Left Field Chapter 2: Breakage and Loss

The last posting could have gone on and on, so I decided to tackle the collection of balls that landed in left field on a "ball by ball" basis. Last posting ended up focusing on the crazy snow patterns we experienced this winter (it is NOW Spring and I refuse to accept any more snow) and this entry was intended to focus on breakage. The breakage I had in mind was the crazy two weeks in which our car broke, our bus broke, our refrigerator broke, our washing machine broke, and only a few of the heaters in the rental house we currently inhabit felt like working. I planned on regaling the comical way we tip-toed around afraid of breaking yet another thing, and how slowly but surely one thing after another was either replaced or repaired. Instead I am going to swing the bat and write about the breaking of my heart when I returned to the farm this afternoon to find the neighbor dog feasting on our small flock of chickens.

Now those of you who are loyal readers of the blog may recall that we lost a few girls to an aerial predator a few months ago, and while that was upsetting and unnerving it does not even come close to what went down today. I arrived at the gate enjoying the first real sun we were granted all week. Toby arrived home a bit early and was playing with the kids back at the rental. I was planning on doing some evening chores and a little work in the orchard to make up for a week spent inside with the rain. However, as soon as I saw the neighbor's dog in our yard I knew there was something wrong. The dog immediately bounded up to me looking proud at what he accomplished but also in a panic. Apparently as he wolfed down (that meaning rings so true right now) one of the girls her bone got lodged in his mouth and he was in some pain. I rushed him back to his home and into the arms of his stunned and saddened owner and then returned to assess the carnage.

Two girls, Fondo and Cherry-Egger, were the only ones recognizable and pretty much in one piece. Their soft feathery bodies were still quite warm and although the color had all but drained from their combs, earlobes and waddles I hesitated to pick them up for fear of hurting them more. I briefly considered cleaning and eating them in a sort of macabre memoriam, but Toby nixed that almost immediately when I offered it. Instead, I tucked them into an apple crate and stashed them away for a proper funeral the next day with the whole family. I then walked the entire property, and the three adjacent properties to see if I could find any other girls. Sobbing and unsure what to do I fell back on my purpose for coming to the farm this evening, and proceeded down to the orchard to start observing the trees for bud development.

Three trees into my observations I heard a wonderfully familiar sound and raced back up to the coop to find that one of the girls Rose had reappeared at the coop. She was loudly proclaiming her survival, and probably her sadness over what had transpired and when she saw me running toward the coop she ran just as fast toward me. All our chickens have imprinted on me as their mom and I can only imagine what was going through her little mind as I scooped her up and held onto her for at least ten minutes.

Feeling a little revived I put Rose in her coop and made one last walk around the property before the sun was totally gone. It was that end of the day when the birds and frogs sing out to welcome the night, and when the diurnal creatures high-five the nocturnal animals as they tuck in for the night. I was dumbstruck to see eight deer in the neighboring field; just standing their watching me look for a lost chicken, reminding me that things come and go. It was almost as if they were all saying they were sorry, and it was not my fault for letting my girls stretch their legs and wander around searching for the perfect grub. They too were taking their chances standing in such numbers in a wide open field. Life is for the living.

When I walked back to the coop to close the door and say goodnight to Rose, Mildred another one of the girls showed up and quickly ran into the coop as well. With two chickens now present and accounted for, I breathed in and tried to be thankful. They on the other hand settled in to what they do, scratching around, looking for that perfect grub. I really hope they find it tonight, they have earned it.

Wait for it...It's coming from somewhere in left field!

It seems as though we are holding our breath around the farm until we turn blue in the face, hoping someone will let us have our way. Something has got to give. We are emerging from our winter havens a little like the groundhog looking for our shadow and trying to decide if it is nice enough to plant our peas yet.

In case you have not noticed, the blog has been on hiatus for the last month. "Why?" you ask? I will offer you two options: the short version immediately below, or the long, compelling, crazy, Booker prize-quality version following the short.

Snow. Car breaks, bus breaks, motorcycle breaks, washing machine breaks, fridge and freezer break. Fix everything. Amy starts to teach in a classroom again after many years of teaching every minute of everyday not in a classroom. Play musical cars to entertain ourselves while we sell the bus and buy a "station-wagon Volvo". Started a massive remodel on the farmhouse. Receive seeds for the garden, and dodge snow storms to plant them in the ground.

Let's take it from the top; snow. I am from the Chicago area originally, and have a great number of experiences with snow. I remember trudging through the stuff, my feet wrapped in old bread bags and secured with rubber bands around my calves, because my boots were never going to keep out all that white stuff even if their name implied it. I remember learning to drive in the snow pre-anti lock breaks. I remember packing snow on our front stairs and turning them into a mini luge track that lasted for weeks before melting away. And I remember how I felt when I moved up here to the Pacific Northwest; secretly happy to be leaving the Winters of guaranteed snow. Sure we get snow in the Northwest, but it is more like an old friend surprising you and showing up at your doorstep for a few days. You make accommodations, eat steaming bowls of goodness, sleep in because no one is going anywhere, and then tell yourself, "that was fun" when it all melts away to nothing. This year though, signals got crossed, my best friend from high school did not show up, instead it was the Mormons, followed by Jehovah's witness. It was someone from Sierra club, kids selling magazine subscriptions, and an acquaintance of my second college roommate who is on out of cash and hoping that they could just stay for a couple days until they figure out their next move. I was getting tired and scared of answering the door.

Yesterday was the Ides of March, and Brutus came knocking on the door with a sloppy wet snowball to throw in my face. Yes, it snowed, yet again. Just after I chew out one of the seed companies to hurry up and send me my asparagus crowns and seed potatoes, because even if they think it is not time to plant them, I, the expert farmer, know my zone and need to plant. All I know now is that I must be living in wonderland. However, today looks promising, no snow, just rain so far...

To Everything, Burn, Burn, Burn

We are "dreaming" in Winter around the farm. The first seed order is in and most of it arrived weeks ago save the live asparagus crowns which will arrive closer to planting time in March. Thirty six cardoon plants and twenty artichoke plants are inching their way out of dirt-filled peat pots and reaching toward the light of an artificial sun; hopefully they will be big enough when it is time to put them out into the chill to harden them off. We doubled the size of the vegetable garden which you can see at the end of this posting. And we are clearing away all the plants growing around the farmhouse to make room for the heavy equipment to roll in any day now and start reworking the home into our dream.

Through all this land clearing and tilling, and all the pruning that needed to happen in and around the orchard we built up quite the burn pile. Our original plan was to have a solstice pyre welcoming back the light, but it snowed so hard then we would have needed at least a gallon of accelerant to melt off the icy frosting alone. So, we continued to add to the pile, and we continued to wait for a better day to burn. Finally, as we turned the corner into preparing to remodel the farmhouse and preparing the gardens for Spring the burn pile grew to inexorable size and we agreed to split the job of burning over a couple of days to purge us and make room for what is to come.

Last Thursday I had a full day on the farm while Toby was in town working and the kids were in school. This was the perfect day for burning, partly sunny, very little wind, and it had not rained in several days. Even with these great conditions it took all the fuel in one lighter, a good two or three cups of diesel, and a whole lot of crouching on all fours and blowing like I was back in school on the bassoon playing the Marriage of Figaro to finally light the first pile on fire. And once it was burning I realized that my plans of working in the garden while every once in a while adding an armful of pruned branches was a pipe dream. I needed to stay and feed the flames pretty much all day, and at first I was frustrated by this realization, but after I found the rhythm of the fire I transcended the pull of earthen tasks like weeds and seeds and turned my eyes and mind to the heavens.

I watched as hydrangea branches, pruned away to make room for our eminent house remodel, bloomed in the fire unfurling perfect bright green leaves seconds before completely burning up. I watched our Christmas tree, that we cut on the island, start on the pile as a pillar of smoke and sizzle and then suddenly explode like a firework with the crack and pop I heard the week before in Chinatown. Apple wood, branches pruned from the orchard, burned clean and smelled a little sweet. Blackberry vines smoked for a while before finally catching on fire and disappearing a second later. And a broken fence post provided slow burning fuel to light up old wrapping paper from a pair of new sleds received at Christmas.

By the time I needed to leave the farm and pick up the kids from school I smelled smokey, my cheeks were rosy, and my heart was warm and a little lighter. Tending the burn pile was a secondary observation, forcing me to look at things again even after I thought I was done with them. When we still lived in Seattle these items that found their way into the burn pile would have been carted off on a regular schedule by the trash men. I would have never stopped, months later to rethink my actions in my backyard and where I was going to next. It is here, farming, that things are slowed down and we are forced to be deliberate in our actions, because we are the ones making the mess, and the only ones to clean it up. We are being nudged by this land to live more simply, more stripped down, more connected, and I love it.