doing the high math

View of house from south - sloping fields!!! how to keep soil and plant crops?Grade school story problems made me sweat in math class. Despite grasping the concepts, thinking about life in the format of unknown variables, percentages and geometry concepts (to name a few) made my eyes widen in anxiety and my eighth-grade heart palpitate more vigorously than the sight of a main crush. I just didn’t get the magic, and was easily steered into focusing on languages and literature in the hopes of an enlightened life through words.

Despite a degree in French and several years of foreign travel, life continues to unfold into daily story problems. I am thankful that at this point in my experiences, awareness and deeper knowledge have found each other, enabling me to both raise the symbolic hand in question to life’s teachers, as well as try solutions for myself whether in possession of scrap paper or not.

Today was a raised hand day. Doing the higher math on our 7-acre parcel has me a bit befuddled. How to think about soil retention? Desirable woodland expansion? Pasture management for saleable livestock? Vegetable production on significant slopes? Images of terraced Asian rice fields pan easily across my mind’s eye, particularly during this WET summer season wherein everything remains bright green.

So far I’ve gone at our farm projects with nary a glance at literature or other sources of knowledge. Past experiences in life, like volunteered time on a vegetable farm or visits with livestock producers for the purpose of newspaper writing, had me convinced I could at least lead our climb into the hills. I always expected to shift into drafting position, catch my breath for a bit, and watch somebody else’s work so I too could summit. (Okay, a Tour de France analogy might not have worked there, but the long haul of managing land has me feeling like I’ll need a performance record like Lance Armstrong to compete in this world.)

Mr. Dan Miller, of the Chester County Conservation District, came over today in order to help us push on up the next hill. Formed in the aftermath of the 1930’s dust bowl, conservation districts were begun voluntarily by farmers who recognized the need to educate each other on soil conservation and overall best resource management practices, in addition to helping people stay in the practice of farming.

“I’ve never worked with a farm this small before,” Miller said at one point. But my heart didn’t skip a beat; he was eager to give it a go! “I’ll have to go look up some ideas for that bank, make sure it doesn’t wash away if you tear it up, get the grass out, and terrace it,” he commented. “And I might need to go ask some other people for help for more specifics on pasture management for something this small,” he added. Also President of the Chester-Delaware County Farm Bureau, Miller’s investment in this area’s agriculture expanded into conservation practices following a back injury that prevented him from continuing work for a need to keep our waterways clean!commercial dairy.

These days, Miller, as other employees of the District, is assigned to work with farmers who lands drain into specific watersheds. In our case, the Chesapeake. Largely, he suggests erosion and sedimentation control measures, as well as stormwater management systems, all of which ensure that the water coming from Chester County lands returns to the Bay in its constant cycle of life movement as clean as possible. For our land, we have multiple goals of what we want to grow on it (livestock and vegetables being the most identifiable commodities), but we want to do it so as to participate in a more sustainable cycle of resources.

We don’t want our precious topsoil to float on down our steep slopes, thus loosing a great growing medium, and silting up the stream at the end of our property, rendering it less able to carry as clean of water on to the Bay. We want all the water possible to hit our place, like the thunderstorms so prevalent this summer, and make it down to our little tributary as clean as possible too, so what can we plant on the slope to help get it where it needs to go, cleanly?

In the coming weeks Mr. Miller will help us identify a contour planting method for the sloped lands we have identified for vegetable production, as well as other agriculture practices. The story problems will keep on growing, but doing the high math of long-term land stewarding is a lifetime I’m dug into.

pink nectar

an early spring beeHow to use a watermelon:

1 – As fake road carnage. This is most popular on rural roads connecting Amish farms with “English”- inhabited areas. Simply drive (or buggy) to a lonely road, preferably an intersection; lift watermelon above head and let fall, or throw from vehicle with force, onto road. Think about the thrill of scaring someone and forget the sweet fruit deliciousness you just wasted.

2 – As insight into a hog’s life. This is for those melons so good you want to scrape out every last sugary cell. Simply cut a slice and proceed to eat with great relish and some speed. Keep going until your nose rubs over the edge, juice runs down your mouth and neck, and persons in your company tilt watermelons getting 'juiced' - nectar of the godstheir confused expressions back and away in disgust. Think about how delicious the rest of the melon will be as your companions return to their socially accepted bar-b-que chicken pieces.

3 – As a nectar of the gods’. Sometimes you need to take it to another level. Fly away from your earthbound existence and into the provocative realm of sensorial bliss with watermelon nectar. Slice your fruit, and cut 2-inch chunks from each rind, directly into a blender. As the machine whirs, allow yourself to buzz into bee life, the constant self-transport induced hum that carries you to each flower’s sweetspot. Drink of the nectar in succulent silence, filling your belly til glassy-eyed rapture. Continue your day more enlightened than yogic calm. (Note: water is permissible, many times necessary to achieve this nectar. You choose the level of sweet experience.)

the dry life

hopi blue corn from Peaceful ValleyTaking a lovingly large bite out of a freshly picked and cooked Hopi Blue Dent corncob the other night convinced me that it was not a cob for fresh eating. So began another experiment. My small crop of blue corn is now husked and drying inside; once the kernels are dried out, I hope to run them through a grinder, turning them into blue cornmeal. Progress, if any, will be duly noted in future pages.

I planted green beans between mid-May and June 1 this year. By the last week of July, their production had somewhat slowed, and my time for freezing/canning them began to move towards tomatoes, cucumbers and zucchini. I let the last pods hang on the plants to dry. By August 12th, half of them cracked open (by my hands) to reveal dry beans. The Tavera variety are particularly beautiful – white and rose mottled. Having shelled them and set them to dry beautiful dry beans from a dried-on-the-plant Tavera green bean planta little while longer atop the washing machine, I hope to cook some and save some for planting next spring.

A more experienced beanie than I could tell you when to save the beans, but my experimentation extends beyond once bunch. I started a second round of string bean plants the last week of July. They are flowering as I type, and these I suspect to be even more successful drying beans. It makes the most sense in my head right now that one harvests dry beans at the end of fall harvest, whereas one eats fresh string beans during the true summer months . . .

soft landing

lovely sifted soft bed for carrotsI’ve fallen off the bandwagon. Again, sorry to say. And, as usual, there are no excuses.

I got on in earnest excitement. New projects, particularly those that involve new experiences, offer appealing opportunities for self improvement. And you start up strong, you show up and get it done. Standing somewhere in the middle right now, the glow of purposeful happiness still shining, I wonder where I fell apart. Of course it’s never an exact moment. More peaceful Pollyanna than drama queen, my life failings trickle in like a roof leak rather than a home-destroying tornado.

But in this case, I can pinpoint it. Microsoft Excel spreadsheets are damning in their record keeping; June 1st marks my fall as clearly as an empty bottle bedside come morning. Organization, my friends, remains my Everest, disorganization my cigarettes. I got in a bit of a rhythm; after starting seeds in accordance to a brilliantly designed worksheet (by yours truly), I found myself naturally sowing in new seeds and starts as the soil temperature and plant hardiness presented itself. Trouble is, I didn’t write that all down. Last frost date . . . anyone?

Then it became as easy as planting after clearing and prepping more land. Again, didn’t write all that down. The miracle of plant and bug life grew daily, blinding me to the smart farmers’ notation techniques usually employed should one hope to achieve improved results the following year. The lettuces cycled through nicely, chard went berserk, beets grew faster than . . . here is when trouble brushed between my brown palms. Not enough carrots! I love carrots, but hadn’t planted enough sequences of them to compensate for the particularly strong deluges rivuleting them away from their planned abodes.

Head spinning with veggie abundances, freezing and canning, I continue the intuitive planting cycle. Michael concocts weekly inside ‘to-do’ lists, requesting that beyond writing these posts, I do research relevant to this land (see future posts on tax assessments, agricultural zoning and easements). The carrot issue continued; joined by another friend, priorities shifted to ‘what should we get done with the extra muscle?’ Wood cutting, obviously.

With several cords split and stacked, I jumped the log pile, heading straight for veggie land. A freshly dug and sifted 10′x6′x14″ bed is now at working solving my carrot issue. Helpful gardener newsletters, such as Johnny’s selected seeds, write that carrots need to be planted by August in order to have them by fall harvest and potentially carry through the winter (heavily mulched). We’ll see how I do; I planted August 14th. Note to Excel planting worksheet – this web site entry counts as documentation!

Enchanted basil forest

Basil forestThey were the first to sprout in our greenhouse this spring, the most sturdy adapters when dug in outside, and they continue to grow well beyond my previous, high-altitude gardening attempts. The basil is bushy, fragrant and worthy of a picture according to neighbor Erlene. So here we have it. Another lesson in ‘just because it sprouted and grew nicely doesn’t mean you have to keep it all season.’ Because of course, I want to eat every last bit of the 12 bushes’ deliciousness.

zinnia / tomato forestAnd here is another photo of first-year eastern gardener’s miscalculations. Apparently zinnias AND tomatoes grow like sports players on drugs when propagated in horse manure. Too bad I can’t really see or get to them through the nitrogen-intoxicated leafage.

showing skin

chard keeps rocking itVanity does not typically rule my morning routines. The day’s work dictates appropriate clothing, safety gear, and if I do anything with my hair, I get it off my forehead and neck. Pretty soon, some scissors held by my own two hands will take a whack or two. Frankly, I forget to brush my teeth after breakfast sometime (the dentist’s declaration last week, after a 2 year cleaning absence, that I have no plaque, does nothing but encourage getting on with the day).

So, today was a bit different. Hot enough to glance over my shoulder, checking on the dogs, and shower the nearby plants with salty spray. Water breaks supplemented with sipping from the rivulets running my nose. Wanting some beach waves and, yes, a tan, I decided to doubletime my outdoor tasks. On went the swimming suit top, and off went the t-shirt. Weed-wacking was going to work for me like neverĀ  before. First, I cut back a grassy hillside for better access to one pasture’s spigot.

Michael holds a german striped tomatoLower calves decoupaged with grass bits didn’t deter my plan for a tan; my top relatively still free of debris (yes, I applied sunscreen), I wacked on. Around to the covering for the septic holding tanks, whose covers I like to keep clear should they need to be opened. Cutting hard against the edges, several large mint-type plants came tumbling down. Next was a flowering plant similar to anise-hyssop. I briefly considered letting it remain. Just yesterday Michael had remarked on the wonderful amounts on insect life in our gardens. Indeed, the sunflower and sedum flower heads continue to host up to 15 bumblebees for any given snack hour, and the butterflies are clearly holding some sort of pollen-comparison conference amongst the zinnias.

But down it came anyway; a streak of tidiness makes me weed wack, mow and hand weed in a neat, zealous manner not yet experienced indoors. Roughly .00001 seconds later, several piercing sensations made me look at my green calves. A bunch of bees rose swarmed upwards to my now bulging eyes. Spinning wacker in tow, my left hand swiftly batted those attached to the concurrently positioned poison ivy bubbles on my legs. Then, thinking it best to abandon the area, I placed the wacker on the ground and sprinted, curlycue fashion, until I reached the house. Pausing to make sure that I was still capable of breathing (no Anaphylaxis in this body, yet), I dashed upstairs. Only one bee had managed to tail me; I busted into my very personal African dance imitation, distracting him for enough time to don appropriate attire.

Skin at least clothed, I returned to the hive activity area. Mating locusts skirted my head, bee-lining their attempts at copulation across the pasture and out of the frenzy. I considered my options. Leave the wacker where it lay and retrieve it once the bees had vacated or gone to bed. But unfortunately it was still running. How could I, a person who pledges allegiance to the less-oil star and calhoun watch chester get a mouselifestyle, leave a 2-stroke engine running for the hell of it? It was a time to face my own stupidity (why didn’t I turn it off as I was setting it down?).

Thankfully, this was easy. I knelt and approaching from a downhill side of things, slowly reached up to grab the wacker and pull it back towards me. In thirty seconds I was out of their hubbub and back on track for the remaining weed wacking areas. Still not sure if I learned the lesson on appropriate attire. The desire for a tan plus a hot summer day push my analytic mind into a different sphere. I recall the couple of years I called Brazil home and the beach my lunch spot. I remember life glowed in an equatorial collage of sun, sand and bodies. Coconut water quenched my thirst and beach snack vendors squawked into my thoughts.

“Linguini!”, Michael yells at me. “Are you drinking enough?” I smile and nod, deciding to take a break anyway. No coconuts here, but a tall glass of pear juice preserved from last fall’s fruit pleases me just as much. Back in shorts and bikini top, I decide on a compromise: acknowledge the limited areas that such an outfit is safe, and stick to them. And I’ll put weed wacking the septic tank top back on the chores list for, hmm, winter?

seeing red

michael snags some bites prior to dinner. he is sampling chicken cooked in apple cidar vinegarWith this recipe, I take ownership of my heritage: I am Newcomer. Yes, I have fallen for tomatoes. Just the latest in a long list of tastes acquired, ahem, rather late in life. Tomatoes are my new drug of choice. Succulent, bursting, each lunch hour provides my usually fertile food imagination with only one desire: tomato, sliced on fresh toasted bread, a smear of pesto, and a quick trip under the broiler with a bit of cheese molten on top.

Should one require variation during this season of Lycopersicons, I recommend this quick assembling:

Cut an older loaf of bread into cubed breadcrumbs (a size you’d manage to put into your mouth, alongside a bit of tomato – more importantly, the size a polite guest could manage to cram in). Spread a couple of cups of these the last word on summer salad and tomatoescubes into a baking dish, drizzle with olive oil, dash with salt, pepper, fresh thyme, oregano, savory, basil (use a good 1/3 cup of fresh garden herb selection). Toss, and roast at 425 degrees in your oven until golden ~ roughly 10 to 15 minutes. Remove from the oven and toss in a 1/2 cup chopped red onion, 1 1/2 cups chopped tomato, and 1/2 cup of cubed mozzarella (or another cheese you fancy).

This is absolutely the best when eaten straight away, so make an amount you and friends/family can finish.

A friend in hand

a sweep of retention logs placed at the edge of a flat area, before the erosion gullies startI suggested a water break. “Uh, we’re not exactly busting ourselves here,” Lars replied. “But okay, sure sweating like I need it.”

One week previously, I enjoyed the conversation of another friend. “I’m gonna go grab a beer, want one?” This last from Becca. Yes indeed, I have been blessed with visits from two strong, willing and cheerful longtime friends. Each capable of mellowing out to match my pace of work here on the farm.

I wasn’t sure how my ‘we’ll see what we can get done’ attitude would go over. Becca has led numerous groups of volunteers on habitat and trail restoration projects, amongst other endeavors. I first got to know her during a stint with the SCA on the Imperial National Wildlife Refuge, wherein our group was charged with removing Salt Cedar, an invasive plant, from the adjacent Colorado River corridor. Lars has most recently put in quality labor for the NGO Long Way Home, helping to construct latrines from used plastic bottles and schools inserted into the ground roughly 10 feet apart, these logs act to retain soil when water tries to rush down the eroding little gully formed from hard rainsfrom tires packed with mud. Both of these young adults likes to work hard and see results. I knew I had a couple gems coming my way as they made plans for their visits.

For Becca and I, we focused on a skill she has acquired from previous projects: building soil retaining structures for slopes that experience severe erosion. Thanks to the chainsaw work of previous owners, we were able to pull multiple three- and four-foot length, roughly 10- to 12-inch diameter, logs from forgotten piles. These we dug into various places along a small gully on our land’s most significant slope. With this summer’s harsh thunderstorms, the current lack of significant vegetation and extensive degree of slope make for a compelling rushing water area. Having installed eight such bars, I can say that after just one additional thunderstorm, they have helped fill in the little gully by a measurable amount.

lars also helped dig out a bed for carrots - i'll plant them now, and hope to harvest throughout the winterEncouraged by this, Lars and I set about installing a larger retaining bar, at the edge of another sloped area experiencing some gullying. This measures roughly 20 feet across, using similarly sized logs. Admittedly, wood is not the best long-term option, but it was an available resource for solving this problem in the short-term. Why do I want to disrupt the water flow creating the little gullies? As Michael says, “the water wants to go back the the little creek and on into the river, etc.”

I suppose the reply for our land is that the gullies are happening in areas that I do not want to wash away . . . just yet. Perhaps we’ll decide on a different use for these areas in the future, but for now, I want to hold back the land with the hope that all of our wonderful topsoil is not rushing away. Gotta grow those carrots somehow.

Here’s to friends who like to work hard! The guest bed is available now . . . any takers?

fluff up that box

chicken wire covers slats in old barn stall, screen door used for our people entry pointIt had been a full month since my phone message to Mr. Murray, requesting more laying chickens. Deducting the usually responsible man may have lost my number, I called again. “No, I have your number. So how many are your wanting?,” he asked, when reached after work one day.

“Seven please, . . . and we’ve fixed the fox issue. The fence is working and no-one else has disappeared. I think we’re good,” I reply anxiously.

“Well, we’ll see. Now you said you like green eggs? I’ve got a couple of Araucana crosses, and . . .”. He counted off several other varieties and their laying consistencies. After a couple more references to creating a secure coop, we decided on a day for me to pick them up. I was relieved to have passed his test.

Then, back to the barn to make a bigger home! Where once 14 chickens had roosted rather comfortably, I saw too little space for what would shortly be 18. Across the way to a larger stall I strutted, with chicken wire, electric stapler, cross-cut saw, battery-powered screw driver and miscellaneous wood. As usual, I stripped several screws, trying to drill 2-by-3s into oak panels. But eventually Michael stepped in and cleaned up some of my messy work, and in a couple of late afternoon sessions, we’d secured a roosting bar, with enough room for tail feathers off the back!new coop area.

Breathe-able with plenty of chicken wire, it is also framed in such a way as to be receptive to a layer of insulation come this winter. An old screen door was found in our old barn, which latches nicely for a firm shut.

The roosting bars this time around are an improvement from my previous concoctions, which typically sat too close to the wall for comfortable tail-feather space. Sifting through old irrigation pieces, I found some hard plastic tubing. This cut down easily with a hand saw, and with a triangular screwing of 2-by-3s (also salvaged wood from other projects), I was able to create stable roosting bars for the ladies. The nesting box remains the same. Entry/exit sliding door pieces were unscrewed from the old coop and inserted into the new. With only one nice cut across my left palm (idiotic cutting of the barn siding without gloves), This coop (my third adaptation of an exisiting space in a year), went much more smoothly.

blue lips

yumEat your blueberries! The fabulous season of my local u-pick blueberry farm (Walnut Springs), has ended. But blueberries inspire a touch of greed in my otherwise honest heart. With a hungry friend by my side, we journeyed after-season to the blueberry u-pick of all u-picks one last time in search of powerful anti-oxidants.

Farmer Johnson greeted us with pruners and a couple of working minutes to spare from his raspberries. “Sure, go on ahead. Just park behind the trees so we don’t get an after-hours crowd.” Really???? We spent the next several hours hunched, standing, kneeling, squating, whatever it took to maximize our moments under the bird-preventative netting to harvest the little blue balls.

I look at this farm with puzzlement; few people have been present picking during my previous sojourns. With bushes laden, and good prices ($5/bucket during the last, most abundant week), I do not understand why these bushes are not experiencing massive massaging. Within four visits, I have brought home and frozen enough to last me through winter. The birds are guaranteed an enormous feast regardless. Could it be the masses have forgotten the burst of off-the-bush blueberries?