Journey to the Center of the Mirth (Part One)

It has been a largely unbloggable week here as we deal with the "joys" of farm refinancing. To remind myself of life's more celebratory aspects, I'm taking some time to chronicle our recent trip to the Pacific Northwest.

TUESDAY, AUGUST 25th:
After doing the morning chores, grabbing a hurried early lunch, and laying things out for the farmsitter, (including three pages of instructions, a sixpack of local ale, and our entire library of Celtic tunebooks for his perusal), we departed for the airport. Both of our flights were happily uneventful, though the second flight became a bit more interesting when the captain came on the loudspeaker and announced that we were in the care of an all-woman crew, from captain and co-pilots to flight attendants. Huzzah!

We were greeted at the Sea-Tac airport by my father, who whisked us away to the island on which I grew up. We admired the last lingering sunset light over Puget Sound as we made our way to the ferry dock. Dad flashed two little cards at the dock-worker, who zapped them with a handheld scanner. I felt wistful for the plain paper tickets of my youth. Then it was over the Sound, up the hill, and along the winding island byways, under the looming evergreens, to my parents' garden-encircled house. We were greeted by the rescue beagle's shrill bugling, the tumbling, lolloping boisteriousness of two Gorden Setter puppies, my little brother's laughing attempts to corral them, and my mother's welcoming embrace. With my father still spinning stories, my mother playing games on her laptop, and my brother chuckling at sitcoms, we stumbled off to bed in my sister's old room, tripping over puppies on the way.


WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 26th:
We woke at five o'clock. The place felt eerily silent. It felt foreign. Something was wrong. The Piper and I looked at each other in the dim pre-dawn light. "Er-a-er-er-oooooh!" I crowed, as quietly as I could. "Ah, that's better..." The Piper murmured. We willed ourselves back to sleep for an hour, then woke up again, fighting the urge to rush out and do chores. I was afraid this would happen. I don't remember how to have a vacation!

Mid-morning, we accompanied Mother on her delivery rounds for her organic cut-flower business. She and her friend run a handful of flower stands around the island with ready-made bouquets from their gardens, as well as selling subscription bouquets to a few local businesses. When we stopped to deliver a bouquet to my childhood chiropractor, Mom treated me to a much-needed adjustment. Our chiropractor is worth the trip cross-country! (I'm uninsured and the ones in Maine charge three times as much, so I rarely use their services, regardless of how much I need them.)

We headed back out of town. It was comforting to see some familiar sights--the old hardware store, the community art center, (a revamped Odd Fellows Hall), the "village green" where the farmers sell their wares... In between the familiar storefronts, I was surprised by a thick crop of new restaurants, including one with the words "sushi bistro." My goodness!

Mother walked us through her sprawlingly beautiful, outrageously productive gardens that afternoon. From the island's glacial till, with the help of abundant compost and added topsoil, she has coaxed an amazing variety of flowers and edibles. There were ripe strawberries and tomatoes. There were heathers and heucheras and hellebores. There were sweetly fragrant roses cascading over the old copper-pipe arbor I built for her years ago. There were bold dinner-plate dahlias and delicate sprays of my favourite flower, Love-in-a-mist (Nigella).

At suppertime, The Piper and I headed a few miles down the road to Holmestead Farm. There we were introduced to the family--and farm--of a childhood friend. We toured their massive restoration project: an orchard full of heirloom-variety trees, all carefully and lovingly pruned and tended according to biodynamic principles. We peeked through high deer-fencing at their bountiful berries and other garden crops and watched their children race and tumble as chickens strutted confidently around the grounds. It would have been enough, that educational and inspirational tour of another farm family's endeavors, but there was more to come: after The Piper treated them to an impromptu concert on the smallpipes, our hosts reciprocated with a phenomenal dinner of (island-grown Scottish Highland!) beef carpaccio and a lovely fresh vegetable soup with white beans and shrimp, followed by just-picked raspberries and sliced peaches for dessert. Fueled by such excellent food and such nourishing company, we talked until long after all farmers should be in bed-- especially an island farmer who has a long sunrise commute to an Off-Farm Job on the mainland! (Sorry about that, Toby-- hope you got off to work okay!) We'll savour the memory of this visit for years to come. We look forward to the day we can return the favour and host them as guests at OUR farm.


THURSDAY, AUGUST 27th:
The morning's agenda was laid out for us: set up several buckets full of hot water. Add a bit of sugar and a splash of bleach to each bucket, then stir until dissolved. Take the buckets into the garden and pick all the good blue, purple, green,--yes, green--white, pink, and peach flowers with the longest stems you can manage. Plunge the stems into the hot water. This helps "set" the petals and extends the vase-life of the flowers. When each bucket is full, take it to the Cool Room (Mom's flower-processing room in the garage). Early the next morning, these buckets would all be packed into my mother's Scion for the long drive to Portland, Oregon for My Big Brother's Wedding!!!

The rest of the day, we eased ever-closer to vacation mode, ambling out to stuff our mouths with wild blackberries, perusing my parents' bookshelves, watching the puppies play, and cooking. My little brother coached me through his favourite enchilada recipe. How lovely, to work together in the kitchen! Then it was off to collect The Piper's Son (with sweetie in tow) from the ferry dock so they could join us for an island potluck and music session. Ah, the glorious of late-summer potlucks! Smoked salmon spread! Paroxysms of Pie!

The music was hesitant at first, but The Piper played smallpipes for a while as the gathering made its way from lawn to deck. A couple of people thumbed idly through a copy of "Rise Up Singing" and called out lyrics and tunes. We managed "Bright Morning Stars" just as the sun went down.


(Tune in tomorrow for Part Two: comida a la Kelso, deck repair on-the-fly, and my Big Brother's Wedding!)

No More Bull.

Friday the 13th came on a Thursday this month... at least for Broilleach, our 2-year old Scottish Highland bull. He's still a wee lad compared to some of the newer, more hybridized beef animals you'd see on other farms, but it was definitely Time For Him To Go.

We were clear about our plan from the very beginning: any female cattle born on our farm would become breeding stock, to be kept or sold as needed, but male offspring would be raised for beef. As confirmed meat-eaters, we chose to raise our own meat animals. (I have considered vegetarianism in the past, but strong allergies to soy and other non-meat proteins led me to an omnivorous option.) We committed ourselves to animal-rearing practices that would ensure optimal health and well-being for all of us. As Joel Salatin advocates, we would create an environment where pigs could indulge in their full "pigness," cows could revel in their full "cowness," and chickens could...um...be all chickeny and stuff.

Broilleach, whose name means "Beef Brisket" in Scottish Gaelic, was the first calf born on our land to Iona, our Cattlefold matriarch. We charted out a plan for one initial two-acre field and three additional fields to be developed the following year for rotational grazing purposes. Thanks to a one-year delay in field development, those fields weren't ready when we needed them. The forages in that central pasture could not keep pace with the needs of one cow, two heifers, and one hungry, growing bull calf. Broilleach started seeking low spots along the fence line and busting the spring-wire gate to find better food. The female cattle never initiated any similar behavior, but if he busted through, they were happy to follow once they were sure of the gap.

"You'll never be able to do in your first one..." So said Iona's previous owner when he sold us our bred heifer. We smiled back at him and said that, if the first calf born on our farm was a male, we most certainly would, because we did not have the money to keep such large animals as pets. Broilleach's name (pronounced BROYL-yock) was chosen as a reminder to ourselves. True to our promise, we raised the bull calf for the standard 18 months recommended for Highland beef cattle, then kept Broilleach just long enough to be reasonably sure that he'd bred both our heifers. After that, well, that grass-guzzling fence-breaker had to go.

Mr Bisson and his boy came down to our farm yesterday morning with their trailor. We had Broilleach and the other cattle up on the front lawn, roped in with portable electric fencing. True to his nature, Broilleach made one last successful plunge through the fence, but it seemed to be mostly for show-- after a few defiant chomps on the rugosa rose bushes and a momentary tangle with the forsythia, we routed him back towards the lawn and he stepped daintily over the dropped-but-live fence wire. Thanks to two years of frequent handling including hand-fed treats and regular brushing, Broilleach stood a couple of feet from the open trailer and calmly allowed Mr. Bisson to drape, then tighten, a rope over his horns. After the end of the rope was secured inside the trailer, Mr. Bisson grabbed one horn, his son grabbed the other, and they led that great, hairy beast up and into the trailer. Now THAT'S grabbing the bull by the horns!!!

In a few days, we'll get a call from Bisson's butcher shop, then we'll drive up to pick up our boxes of pretty white packages. We'll also take home his horns--I have a rather indulgent, silly dream of having them made into something splendid like a pibgorn, a Welsh member of the bagpipe family--the only one I've ever successfully tried to play. (We wanted to save his hide and have it tanned, but the cost was sadly prohibitive.) We'll sell about half of the meat to cover our butchering costs and keep the rest for our own freezer and table. Our winter meals will be seasoned with the savoury knowledge that this animal lived a good and decent life, free from the stress of toxic management and the cruelty and disease of feedlots.

So, look out world-- our house is days away from being done and our horrible year is behind us. In September, we'll finally fence in those new fields. Next year, there'll be enough grass for cows and calves both. Goodness knows whether we'll get heifer calves or more baby bulls. For now, though, this is one farm with NO MORE BULL!

Failte! Welcome to the Tir na nOg Farm blog!

Strange it is for a Luddite like myself to go a-blogging, but here we are, and here we go!

Like many women farmers, we are "undercapitalized." We are careful to manage our debts and strenuously avoid taking on any more. We own few pieces of farm equipment other than a gloriously inadequate assortment of hand tools. Our lack of a tractor, in particular, provokes much eye-rolling and head-scratching from the non-female farmers hereabouts. (Admittedly, it provokes some occasional hand-wringing from us, too, but we delight in the related lack of payment books and fuel bills!) Without a tractor, we are forced to use other tools: the telephone, our wits, and our computer. These tools allow us to banter & barter for the services of others in our local agricultural economy.

Poverty and isolation have always dogged those who choose the farming life. Celts have always struggled to balance a love for the land with a hunger for exploration and innovation. We look forward to flexing some new "connective tissues" as we test this particular tool. A computer may not be able to harrow a field, but it can help us plow through possibilities. A blog may not scatter or secure a crop's worth of seeds, but it may scatter a few useful ideas and help them grow... (I hear it's pretty effective as a manure-spreader, too.)

The original Luddites did not reject technology altogether. Rather, they resisted those technologies which would harm, rather than contribute to, a healthy & well-lived life. Now, I'm not sure how the "carbon footprints" of computers and tractors compare. I'm also not sure we'd resist the purchase of a tractor if an affordable, easy-to-maintain model showed up. In the meantime, the computer is the one piece of serious farm equipment we have, so we aim to use it as best we can.

With that, my friends, we welcome you to Tir na nOg Farm and our farm blog. Bear with us! Enjoy the adventure along with us and all our lovely Celtic creatures. Watch for pictures and see how the farm takes shape, the gardens expand, and the animals grow. Step out into the field and dig your own roots alongside us as we explore Celtic cultures, traditions, and ideas. You never know what might turnip...

P.S. Our Scottish Highland cattle would have preferred a presence on MooTube, but they found videography didn't really behoove them.