Rewards of Dirt and Toil

I find it hardest to write posts in this blog when I haven't been actively doing any farm work.  Both my wife and I have "day jobs," as I have mentioned previously, so farming is a part-time thing for now.  Of course, the long term plan is to make enough from fiber sales, market gardening, and limited farm goods (honey coming soon!) to allow one of us to give up the rat race for the tractor race.  We'll see how that evolves over time, but that is certainly the goal.

The thought of working for ourselves has all the glitz and glitter that a new car with all the gadgets has to so many others, yet we know that that car may have a bum transmission just waiting to need replacement, oil lines to constantly patch and re-patch, filters that clog up way too fast.  Farm work, of any kind, isn't easy.  We know that.  We're certainly not thinking, "Oh I can't wait until we can lean back and just watch the garden grow."  We have what I hope is a firm grasp of the time and commitment involved - as much as we can without actually doing it.  But, beyond that, we have learned the pleasure and satisfaction that comes from that hot shower after a long day of shoveling manure.  The iced tea I have while sitting in my chair after a ten hour day digging and a hot shower tastes better than any number of similar teas I have ordered in a restaurant.

That is our goal.  Lots of hard work and lots of sitting back at the end of the day, tired and hot, and thinking "I've done something today, not for my boss, not for my clients, but for my family."  And iced tea.  Don't forget the iced tea.

Once Again, Gene Said it Best

So, after making y'all suffer through a rant and whine about big business farming and it's effects on the soil (and the farmer), I just found a great passage in "The Contrary Farmer" by Gene Logsdon that put its all in perspective - in about 100 words less than it took me to do so.

"A farmer of deep ecological sensitivity is to the plow jockey on his 200-horsepower tractor what a French chef is to the legions of hamburger handlers at fast food chains.  The chef's work is infused with artistic, scientific, and spiritual satisfactions; the hamburger handler's is infused only with the ticking of a time clock.  To the plow jockey, soil is a boring landscape of clods that need to be crushed.  To the ecological farmer, every clod holds a wondrously exotic, tropical-like world of brilliantly colored microorganisms, the very stuff of life."

Perfect and beautiful.  All in four sentences too.

If you haven't read "The Contrary Farmer" by Gene Logsdon, it's well worth the money (or the free checkout from your local library).  It establishes the ethos of the modern small farmer so well I find myself reading it whenever I need inspiration and motivation, like now.

Getting Discouraged

Get ready for a whine-session.

Okay, I'm sorry to do it, but I have to vent or I'll explode.  We have been looking for over a year for the perfect place to land and grow the farm and our family.  We found a place last year that would have been great, only to find that our mortgage company had screwed us over and was so inept they couldn't even fix it if they wanted to.  Now, a year later, we continue to look and hope that both the right property and the right circumstances will come along. 

It's been a long time coming and some days it feels like it may not happen for a long time more. 

We continue to search, we continue to hope.  It's just getting harder the longer we go.

The Joys of a Mild Winter

I used to hate mild winters.  In fact, crazy as it sounds, one of the many reasons we moved from the warm southwest to the much colder northwest was because we love having four real seasons.  The first year we lived in Spokane we were literally buried under feet of snow all winter long.  The next winter was much the same.  And then we had virtually no snow for the third winter.  We missed it sorely.

This winter has been a little of both.  November was one of the snowiest on record and we were set for another deep winter - that is, until January arrived warm and wet with rain and sleet but little snow.  We haven't had any significant accumulation since December and the ground is generally bare. 

Last night it snowed for real for the first time in weeks.  It was strange to be reminded that this is truly the middle of winter.  Sadly, though, we woke to see it all melted away in the face of 40 degree rain.  Ah well.

Just as I was sinking into a bit of funk over the weather, as I often do when winter fails to impress, the animals gave me a little pick-me-up.  This last weekend was bright and warm enough that the herd all went out into the pasture for some midday fun.  It was the first time since last fall that we've arrived at the farm and found all of the alpacas out of the barn.  It was weird mucking stalls without first having to kick everyone out into the cold. 

Because of the good weather, we let the older males out into their pasture for the first time in a couple of months.  When snow is on the ground their pasture is a bit too steep for slippery alpaca feet.  Right now though, it is all grass and soft mud, perfect for a little mid-winter romp.  Well, the second that gate was opened I would have sworn that I was letting a pack of kindergartners out for recess.  These are the old men of the herd but they were pronking and bounding up and down the pasture like crias, stopping now and then to tear up the little green shoots that survived their snowy covers, munching happily.  For animals that have subsisted on picked over alfalfa and a little grain now and then, the tender green shoots of grass must have been like candy.

I know I should stop grousing and enjoy the weather, whatever it is.  After seeing the boys' unmitigated joy at being in the sun on snow-free ground, I took the hint and spent some time just watching them and sharing in their joy.

It was a good day.

Beeswax and Farming

Well, the candles continue to seel and people have asked why we use beeswax and not some of the big new flashy waxes like soy or palm - or even that old stand by paraffin.  The answer to this is somewhat complex so rather than bore those of you who don't care, we've made a page on the blog explaining our philosphy as it pertains to wax.  Please feel free to visit our Why Beeswax? page and let us know what you think.

Big Business

It's curious that a simple event such as a farm expo can leave me with simultaneous feelings of both immature joy and contemplative sadness.  Let me explain.

The joy is easy.  What little boy doesn't dream at one point of driving a big truck or a big tractor?  Equipment of all shapes and sizes seems to be the purview of the little boy (and many little girls as well), clearly evident by the fact that nearly a third of the people at the expo were under the age of twelve.  I got to sit at the controls of more than twenty big, expensive farm machines capable of clearing a field in minutes or picking acres of wheat in a single day.  The ten year old in me was thrilled.  There were innumerable knobs and levels to try, pedals to press, hydraulic chairs to bounce in.  It was simple fun.

And then, the mature adult in me kicked in and I was abruptly sad.  This is not as easy to explain as the joy, but I will attempt to be brief.  These various machines and tools are the latest and greatest products of what I know of as "big business farming."  No longer are farmers working several crops on farms smaller than 40 or so acres.  Now, farming so often means working a single crop (wheat/corn/soy) on 500 acres with million dollar machines. (I'm not exaggerating there - a fully equipped combine like the one in the picture costs more than $1.5 million once you factor in attachments and support vehicles).  These machines are so heavy and so massive that they literally crush the life out of the soil, requiring more big, expensive machines to fluff the soil back up again before it will sustain anything other than scrub.  Farmers, in the quest to meet their ever mounting loan balances, work bigger and bigger farms and require bigger and bigger yields to make a profit.  To do this, they add innumerable chemicals to the soil and spray awful insecticides and herbicides on their crops, just to push yields to a level where, in a normal year, they may be able to pay their loan payments.

This can best be exemplified by a common sight at these events - the spray truck.  Some of these are massive, almost as big as this combine, and all exist for a single purpose.  They spray chemicals.  Chemicals to enrich the soil.  Chemicals to kill insects.  Chemicals to kill unwanted plants.  Chemicals to stall ripening for storage of crops.  It goes on and on.  A quarter of a million dollars for a machine that does one thing.  These behemoths don't even have a trailer hitch most times.

It is because of this, among other things, that we are committed to small-scale farming.  We hope to be as organic as we can be.  Although certification is difficult, due to the fact that a single neighbor who uses chemicals can keep you from getting certified, we have the goal of Certified Organic ratings for our cash crops in mind.  We will compost.  We will spread manure.  But we will not buy a million dollar tractor or a quarter-million dollar spray truck.  And while the ten year old in me will shed a tear over that, it's only natural that the adult say no in order to protect the child.  In this case, my inner child will have to cry it out.  We're not doing it.

P.S. I'm not saying the state of things is the farmers' fault.  By no means.  This is a symptom of a greater problem, one I hope to talk about more in a future post.  That is, if you don't mind a little more ranting on my part.

Possible Second Animal

This little angel is Painted Indy.  Unless something untoward happens between now and May, she is most likely our second alpaca purchase.  Check out the cool coloring on this little girl!  She has the most impressive lineage and her full sister is beyond gorgeous.  This picture was taken three days after she was born, but more up-to-date pictures are forthcoming.

A week ago last Saturday my wife had the pleasure of attending the Priority Alpaca Auction in Las Vegas.  Aside from the obvious incongruity of a livestock auction amid slot machines and blackjack tables, it was a great event.  We were saddened to find that the alpaca business has it's crooks like everything else, in this case the not so subtle pressure brought to bear against suri alpacas by the organizers of the event, but it was well tempered by the fact that so many alpaca breeders are so friendly and open.  Everyone was there to have a good time and there is an undercurrent of support for each other, even as we all compete for the same animals and profits.

Little Indy is from Suris of the Western Slopes in Colorado.  We'll probably get to see her in person around May, when we'll make a final decision whether to purchase her or not.  Unless she comes in with something major like a hunched back or twisted hips, I'm pretty sure we'll soon have our second alpaca female.

One Down . . .

We sold our first candle yesterday, after about five minutes on the store shelf too.  Let's hope it keeps up.

Alpacas and People, Crowds Alike

It's striking how a large crowd of any type of mammal tends to resemble any other group of mammals.  When we feed the main herd, we typically kick everyone out of the barn so we can clean and feed in relative peace.  This leads to an inevitable scrum of alpacas at the gate, pushing and shoving to get in and find the choicest morsels.  Ever found yourself waiting to purchase concert tickets at a ticket counter?  It's much the same thing.  The heightened tension, the elevated tempers, the inevitable disappointment when things aren't run exactly as you think they should be.

Once the girls get inside, the parallels continue.  There really isn't much in the way of variety in the average alpaca's diet.  It's always alfalfa, first cut hay, second cut hay, and grain.  So, without the possibility of differing in food choice that humans and other omnivores enjoy, they much differ in their manner of eating.  Some pick the best hay out with their prehensile lips, pulling the grassy first-cut out of the stack no matter how I try to hide it with second-cut on the outside.  Others just dive in, the gluttons of the bunch invariably.  Others eschew the grasses entirely, opting to munch loudly on the grain (followed by much belching and coughing most times).  Sounds like quite a few teenagers I know.  Then there are what we affectionately call the bottom feeders.  They, for whatever reason, believe the best hay is to be had at the bottom of the pile.  These can easily be distinguished by their ever-present toupee of green alfalfa leaves.  Our Sweet 16 happens to be one of these.

Alpacas or people, it's always fun to see the differences and the similarities. 

Sick of the Rush

I was outside this morning chopping up the next round of cardboard boxes for the recycling bin (there are a lot of them when you live states away from family and Christmas has just come and gone) when I was blasted by noise from not one but two full-sized semi trucks whooshing by my house, followed closely by an impatient, engine-revving line of commuters trying desperately to get to work on time.  It struck me how much I have come to dislike the hustle and bustle of city life.  Sure, it's very nice being able to pop down to any of three grocery stores within five minutes of my home.  The availability of good restaurants and entertainment is nice as well.  But I'm just sick and tired of the noise and the constant rush rush rush.  Everyone is in a hurry. Everyone is trying to get somewhere desperately, almost always by car, and anyone who is not in as much of a rush as they are is "in the way."

Seeing as how my primary mode of conveyance, a full-sized pickup truck named Angus, gets about 10 miles to the gallon, I try as much as possible to keep the RPMs under 2,000 when driving .  This means it takes me a bit more time to get going at green lights and it also means that I most often can be found going the speed limit or less.  You would think that I was going five miles an hour by the attitude of drivers behind me.  How dare I go the speed limit!

Ah, well.  This, as is so much else, is temporary.  Some day soon we will leave this metropolitan utopia behind for the country.  I can't wait.

Thanks for tolerating my rant today.  I appear to be in a mood.