Greenhorns

by Paula Manalo

  Thankfully, the CSA membership understood the challenges and agreed to postpone deliveries. We quickly built small high tunnels on the cheap, and by late April we started to have big beautiful vegetables again. If it weren’t for encouraging words from CSA members, I probably would have given up on growing vegetables.

  I love farming because I can feel its vibrancy. The farm is like a symphony of crops, livestock, soil, weather, equipment, and CSA members, and I, the farmer, am playing with them, being moved by the rhythm and enjoying the harmonies. With the challenges and lucky breaks that come along, I’ve cultivated persistence and capitalized on opportunities.

  The intention of offering food with flavor and nutrition is motivation to farm and a reward in and of itself. In nourishing people around me, I see individuals come together around food I’ve grown, and I realize my place in the community. Laboring and producing within the finicky parameters of the earth and sky, I can share that sacred nature connection with others, and they support my partner and me as we grow our farm organism.

  Delving into agriculture from an urban or suburban lifestyle is a big transition. The life of a farmer creates unexpected dynamics — both challenging and pleasant — among family and friends. On a small budget and with little time, taking care of our health and sanity is not always a priority, so customized self-care becomes part of the agricultural life. Every morning I stretch, and most days I eat the freshest produce from my fields and enjoy delicious meat from animals I’ve raised.

  How do we stay steady on our epic adventure through the seasons of surprise, frustration, elation, exhaustion, hilarity, defeat, and miracles? The following essays provide a glimpse into individual journeys and address the importance of our bodies, hearts, and souls — all dedicated to farming. As we develop as farmers, full of hope, we stick with it and grow, making our bodies stronger, staying true to our hearts, and with our souls evolving.

  — Paula Manalo

  The Physicality of Farming

  * * *

  BY JEFF FISHER

  Born and raised in Cedar Falls, Iowa, Jeff Fisher became interested in sustainable agriculture while attending graduate school in Olympia, Washington. Jeff is in his second season of farming at Cure Organic Farm in Boulder.

  * * *

  “Your hands are going to bleed.”

  Anne Cure, owner of Cure Organic Farm in Boulder, Colorado, said this softly while looking off into the distance as Jack, one of the other farmers, described the day’s task of transplanting thousands of seedlings from the greenhouse into the field. The “bleeding hands” comment was not ill-natured in any way; it was merely a statement of fact, one learned through many springs of transplanting thousands of seedlings into the field. This was the acknowledgment that today the fields were going to be especially tough to plant. It would be a painful process for a new farmer’s hands.

  Cut, cracked, and bleeding fingers are just the start of the physical hardships of farming. Over the course of my first full season, I spent long days bending, squatting, grabbing, twisting, pulling, pushing, cutting, walking, running, jumping, dragging, digging, pounding, lifting, tossing, catching, and reaching. At the end of each day I was left with aches, pains, cuts, cracks, blisters, infections, stings, and sprains. Early in that season, I always seemed to have nicked fingertips, because of my inexperience at cutting greens with a steak knife. Cracked fingers were a mainstay during the cold days of spring and fall. Our honey harvest in August brought a very swollen right foot and ankle from a host of bee stings. A marvelously infected big toe in September grounded me for three days. In October came the grand finale of farm injuries: I badly sprained my ankle after leaping over a bed of arugula and landing awkwardly. This was followed by a month of physical therapy.

  My first year of farming provides these examples of the very physical toll that farming takes on one’s body, but there are also the constant sore hands, feet, and back that come and go.

  I’d never thought about being injured, even as I was gracefully soaring over that bed of arugula. I definitely started thinking about it when I landed and felt my ankle twist inward under the weight of my body. I knew exactly what happened the second I landed; I knew this was going to be painful for days and maybe weeks. I also figured I still had a couple of hours before walking became really difficult.

  Six hours later, after completing the day’s restaurant deliveries, I was barely walking. Besides the pain in my ankle, the reality of my injury began to set in. What if the ankle was broken? How long would I be unable to farm? Would I still get paid while I was injured? Had my first full season of farming just come to an inglorious end?

  I didn’t have a lot of options for logical next steps, other than to allow myself time to heal. Later, taking a proactive approach and preparing my body for the season would help prevent farm mishaps. I could also avoid injuries by staying focused on the task at hand, wearing good shoes, and, of course, taking care when jumping over beds of greens.

  The simplest preventive measures were to start stretching and to change positions frequently. I’m still amazed at the ways my body must contort in order to plant seedlings and harvest vegetables. One moment I’m in a deep squat, then I’m bending at the waist. Next I pull out the wide stance, followed by the one-knee-down position. Variety is the name of the game with many farm tasks. Even the most adept farm yogis (which I am not) can’t hold the same posture for more than ten minutes, so I found myself constantly changing it up.

  I also quickly learned the importance of adequate sleep and eating well. A poor night’s sleep or a missed breakfast leaves me less alert and less effective during the day; this is when accidents occur and injuries happen. Although aches and pains throughout the season are often inevitable, it’s important to take care of your body, as you would any farm implement.

  After spending a season harvesting tens of thousands of pounds of vegetables, I can attest to the physical investment in the food we eat.

  * * *

  I’d never thought about being injured, even as I was gracefully soaring over that bed of arugula.

  * * *

  To farm is to engage fully in a truly physical way of life. In the course of farming, we use plenty of trucks, tractors, and tools to accomplish our tasks. Where I farm, though, our scale of production is small enough that we will never acquire the equipment to automatically cut greens, dig carrots, or pick tomatoes. My body is the implement that’s going to plant, weed, harvest, wash, and pack every last pound of produce. At times my body seems to be rebelling, practically screaming at me to stop and leading me to question my pursuit of farming. Will my body be able to do this sort of work for twenty more years?

  So far, any question about whether or not farming is my way forward has been answered with a resounding yes. I want to help change the practice of agriculture, feed my community, and grow beautiful, delicious food. The cost might be a few bumps and bruises, but for me, the physical investment is worth making.

  Farmer-Mama

  * * *

  BY SARAH SMITH

  With her husband, Garin, Sarah Smith owns a certified-organic operation in Skowhegan, Maine. They milk forty cows, selling to the CROPP Cooperative, and offer organic beef, pastured broiler chickens, eggs, and seasonal CSA shares. Sarah also manages two acres of mixed vegetables while raising the couple’s two children.

  * * *

  It’s a sweltering night in late July. Just as on so many other nights, I lie awake, one thought rolling into the next. Even with the window open wide, the air is still and stifling in this old Cape farmhouse. I roll onto my stomach, attempting sleep one last time. As I begin to nod off, I hear the faint cry from the room adjacent: “Mama? Mama?” Each call is progressively louder until I finally stumble out of bed and across the hall. It’s Cedar, my four-year-old, calling me.

  This is a child who has not slept through the night since the day she was born. I soothe her and stagger back to my bed twenty minutes later. It’s the second time tonight
she’s needed me to pull up the covers or get her some water. Now, as I drift off, I hear a cry from the crib in my room. I hesitate for a minute or two before I stand and cross the carpet. My sixteen-month-old, Reed, is quiet once in my arms as I carry him back to my side of the bed. The bad habit of bringing him into bed is a symptom of exhaustion. I can’t bear to stand there nursing him in my state. Lying down together, his belly is filled and my mind is too, and we’re bathed in the light of the moon outside my window.

  Dawn comes early, around five o’clock, and with it the blare of the alarm clock. This time of year you can’t hit the snooze button as you might in November. The day ahead of us is full. My husband, Garin, and I slip out of bed, not speaking a word but each dressing in the early-morning light. I have to sneak out quietly so as not to stir Reed in our bed. By five fifteen, Garin is headed out to bring in the cows for the first milking of the day and I’ve put on the coffee, the dogs and cats are fed, and the monitor is turned up to listen for the kids to awaken. The next two hours are my time. The children are asleep and I get to work, not bothered or harassed. Even the interns are still sleeping.

  The stacks of coolers around me in the kitchen are filled with dirty glass milk bottles. I glance at the clock, knowing I must get on it. The kids will wake up and then my progress will shut down. I scrub bottles as quickly as I can. By six fifteen, our interns start to wander in for a visit to the bathroom and to prepare breakfast. They must be ready to go by seven, so this hour can get a bit tight with all of us sharing one bathroom and one stove. I continue to wash bottles as the toaster pops and eggs sizzle on the stove.

  It’s seven o’clock now, and the ladies are sitting around, sipping coffee and chitchatting. Jumping into the conversation, I always start with: “All right, after you’re finished with the chickens . . .” They know this is how the day begins. I go on, telling them to head to “Boston” to harvest for market. The primary production garden at our farm earned that name when we told Cedar a couple of years ago that we were headed to the “far-out” garden. She said “We’re going to Boston!” with so much enthusiasm that the name stuck. The women are going to harvest new potatoes, onions, salad mix, broccoli, kohlrabi, tomatoes, peppers, and so on. Off they go, list in hands, and I watch out the window from the sink, where I continue to scrub away at the smelly yellowed milk bottles. I watch as they load up crates and baskets for the harvest. A part of me longs to join them, but the kids cry for breakfast and there are a few bottles still left to scrub. It’s often this way, the kids wanting or needing me for something and the job I’ve started not quite done.

  Fed, washed, and dressed an hour later, I load Reed into the backpack with Cedar following; we’re going to bottle milk. An hour passes and forty gallons are bottled. Loading all the coolers of clean, empty milk bottles is chore enough even without thirty extra pounds strapped to my back. Lifting a cooler filled with seven gallons of milk in glass bottles, with the thirty pounds in tow, is a good strength-building exercise. We finish putting the coolers into the van just as the interns are ready to load up the crates of clean and bunched vegetables for market.

  It’s ten thirty and the stress starts to hit, as I know we need to be out of here by eleven thirty at the latest. There are lunches to put together, diapers to change, water and sunscreen to pack. Now add to that filling the beef cooler, grabbing the extra milk out of the fridge, getting the eggs washed and boxed, and packing the market box. In my mind, I’m constantly reviewing the lists of all the things I can’t forget. I’m always running around on Tuesday mornings, tired and rushed, driven by caffeine and the ticking of the clock. It’s hard for the kids to be hustled around (“Get dressed, get your shoes . . .”). I sometimes bark commands at them as I would at the dogs. I rely on my good interns to aid me in tying up all the loose ends as we load up: buckle the kids, grab market bags, and don’t forget the pack-and-play.

  * * *

  Each day is like this for a farmer-mama. There are no vacations, Saturday gymnastics classes, or afternoons at the playground.

  * * *

  The kids and I are five minutes late in hitting the road, which is no surprise. We live by the five-to-ten-minute-late schedule every day. I have a few deliveries before we get to the market, which is forty miles away. I’m prepared for the drive. At each stop, Cedar will ask to get out and I’ll say, “No, we’re late, and I’m just going to rush in.” She and toddler Reed will fight about the water bottle and need to have food before I’m ready to serve it. I’ll carry a weighted cooler into each store with a smile even as I can hear them screaming at each other in the car. I mentally deny that my life is more difficult than any other mother’s, but the truth is that each day is like this for a farmer-mama. There are no vacations, Saturday gymnastics classes, or afternoons at the playground.

  We hope someday to have a farm that is sustainable enough that we can afford the help to cover for us and enable our children to have a life outside of work. For now, we believe we’re providing them with amazing experiences that many other children don’t get — a relationship with livestock, lots of fresh air and sunshine, terrific math skills (making change at the market, for example), great social skills from being with people, and so much more. But on many days, all this comes at a cost to our family.

  After deliveries, we have about a half-hour drive to the market site. There’s no radio in this old Dodge van, so usually the kids get quiet and nap. I’m tired from the night of lost sleep but push on, as I do every other day.

  Setup takes almost an hour this time of year, with so many beautiful vegetables to display. I pray each Tuesday as I pull into the parking lot that the children will sleep until I’m ready to sell, but the quiet click of the door always stirs Cedar. Sometimes I get lucky and can sneak her out without disturbing Reed, but not always. Today my prayers pay off, and I get her out in silence. The market is her playground, her territory, so she immediately takes off to get an apple from the orchardist or to help the manager set up signs. I start pulling out tables, coolers, and crate after crate.

  Of course, halfway through Reed begins fussing. Time is running out. Customers always start to arrive ten minutes early and I’m never ready. I pause in my setup to get out the pack-and-play, which I stick Reed into with a few toys, hoping this will work at least temporarily.

  Potatoes, tomatoes, greens, carrots, beets, and peppers need to find their space on the table. I’m a decorator of sorts as I listen to Reed fuss and watch out of the corner of my eye to make sure Cedar hasn’t run off or bothered people intent on setting up their own booths. Just as I predicted, at ten minutes before two o’clock some customers wander in. I hate to sell before I’m ready, but I do it week after week. I haven’t yet put out the price signs or topped off the basket of summer squash, but I greet them with a smile.

  “Hey there, what can I get for you today?” I say, as I scoop Reed over my shoulder and back into the backpack. They say, “Oh, take your time,” or “I can come back,” but I shrug it off and tell them I’m fine and ready to get them what they need. As the afternoon rolls on, I juggle the selling, letting Reed run around, conversing, topping off baskets as things get low, and putting empty crates into the van in hopes of getting a head start on the evening pickup. Cedar holds her own even if on occasion I have to remind her not to get in someone’s way or to give her brother some space. Sometimes she’s a big help by pushing Reed around in his stroller. Most of my customers are very understanding when I have to put them on hold to deal with a child. I appreciate that they know they’re supporting my family in so many ways.

  It’s six in the evening now, and the market is over. Pickup is faster than setup, but it’s still slowed by the kids, who are now turning into pumpkins. They’re tired and hungry, but this is what we do, and like it or not, they have to deal with it. Halfway through pickup, I buckle them in to keep them contained and away from the moving trucks and vans. They sense that I’m trying to finish so we can go home, and I think this helps them to be
more patient.

  Not long after we leave, the van quiets as they drift off for a late nap. I sing them a song. It is nice to have peace for the next half hour.

  By the end of the day, I feel fulfilled and worn out. It’s rewarding to raise food for people, which they feed to their children to nourish them and help them grow. I love to spend time explaining why local, why organic, why my farm, and how to cook or process something unique. I’ve changed people’s choices and, frankly, their lives, and that’s empowering. My children help me tell that story at every market. Whether it’s by Cedar selling onions one day or Reed’s glowing chubby cheeks and eyes that are the epitome of health, our story is beautiful and amazing.

  Even in our most challenging moments, as we go about our daily business, I know that every mom has these moments. I’m different, though. I’m a farmer and a mama; both are full-time jobs and both are the most difficult jobs in the world.

  Coming home, I find that my interns have prepared dinner while I was away, and they help me unload the kids and the leftover food from the van. At eight o’clock (sometimes later), I enjoy a glass of red wine with dinner and start to relax. Bedtime has challenges, too, and I know that I will be awakened several times throughout the night, but I still feel good. I’m exhausted as my head hits the pillow, but I have a belly full of the world’s best food, a hardworking husband beside me, two amazing children, three hundred beautiful acres to steward, animals to care for, and people to feed.

  Doing. Instead of Not Doing