees. I enjoy lying around while pizza after pizza is churned out.  Afterwards I take a shower, pack my stuff and leave for the weekend.

Sun up to Sunny Side Down

 I Didn't think I was going to be able to type at all tonight, we put in a 14 hour day. By we, I mean Bridget and I, I can not account for anyone else. Today I actually got breakfast. As I cracked my first egg into the pan Kristen's mother interrupted "you should," plop the egg went into the pan, "put it in another bowl first''. These being eggs from the farm it is possible they are spoiled, quality control at the industrial egg farm is stringent, here it is non existent, but wait. "Those eggs were found on the ground, so you really never know." She adds. The roving chickens around here just lay eggs wherever and whenever they want; they could have been duck eggs for all I know. These eggs - the ones found in the yard - are "house" eggs the ones laid in the hen house are for market. My second egg I followed the instructions and it turned out to be a good egg as well. Fried them up, tasted good too. Unlike any egg I remember eating before, there was flavor, a richness, and texture I am not accustomed to.

        Weeding the high (poly) tunnels with Bridget I keep the thought to myself that this dirt should be mulched and that I never pull clover out of the beds at my house. Clover is often used in rotation as a cover crop because of its ability to take nitrogen from the air and bind it in the soil with the aid of root bacteria, making it available to other plants. If the clover gets too big I cut the tops and the roots die off releasing their nitrogen into the soil. Clover will spread aggressively horizontally. The soil in the tunnels has a high clay content and would be well served to get a top dressing of organic material, a mulching that is.

        I peel onions in the basement barn for quite some time, Molly is there again working with me. She has such a positive attitude even while peeling onions, it's nice. Molly is enrolled in a food studies course; the volunteer work that she does here at the farm fulfills a course requirement. There isn't much to peeling onions, get the dirty layers off, pull and peel and throw it in a bucket. There is no glamor as the smell of onion permeates our skin and clothing.

        Later Molly and I weed a row of parsley with Meg. She finds a volunteer cilantro that sparks an idea for a salad hinging upon this ingredient. And so lunch happens, I take the time to rally my spirits.
 

Back in the poly tunnels again this time we are watering, Bridget covers the tunnel with a shade cloth; there is some real heat inside as well as out. I make sure to water the left-over seedlings that didn't get sold at market, I hope to take them home at the end of the week a sort of foster care service for plants. There are some good looking seedlings growing in here right now, thousands of them actually, which will turn into a planting project soon no doubt.

Up to the high field we are set to do some tomato stringing. We are taking the golf cart, and I am given my first chance at the helm. I took it easy my first time driving it up the hill, its breaks are about as poor as the Custom's. When we get there I realize my string box is empty, so I drive back down to retrieve another box. This is the second time I have done this job and up here on the hill top it is peaceful and the views are very nice. There are trees and hills, a little country road, for once I am enjoying the work and finding the sweet spot where farming becomes enjoyable. The box of plastic rope fits on your belt so you can spool the thread out and use both hands to wrangle the tomatoes. To string tomatoes we weave in-between all the way down on the outside of the plant and around the wooden posts, then back again behind them pulling it tight the whole way. About half way through the second row that I'm working on my box runs out of string again.

Close to the end of tomato stringing Fred shows up on the tractor. He tucks some of the tomatoes up into the lattice by hand. We are to go field surfing when I finish my last row, as I had some catching up to do. Field surfing consists of riding on blades behind the tractor that cut the soil and push it over the edge of plastic "mulch". The plastic is just a row cover for keeping weeds down, not mulch. The tractor has a roller attached to the back and wheels that sit on top of the plastic to hold it down, the job of the surfers (Bridget and I) is to adjust the blades and wheels so that the correct amount of dirt is supplied to the edge of the plastic. If our current configuration is not meeting the criteria, we must yell to the driver (Fred) , lift the apparatus' arm unscrew the pieces, adjust them and hope that the problem is fixed. You must constantly monitor the amount of dirt, pushing it with one hand while holding on with the other, balancing and yawing to achieve the correct furrow depth. We did about eight rows like this as the sun set. Fred appreciative of our hard work sent me over to the barn to retrieve some pop (as we call it in PA). Grape for him and hot hot hot ginger beer for Bridget. Again I was impressed by her tenacity in the field. These were no small screws we were turning, Bridget may have skinny arms but she knows how to get some leverage out of them.

Harvest so Soon

Today started off with me in the cow barn, Kristen showing me how to milk Ella the cow. A wash of the utters a quick squeeze with the hands to empty any stagnant milk, then on with a vacuum pump. Four little nozzles attach to the utters and suck in cadence; on off on off, to mimic that of a real calf, into a large shiny metal container. I should have asked how many gallons it was, something like 3 or 4. Ella has a calf Lucy, who may be a calf but is at least 300 pounds. There is much talk of eating her because she has a fifth utter, "it's bad genetics" Fred claims. 

 

Then as I returned to the house I am told to help Meg who I find in a beet patch, which didn't germinate but instead has filled with the "weed" purslane. As it turns out purslane is edible and has a fruity citrus like taste once crushed in your mouth. It also has the added benefit of being the best terrestrial source of omega 3 fatty acids; like those in fish oil. This begins a long day of harvest for the CSA (Crop Sharing Association or Community Supported Agriculture; either or) pick-up tomorrow. Some of the purslane had become enormous and resembles a weedier less thick jade plant, with its waxy succulent leaves.

First purslane then chard were harvested, yes the CSA members were getting a weed to eat this week, then dill which had become overgrown with weeds as well. The dill was reaching the end of it's life cycle, a perfect row for the pigs to root through. Incidentally they were slaughtered last night or early this morning by Nate (co-owner of the farm) who spent the whole day before building a caged trailer for the porkers to ride into town for the slaughter house, which he would later disassemble. Three little piggies went to the market, and ended up bacon, sausage, and ham. Dill on the other hand was still here, and we needed enough to fill the CSA shares. So Bridget and I settled in for a few hours of trimming off the spindly dill to make small bunches tied together with a rubber band. Bridget lives at the farm and is very dedicated, but it's her personality that stands out. She has a rough exterior and has admitted to not showering very often. Loves to play pinball, is a reader of science fiction novels (nothing pulp) Stanislaw Lem as of right now, studied anthropology and Japanese at the University of Pittsburgh. She is always cracking jokes, good jokes, witty jokes. It is hard to explain a girl like this but she just makes sense, there is something logical about her. Under the dirt and tangled mess of hair is a real girl (not too sensitive) veiled by her more than ordinary ways.  As I write she is off reading a book and finding out what adventures the dystopian future might hold.

     
After Picking up some onions, we ride the Custom, a brown ford truck that has been around the farm, more than a few times. Actually it isn't street legal so it has to live on the farm. Mary hops in the back with me. She is a CSA member that has come to volunteer along with a handful of others who are across the fields in the Kale. Mary is no spring chicken, to use a colloquial term, and she has been working as hard as anyone out there. It is no comfy ride in the back of the truck, and all of the sudden there is some abrasive noise, like that of gears grinding together, as Meg loses control at the wheel and veers the truck into a field which drops sharply down the hill. Mary and I are startled. Meg applies the breaks before any real damage is done. I jump off to see what has happened, Meg assures us that it's fine, the truck has just stalled. With there being engine problems Mary and I are directed to walk down the hill to the barn.

  Lunch is served, there I meet James. James is a soft spoken thin dark haired man, about 25 years old, he lives just north of the farm, he has come to work in exchange for produce, and work he does. We set out to pick cucumbers. James thrashes through the patch of vines searching for the ripe fruit. He fills his lug, a large tan plastic bin, before me. I have a more lackadaisical approach, sticking my knife down to sweep away spiny leaves. Lugs get quite heavy when filled with the plump veg; Mary is working with Bridget alongside us in a row of yellow squash. Some time after that we head to pick broccoli. Meg tells us the crop has "buttoned" meaning that the broccoli heads, the part we all eat - the immature flower buds - have not formed well, in this case because of a July heatwave. So we rip them all out and throw them into the bed of the Custom. They will eventually be added onto the compost pile. I suggest to James that they be made into slaw and that my favorite part is the stalk anyhow. Later on we harvest poblano peppers and islander peppers which are a wonderful shade of purple and lavender with white speckles and stripes. Again my back is pretty upset with the amount of bending over I have done to get the peppers, and we would still have time to wash and package a hundred and forty shares of produce before calling it quits.