New Growth in the Heart of Winter

When I started this blog last summer, I was longing for many things - connection, a creative outlet, a place to share the story of our work here at Old Man Farm. I imagined that blogging would bring me closer to friends and family, encourage other people striving to live more lightly on the earth, and give me time to reflect on our experiences.

What I did not anticipate is that the nature of our "work" would require me to transcend mere chronicling of events - would in fact lead me to share intimately about my own development and that of my family. For farming is not just about tilling the soil and tending the plants - it is ultimately about the the growth of the farmers, their journey into rootedness, their own cycles of dieback and new life, the regeneration of the human spirit.

If anyone is still visiting this poor, neglected site, you'll have noticed a rather long hiatus. For a while, we needed to focus all of our efforts on the challenges at hand, and I didn't have much extra energy for reflection. But a small, pestering voice has continued to remind me that writing fully about our experiences is the best course - both in terms of helping me reflect on our journey, and in terms of faithfully sharing that journey with others at a time in human history when having discussions about sustainability is crucial.

My New Year's resolution is to re-commit to this space, to this work: to chronicling the fragile, messy, glorious, riotous, painful, ecstatic experiment in sustainability that is Old Man Farm.

Fragile

I've been feeling a lot like this baby meadow vole this month: as if I'm a tiny, vulnerable being in the grip of an incomprehensible giant.

As an analogy, I guess, it's hopeful, considering that I rescued the vole from certain death in our laundry basket and released it back into the wild. I'm hoping that my giant intends something as benevolent, even if I can't see it right now through the layers of anxiety and exhaustion.

Part of me is tempted to try and write the following as a comedy. Perhaps, in another month or two (or year, or decade), it will even FEEL funny... but at the moment, I think I'm going to be honest and say that it's been one hell of a month.

It all started when a moose squished our car. The Farmer was driving at the time, and had just come down from the Highlands, where moose rule the road. He had just, in fact, chided himself for feeling relieved to be "out of moose territory" (because around here, there's really no such thing), when a dark shape loomed up out of the ditch. He hit her at knee level. She hit the car at windshield level. Thank whatever deity exists that the moose did not go through the windshield and squish my dear husband. She did, however, wrinkle the car too badly to repair, before getting up off the pavement and loping into the woods.

We dealt with the event philosophically. After all, my husband was unhurt, and we had a backup vehicle we could call into service. That's "had" - past tense. We drove the 1980-ish van to the "big city" to acquire some school supplies at the mall. While we were inside, experiencing deep culture shock and trying to block out the relentless music blasting in every store, the van was springing a massive gas leak out in the parking lot. Apparently, mall management paged us, but we didn't hear a thing. So... the van got towed to an impound yard, and we were stranded with two children, an hour and a half from home.

On the positive side (and believe me, I am treasuring all the positive sides right now), we encountered incredible help and compassion from a police officer called to the scene, and from some of the staff at Zellers. They helped us find a way home and, more importantly, offered encouraging words and steadying hugs.

Their kindness stayed with me during the following week, as we went through the maddening experience of trying to retrieve our van from its $20/day prison. The vehicle needed a lot of work, and it seemed to make sense to have it done by the company that had towed it, since they are also a repair facility. But it soon became apparent that the "grease mafia" wasn't interested in dealing squarely with us. They promised repair estimates, then didn't get back to us, then refused to tell me the name of the business owner... and meanwhile the daily charges were mounting. Finally, we had the van towed back to the village nearest to us, where it is now being tackled by someone we know and trust.

Being without a vehicle this far out in the country is a bit inconvenient, but we tried to be philosophical. After all, we're only making trips to town every week and a half or so. The bus picks the children up for school, and we grow more than enough food, so being carless isn't so bad. That is, until your water pump dies.

Yes, they say bad news comes in threes. Our number three was the demise of the water pump, and the attendant difficulty of getting someone - ANYONE - to help fix it. The Farmer gritted his teeth, rolled up his sleeves, and descended to the basement, determined to learn how to do it himself. After dismantling, testing, jigging, and fiddling, he decided that the best course of action was to replace the old pump. Which, of course, meant a trip to the big city, an hour and a half away.

Meanwhile, we received a call from school. My dear daughter was found to be harboring illegal aliens, and was to be sent home from school until the situation was resolved. So - a lice infestation, in combination with a lack of water. And, of course, we discovered the critters on the youngest's head as well. So much for bad news coming in threes.

Again, counting our blessings, we have good friends who loaned us their van, so my patient husband was able to acquire a new pump. He spent part of a day installing it, and it worked beautifully... until the defective switch gave out. At this point, having heard nothing from the plumbers with whom we had left desperate messages, we called a local furnace repair person, who was able to confirm that the switch was the problem. Back went the "old new pump," and home came the "new new pump." This time, the installation went smoothly, and water once again flowed in the little homestead.

With water flowing, we set about tackling the lice. I'll spare you the details of the ten day long comb-fest (except to note that the biggest obstacle, initially, was the Newt's deep ethical concerns about taking the lives of the innocent creatures who were, after all, only doing what Nature intended them to do...) The boys immediately got sporty buzz cuts, while the Newt chose to endure hours of combing and picking in order to save her beloved long locks.

All of this has been a diversion from the farm work we're supposed to be doing, of course, and it's felt a lot like treading water madly, but sinking anyway. The series of breakdowns and barriers and bugs has been more than inconvenient - it's been psychologically challenging, because it has thrown into sharp relief for us just how finely our lives are balanced here. As we struggle to create and model a more sustainable way of life, we also open ourselves up to more risk, because full time farming creates lots of food, but not (yet) much cash.

When you have the cash to "buy" repairs, or "buy" solutions to problems, breakdowns are irritating and inconvenient. When you make the choice to learn how to do your own repairs (or when finances force you to do so), breakdowns become a psychological testing-ground. The responsibility of "fixing it" for your children becomes all-consuming. Your own shortcomings, or perceived shortcomings, loom large. You realize that some people actually treat you differently - with less courtesy, or with outright derision - if you do not have the money to throw at a problem. You make decisions in reaction to crisis, rather than on desire (i.e. the need for a new water pump trumps the need to finish fixing the roof).

Thankfully, our series of breakdowns coincided with the arrival of our income tax rebate, so we were able to cover the costs of the water pump and tank, the towing, and some of the car repair bills. We have also received a bail-out from my Dad and his spouse, who have been steadfast in belief of our vision. We are all too aware that our efforts at "sustainability" have only been made possible by acts of generosity like theirs. We can only say that we are determined to use these gifts to create a true model of sustainability, and to work for systemic change that will enable greater sustainability for more people.

Once again, it's been the acts of kindness (small and large) that have given us something to cling to as the water rises. As things stand now, we're free of lice, replete with water, and on the road to being on the road. We've benefitted from the kindness of strangers, the generosity of friends, and a helping hand from loved ones, and grown in compassion for the countless people who are struggling WITHOUT any of those blessings.

May October bring better things!

What's Being Preserved

The first time I canned beans, it seemed like a miracle. In the Spring that year, my husband and I had hillled the soil, trading off the backpack containing our sleeping youngest child. I'd planted the smooth, oblong beans, not quite trusting that they would amount to... well... a hill of beans. When the little plants broke through the soil and began to unfurl themselves, I was jubilant. And when, many weeks later, I lifted the leaves and found long, brightly-colored beans where none had been only a few days before, I felt an absurd sense of accomplishment.

Pride turned quickly to dismay, as I carted laundry baskets full of yellow, green, and purple beans up to the house. I'd planted "a few extra beans, just in case some don't come up", only to have every blessed plant produce like crazy. And now, they were taking over the kitchen, piled in baskets and buckets and boxes, tumbling out of bags. The problem was, I'd only ever eaten them steamed, with butter. The entire family and half the community would have to eat steamed beans three times a day for the next month, to deal with this bounty!

And so, the pickling began. After the first few jars, I hit on a rhythm: put the jars in water to sterilize; wash the beans and boil water to blanch them; prepare the brine solution; blanch, rinse, and pack the beans in jars; add heads of dill and cloves of garlic; pour the brine, and seal. It was labour intensive, but pleasant - the kitchen was filled with a pungent, comforting steam. Pots hissed on the stove; jar lids popped.

When it was all done, I had a table full of beautiful food that I knew would help see us through the winter. And that, for me, was the miracle - the thought that I knew where our food had come from, and that we had been involved in it from seed to table. I knew exactly what the weather was doing on the day the seeds went in the ground. I'd felt the beans slip from my fingers into the soil. We'd kept the weeds at bay by hand, and knew that the soil and the growing plants were free of pesticides. I knew how the beans had travelled from the garden to my kitchen, and how they found their way into bottles in my cupboard. And I knew that, when winter came and the garden was barely a memory, those beans would taste like ambrosia.

Blackberry

Blackberries

Old Man Farm has a lot of virtues: fresh, clear air; abundant, sweet spring water; a soul-changing landscape. It is a breathtakingly beautiful haven. It is NOT, however, the technological center of the universe.

When we moved here a few years ago, we still - inadvertently - shared a telephone line with our next door neighbour. Our Internet connection is limited to "cold molasses dialup". There's way too much to do around here to bother with cable or satellite television. And we long ago gave up our cell phone package, after discovering we could only get the thing to work from the top of the barn.

We said goodbye to a lot of technology in our first year here, and only realized how dependent we had become on it all once we'd weaned ourselves from it. So we had quite a bit of sympathy for recent visitors from the city, who had to relinquish their technological habits "cold turkey" during their stay with us.

The thirteen year old probably had the worst time, at least initially. Cut off from a few favorite telivision programs, and unable to chat with friends back home via MSN or cell phone, she seemed to go through a few days of techno-DTs. But youth is resilient. Before long, she had risen to the challenge and learned to drive a farm truck, pick fresh beans, contend with goats, and make a wicked blackberry jam. By the end of her visit, she conceded that she might like to be a farm girl - at least for a few weeks a year.

Her father had his own techno-deprived pain.

"I should have realized my Blackberry wasn't going to work here," he mourned.

I tried to console him by pointing out that there's a whole patch of blackberries at the top of our hill. And, when you think about it, my blackberries have some advantages over his:

1. My blackberries are free
2. They're more nutritious
3. You won't get in trouble for taking one on an airplane

Of course, his Blackberry doesn't attract bears...

The Little Things

I wanted to find a beautiful picture of a jellyfish for today's blog entry, but there aren't too many of those on Old Man Farm (unless you count ME at the end of a long, long day). I chose another of the Farmer's stunning photos instead, hoping it will convey something about the beauty, the fragility, and the value of seemingly lowly creatures.

I've been thinking about jellyfish since last Friday, when the Farmer and I took our three children to an "end of swimming lessons" beach party down the shore. The Island Boat that ferries people over to the public beach was delayed, and soon a boisterous crowd of children and parents was lining the dock. The water sparkled. Newt and the Fireman were on their bellies, peering over the edge at a small school of fish. I looked around for Farmer-in-Training, and spied him trudging towards me, a dark look on his face. He planted himself in front of me.

"Mom," he said, "they're killing the jellyfish."

"Who is?" I asked.

"Those guys."

One of my son's good friends, and another boy of about the same age, were down at the end of the dock, trying to drop huge rocks on the jellyfish floating by.

"Kill him!"

"Gotcha, sucker!"

One rock connected with its target, smashing the jelly's surface and plunging it to the bottom. My stomach heaved. I looked around for the parents. Were they noticing this?

The parents - a teacher, and a teacher-in-training, were not close by, so I stepped in to talk with the boys. "It takes a village," and all that.

"What're you doing to the jellyfish?" I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.

"Killing them!" came the excited response.

"Why would you do that?" I asked.

"They sting, and they're stupid."

"But they can't sting you now - they can't jump up on the dock and sting you. Don't you think they have a right to live, just as much as you do?"

Apparently, the boys did NOT think so. After slinking away from me, they found fresh jelly targets at the opposite end of the wharf.

This time, the Farmer tried using a bit of humour and empathy-creation. "Okay, boys - why don't you two jump into the water, and we'll throw rocks at you and see how you like being a jellyfish."

By this point, everyone on the wharf has to have noticed the conversations we were trying to have with the two young boys. Not one other parent intervened. Some, in fact, rolled their eyes.

Now, I know those jellyfish weren't quaking in fear. I realize that they are literally brainless and that, as far as we can tell, they can't feel any pain. That's not the point. The point is that jellies are living beings with a role to play in the larger ecosystem. They are part of a complex food chain. And they're another unique and beautiful manifestation of creation. Their lives are worthy of respect.

Of course, it's true that we humans kill our fellow creatures under a variety of circumstances. Here on the farm, we take the lives of the animals we eat, for example, and we do so mournfully and with thanks to that animal for its gift to us. We may also, reluctantly, take the life of a creature that is threatening our livelihood, if there's no other way to deal with the problem. But we never, ever take a life "for fun".

What those little boys were being allowed to do on the wharf the other day was reinforcing the time-honored (and disastrous) notion of man having dominion over the rest of creation. And that experience will translate into increased distance between those children and the natural world. Perhaps you think I'm over-reacting? The same boys, after arriving on the Island, set out to hunt down a harmless garter snake in order to "chuck it down the outhouse hole."

Next time, I'm not lecturing the children. Next time, it's their parents who will get an earful.

Just wanted to clarify that the School Gardening post was actually posted on July 23. Blogger does not seem to want to let me change the date...

School Gardening - a Growing Adventure

My, how time flies. It's been almost two weeks since I last blogged, and I've received my first official complaint from "the readership." What have I been up to, if not blogging? Well, I've been preparing for a long-anticipated visit from a dear aunt, getting ready to host a WWOOFing family, and organizing a sleepover birthday party for a seven year old. (How'd THAT go? It was lots of fun, except for bedtime. A bit like playing a giant game of Whack-a-Mole...) So - back to the topic of School Gardening.

In early July, we planted a vegetable garden on the grounds of our little country school. July is late for planting, but we had to wait for volunteers to break new ground, disc and till the soil, and add compost. We were also delayed by a solid five weeks of rain, which turned the ground into such a marsh I almost gave up the vegetable idea in favour of rice.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Why did we plant a vegetable garden at a rural school, in a valley with a strong farming heritage? Most school garden programs target city schools, where kids may be out of touch with the land and where their food comes from. Isn't a gardening program in the country a bit... redundant?

Sadly, it's not. Although many of the children in our school come from a heritage of farming, none of their ancestral family farms have survived the advent of industrial agriculture. Many of these rural-dwelling children have parents with jobs in town - or jobs out West. Their food comes from the grocery store. Most had never put a seed in the ground until we started the school garden.

That's ironic, when you consider that this river valley once supported hundreds of small, self-sufficient farms. The typical farm would have supplied its own dairy, eggs, meat, fruit, and vegetables, as well as its own firewood. There was a strong network of trade among the farms, and a tradition of mutual assistance. Of course, the work was labour-intensive, the days were long, and nobody got rich. But, as our county councillor recently remarked, "At least back then we couldn't be starved out of here."

The reasons for the decline of the family farm are complex, and a topic for another time. Suffice to say that starting a vegetable garden at the school is, at least in part, an attempt to reconnect the children with their own heritage. Now, I want to be clear that I'm NOT talking about approaching this as a "living history" lesson. This is not about keeping the past alive, or promoting a nostaligia for an obsolete method of farming. This is about sowing the seeds of revolution.

The small, sustainable family farm is not dead. It has taken a severe beating, yes, and it has hung on for a number of years by the barest of threads. But I believe that the small family farm is in the midst of a revival. In fact, I believe the family farm MUST be revived, if North Americans are going to cope with the coming crises resulting from Peak Oil and Climate Change. Relocalization of food production is going to become crucial. Industrialized agriculture, with its dependency on fossil fuels, is simply not sustainable. We need people who know how to grow food locally, without reliance on fossil fuel inputs (fertilizers, pesticides, fossil-fuel-driven implements, packaging, refrigeration, - all dependent on oil.)

When you teach children how to grow their own organic food, you're undertaking a powerful, political act. When a child experiences the physical connection between her hands, the soil, and the food that grows out of that soil, she has been directly empowered to think beyond the constraints of obsolete regulations, money, and power structures. The child discovers that she can use her own hands, her own mind, and her own labour to work with the soil and nurture the growth of healthy, delicious food. The result is a growth in self-confidence, physical strength, health, and awareness that she, too, grows out of the land.

And Another Thing...

Continuing on yesterday's theme (because I guess I didn't get it all out of my system yesterday)... What message are our children deriving from our society's preoccupation with "regulating" safety?

Now, before I ruffle too many feathers, let me reiterate: I believe in taking sensible safety precautions. I do believe a certain level of regulation makes sense. Seat belts save lives, and all that. Wonderful. What I'm railing against is the sorry notion that rules, regulations, and little pieces of paper can (or should!) protect us from every possible ill that might befall us. And I'm railing for a few reasons:

1. Human beings can not, even with their very best efforts, control the universe. Society's micro-management of "risk" is a symptom of humanity's misplaced faith in itself, in its ability to bend the rest of the world to its will, to control, dictate, and order events. This mindset is currently getting us into all sorts of trouble. As a species, we have major control issues, I reckon! Perhaps we obsess about the minutiae because - at heart - we know we can't control the big things. You know, Death, Destiny...

2. The Law of Diminishing Returns applies to safety, as well. We're now paying a battallion of experts to micro-manage risk. The inspectors from our school board, for example, get paid in the vicinity of $30 per hour to attend seminars (bringing them up to date on the latest safety standards), and drive all over the district making picky little changes to perfectly sound equipment. Parents, Home and School Associations, and school staff waste time, money, and energy "fixing" the "problems" the inspectors identify. And nobody is appreciably safer.
(Hey, in fact, aren't we putting all those inspectors at increased risk? The more driving around they do, the greater their risk of dying on the highway... And isn't all that driving contributing to climate change? Now THERE'S a risk we're not doing much to mitigate...)

3. The micro-management of risk is preventing us from experiencing things. We're safer, all right. We're also less active, more overweight, more fearful, and less alive. Think I'm overstating, here? Let me tell you about the Girl Guides of Canada and its new response to managing risk. "Safe Guide" is a phone book sized risk management tool that all leaders must read and pass a course on in order to be certified Guiders. It was written (presumably by a team of lawyers) in response to the tragic deaths of some Girl Guides at a camp a couple of years ago. Actually, that's not entirely accurate. It was written in response to the lawsuits arising out of the tragedy.

Now, the accident itself was terrible. The adults in charge behaved irresponsibly, and girls drowned. The whole scenario was unequivocally unacceptable.

But the response, in the form of Safe Guide, has been extreme. A leader who is following Safe Guide to the letter must now perform a written risk assessment in advance of every activity. And by activity, I do not simply mean boating, rock climbing, camping, or other potentially risky endeavors. I mean activities like allowing the girls to operate a glue gun. If we want to take our girls swimming, according to Safe Guide, we must now send a leader to the pool (the nearest of which is an hour away) three weeks in advance, to perform an on-site inspection and photocopy the lifeguards' certificates. We must then fax an application to the Girl Guides' head office, and obtain a go-ahead.

Now, really. Can't we assume that a publicly operated swimming pool will have checked the credentials of its own lifeguards? Can you think of any cases in which swimming facilities accidentally hired, say, a circus clown instead of a certified life guard? Is the leader's investement of driving time, gasoline, and energy, truly reducing a risk? Is this making anyone safer?

The result of Safe Guide, for our group, has been that we don't even attempt to do dangerous stunts like boating, rock climbing, or camping. We do an awful lot of crafts. Without a glue gun.

4. We're shifting responsibility away from the individual. This is the message I'm most concerned about, when it comes to what our children are getting out of all of this. Rather than taking the time to teach our children to be aware of their own environment, their own abilities, their own limitations, we are telling them that safety is somebody else's responsibility. Safety is supposed to be a shared responsibility. The manufacturer of a baby "Exersaucer" has a responsibility to use a baby-safe design and materials, and to inform consumers about standard operating procedures. The parents of the baby have a responsibility NOT to use the Exersaucer as a sled or a flotation device.

A society that focuses all its attention on regulations, without taking the time to educate and empower individuals, is a society that gives rise to phenomena like consumers suing McDonalds' for making them fat. (I am NO fan of McDonald's. I won't darken their golden-arched doorway, and I hope that fast food in general will eventually become as reviled as public nose-picking. But really, even McDonalds' most evil corporate stooge did not forcibly invade private homes and shove Big Macs down people's throats.)

5. We're focusing on the wrong issue. The obsession with micro-managing risk in the interest of "public safety" is diverting our attention from the truly risky behaviours our society is engaged in. It is ironic to me that, a mere couple of miles from our recently-dismantled (and perfectly safe) school playground, there is an overflowing septage lagoon that was quietly ignored by the provincial Department of the Environment, until local residents began noticing how bizarre their water looked. The lagoon's operators broke every regulation in the book. They even broke holes in the side of the holding tank when they realized it was too full, so that they could drain off some gunk and continue filling from the top. Where were the safety regulations that were supposed to protect those downstream? Where were the dilligent safety inspectors then?

Sigh. You know, I think I'll take a break from ranting in my next blog installment. The whole thing is tiring, and I need to remember to balance the challenges and the triumphs. But at some point, I will return to this last point - "focusing on the wrong issue" - and look at how it relates to farming, food, and public health.

But tomorrow, a happier topic: Growing a garden at school!

The Swing of Things

What do you see in this photo? I see a little girl fully engaged with her world. Shoes off, enjoying the squish of mud between her toes, she's looking for pollywogs, waterskaters, and possibilities. If she finds something interesting, she'll pick it up, find out about it. Or just watch.

But there's another camp of observers who undoubtedly see something else in this picture. First of all, the little girl is not wearing a hat and sunglasses to protect her from the sun. She's carrying a stick - what if she falls on it and pokes her eye out? And heaven only knows what's in that puddle. She could cut her foot on glass! Besides, she's going to get DIRTY!

It is, apparently, these observers who are in charge of playground safety compliance for our school board. They are a dilligent lot - nobody can complain that they're not taking the job seriously. By gum, if there's a new safety standard, it's going to be applied. Rigorously! So rigorously, in fact, that our school has had its swings removed for non-compliance. The children are safe now, alright. Nobody ever got injured staring forlornly at a swingless swingset (although, if and when someone DOES get injured in this activity, I'm sure there'll be a new standard to take care of that).

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm all for safety. And so are the 15 or so other adults who have been trying to bring the swingset up to "code" for the past two school years. We did not build the thing out of popsicle sticks and binder twine, and locate it in a swamp full of alligators. No, we obtained the specifications from the school board, and had the swingset built to those standards.

So, what's the problem?

The problem is that the standards keep changing. First, we had to replace the pea gravel we'd used under the swings, as it was the wrong grade. (Replace pea gravel - check.) Then the inspectors decided the chains were the wrong gauge. (Buy new chains - check). Then the seats were the wrong type of material. (Acquire rubber seats - check.) Then the chains (correct gauge, now) needed to be painted with a special type of paint. (Cue Picasso - check). Then we had to cut down the trees behind the swingset, just in case a child might decide to jump off the swing into a tree. (Axe the trees - check.)

You have to understand that every change requires a vote at Home and School, which meets once a month, and holds the purse strings. It gets to be a bit weird to show up at meeting after meeting, only to discuss the swingset... again. Feels a bit like that Star Trek episode... you know, the one where they all end up playing poker, again and again? At least the Enterprise crew had snacks...

Anyway. We're still not up to code. By the time we've axed the trees, the standards have changed again, and now we need pea gravel spread to a distance of seven feet on either side of the swingset. And the clincher: now our new chains are substandard (yes, really) because the "new" standard requires all chains to be plastic-coated. And that's where we've lost the race, because we haven't been able to source the correct gauge of chain WITH plastic coating.

The super-dilligent safety team has taken the swings down, pending our ability to comply.

Now, this entire farce is obviously NOT about safety. Unless I've missed the nation-wide rash of children dying terrible deaths because they landed on pea gravel that's two millimeters away from standard. Or perhaps I'm unaware of the statistics showing that children's hands are being horribly maimed by non-plastic-coated swingset chains. If we're truly this concerned about our children's safety, we ought to just wrap them individually in bubble wrap and set them out on the lawn for recess. Forget the swings.

No, I think the reality is that we've constructed a swingset that could withstand a class five hurricane. The reality is that the majority of playground injuries occur, not due to unsafe equipment, but to lack of adult supervision. The reality is that we are living in a society that is increasingly getting in its own way with standards, rules, and requirements that no longer achieve anything meaningful.

IS this about safety? Or is it about perpetually refining the requirements in order to justify the highly-paid bureaucracy that runs it all?

Experimental Structures

Last week, the Mountain Man came down from his Eden to help us build a shade structure for our garden.

Of the various hairy young men "going back to the land" around here, Mountain Man is probably the hairiest, and probably also the most prepared for the rugged life he's chosen. He began with a piece of land and a wood stove that he rolled up the mountain all by himself. Now, his kingdom includes a self-built cabin, a fully occupied hen house, productive gardens, and a hammock from which to survey his domain.

I love Mountain Man's forest home. Terraced gardens spill a profusion of vegetables down the mountainside. Carved men sprawl like Rip van Winkel under spruce trees. The cabin itself - built by hand without a plan - is decorated with shells, stones, bits of tin, pressed into stucco, pretty as jewels. Mountain Man sees every scrap of material as a possibility. Any other man's junk becomes his treasure. I have never before seen a home that is such a perfect externalization of its owner's interior state.

So when the Farmer suggested we ask Mountain Man to teach us how to build with felled saplings, I was pretty enthusiastic. I'd wanted to build a simple "teepee" shape out of poles for my Scarlet Runner beans to grow on - mainly to give the children a shady respite on hot gardening days. But Mountain Man's experiments with tree weaving had produced structures that were much more beautiful, useful, and long-lasting.

Helpfully, the Universe had provided us with a convenient cache of materials, in the form of about forty felled maple saplings our neighbour had cleared away from his "view" in the spring. Unable to find time to burn the brush, he was happy to let us drag them away (though doubtless a bit puzzled). WWOOFer Ashley (from England), the Farmer, my middle son (Farmer-in-Training), my youngest son (The Fireman), Mountain Man and I met in the garden to begin construction.

Mountain Man began by planting two saplings about one and a half feet deep, directly across from each other. He then bent the tops towards each other and twisted the branches together. To my surprise, they held easily. It seemed to me that their natural springiness would make it difficult to join them, but they twined together like teenagers at a dance. After that, "construction" became a matter of planting more trees around the perimeter of the circle, bending the tops down, and joining them as before. Smaller saplings were woven horizontally through the uprights.

When I asked Mountain Man to explain his technique, he replied, "I just kinda let the tree tell me what it wants to do."

The resulting structure looks a lot like a giant basket, and already provides a great deal of shade. I can't wait to see what it will look like with a covering of red-blossomed runner beans. My only disappointment is that you can't build a permanent home this way. What a way to build! No blueprints to squint at, no nails to drive, no angles to join, no math to do - a completely intuitional way of creating.

There's a lesson here, I just know it, although I'm trying hard to just enjoy my shade house for what it is, rather than trying to make it stand for some gigantic philosophical tangent I'm taking. I think it's a reminder of what can happen when we don't demand utter control over things, when we let circumstances and the materials at hand dictate our path. When we let the tree tell us what it wants to do.

Shoo, Fly - Don't Bother Me!

Visitors to Old Man Farm often find themselves dancing. Within minutes of their arrival, people are hopping from side to side, waving their arms in the air, and dodging to and fro in an exotic rhythm reminiscent of experimental modern dance.

I'd love to be able to say that these folks are inspired by the landscape, or that their souls are so deeply moved by all we've accomplished here (muffled laughter) that they are dancing for joy. But I can't. The cold, hard truth is that most of our visitors have never encountered the sheer diversity of biting insects that exist here in God's Country. They dance because they are unused to being welcomed by a winged horde intent on making them - literally - one with nature.

You have to appreciate that each insect has its own personality, and will greet you accordingly. Clouds of black flies descend like adoring groupies, and try to get to know you intimately by crawling inside your ears, nose, and mouth. The mosquitoes greet you in embracing swarms, reaching out with long appendages to beckon you "come hither." At night, there are the no-see-ums - shy creatures that approach quietly en masse, leaving you with a sense of betrayal and burning. Finally, the horse flies and deer flies offer their up-front, no-nonsense greeting - "Hello! I'm here to bite you painfully on the ass."

Visitors to Paradise are often completely undone by this welcome. They huddle in the house, or swathe themselves like living mummies and go stumbling about in the fields. They fumigate themselves with enough chemicals to kill an entire Insectarium. They complain. Loudly. There is almost a sense of moral outrage. People want to imagine a pastoral ideal - gently rolling hills of green dotted by contented cows; fields of daisy and buttercup; the contented farmer surveying his domain. Nobody ever imagines the flies.

Flies are, to my mind, the true litmus test of whether someone can survive and thrive in this setting. People who are suited to country life discover and embrace one secret: Flies are a state of mind.

Think about it. There are over 100 species of black flies in Canada. The mosquito exists everywhere in North America, except for a couple of tiny islands in the Arctic (a setting which, despite its admirable lack of flies, has other obvious challenges). There are 75 species of horse fly, 42 of deer fly, and heaven-only-knows how many no-seeums (they're pretty small - perhaps they're too difficult to count). You can wear appropriate clothing, invest in a bug suit, avoid peak fly periods, adopt DEET as your new cologne, but the reality is - flies are unavoidable. Resistance is futile. You WILL be assimilated... at least, portions of you.

So here is the secret, Little Blossom. You must become one with the flies. Do not fight them. Move toward the flies. Find and embrace your inner fly. Do not dance, Little Blossom. BE THE FLY.

Moose, Spruce Grouse, and Another Bear. Oh My!!

Not long after I posted today's blog, we had a visit from one of the various hairy young men who are building cabins in the woods 'round here. Mike is actually less hirsute than some, to be fair. A tall, willowy man with expressive hands and a soft German accent, Mike approaches his cabin-building with keen precision and a small collection of old hand tools. He builds well, but he doesn't build fast. Which is why, when the curious bear ambled onto Mike's patch, he came nose to nose with Mike at the door of the tent which is our friend's temporary residence.

"What did you do?" the Farmer asked him.

"I yelled at him to go away," replied Mike. "I screamed Go! Go!"

"In English, or in German?" inquired the Farmer.

Whatever the language, it must have translated well into "Bear." After snuffling about a bit and, apparently, satisfying its curiousity, the bear shuffled off. Kai and I agreed that our bear sighting was much more agreeable.

"I had the same problem with a moose when I went hiking last month, too," Mike sighed. He was hiking a Highland trail well known for its moose population, when he rounded a turn and came face to face with a mother moose and two tiny offspring. Hedged in on both sides by impenentrable tuckamore, Mike was at an impasse: wait for the moose to move, or hike back to the trail head. Quite sensibly, he waited. Waited for half an hour, in fact, from a respectful distance, popping his head out of the tuckamore occasionally to check on the moose's mood, and backing away again when she glared at him.

"And then I got attacked!"

"By another moose?" We were incredulous.

"No, by a grouse."

The Spruce Grouse is a small bird that looks a lot like a chicken. According to Mike, the female of the species can peck quite viciously. It actually chased him down the trail, pecking as it ran. I tried to muster up some sympathy, but then failed. The Farmer was already falling out of his chair, laughing.

Looking on the bright side, if Mike had to be attacked by one of the creatures he encountered, at least it was the Spruce Grouse!

Eagles and Snakes and Bears, Oh My!

Obviously, the picture does not go with the title. But I don't have a picture of the eagle, the snakes, or the bear, and I do just happen to have this photo of a moose, taken by the Farmer on a recent foray into the Highlands.

As for the other critters... It all started on Monday, when I went to pick up our latest WWOOFer from the bus station. Kai is from Germany, and he's never been to our neck of the woods before, so I thought I'd take the most scenic route home, over the mountain. It was about 8:30 at night - just dusk. As we approached the crest, I saw something in the middle of the road. A big something - deeply black against the fading pink of the sky. My brain went into one of those gear-grinding spirals that happen when you can't quite process what you're seeing. My first thought was, "How did one of the cows get up here?"

Lots of people around here have seen bears. My neighbours down the road see them quite regularly. My next door neighbour's grandson pedaled up to one inadvertently on his bike (then pedaled away quite quickly). Sometimes, depending on the bear, people will say "I thought it was a large dog." The bear I saw on the mountain did not, in any way, resemble a dog (unless we're talking Cerberus). He was magnificent - black, sleek fur, and apparently quite well fed. And definitely the size of a yearling Highland cow.

Kai was ecstatic. "I've only been here for three weeks, and already I see a bear!" He was equally ecstatic when a mature Bald Eagle flew over us as we drove along the lake shore. I was more excited about the bear, eagles being as common as pigeons around here. Still, an eagle in full glide is an admittedly impressive sight.

Kai's vocal tone conveyed much less ecstasy the following morning, after his first night's sleep in the shed loft (hastily but, I thought, cozily converted to guest accomodations). "Do you have any poisonous snakes around here?" he asked, over a bowl of cereal. We do not, in fact, have poisonous OR venomous snakes here in God's Country. (The Creator figured that, after dishing our the black flies, mosquitoes, deer flies, horse flies, and sand flies, dangerous snakes would be far too cruel).

"No," I replied. It was a question I'd already answered for Ashley, our WWOOFer from England, who had asked it politely upon discovering a garter snake in his wheelbarrow of mulch.

"Ah, that's good," said Kai. "Then the one in my bed won't be a problem."

I have to commend our visitor on his fortitude. A snake - poisonous, venomous, or otherwise - is not the most agreeable bedfellow. But Kai took it in stride. I suppose he was just grateful it wasn't a bear.

Keira

This is the newest member of the Old Man Farm animal community: Keira the Highland cow, named in honor of our first "WWOOFer." WWOOFers are "Willing Workers on Organic Farms," volunteers from all over the world who stay on organic farms to learn, experience local culture, travel inexpensively, and enjoy a unique vacation experience. This is our first summer as WWOOF hosts, and so far we have enjoyed the company (and assistance) of five different visitors, all of whom have brought their own particular gifts to share.

Keira (the WWOOFER) was a lively, energetic twenty-something who blew into Old Man Farm like a wild spring wind. In her week with us, she organized the barn shop, dug strawberry beds and planted strawberries, hauled firewood, loaded junk on the dump truck, helped retrieve our second-hand greenhouse from its previous location, pulled the children uphill and down on a sled (no, we do NOT still have snow), and generally endeared herself to all of us with her joyful, positive spirit.

A mere four hours before her departure on the bus to North Sydney, Keira was fortunate to experience the birth of the little beauty in the picture above. We all watched in awe as mom Ginger worked through her labour and pushed the little beast into the world on a warm, spring evening. Keira drank in the experience. I loved watching her, watching the birth - she was so fully open, so present in the moment, so aware of her privelege in witnessing the event.

Some people might feel... well, ambivalent, at best, about having a calf named after them. Keira, to her credit, was honored. And little Keira (the MOOer, not the WWOOFer), seems to be thriving.

A Thousand Dabs of Mud

I trudged slowly into Spring, this year. My bones creaked. Usually, I jump into my rubber boots and greet Spring like a friend who's been away far too long - with enthusiasm and delight. But this year, the winter frost heaved up some challenges that drained much of my psychic energy.

Metres above my head, untouched by the fog bank surrounding my brain, the cliff swallows showed no such sluggishness. They were paragons of industry, zipping from mud hole to eaves and back again at top speed, applying the thousand tiny dabs of mud it takes to build each perfect nest. There are so many swallows here, all building with an enthusiasm that would put suburban Toronto land developers to shame. The air fairly hummed.

They are either birds of great vision, or great faith, I figure. They spend hour upon hour, day after day, swooping across the field to snatch a dab of mud, exploding up again from the ground and speeding off to stick the dab onto the side of the house. For ages, it doesn't look as though they're making any sort of progress. But then, all of a sudden, you look up and there are these majestic domes, practical, comfortable, with babies peeking out. Some of these architectural masterpieces are strong enough to last through winter's fierce storms.

Our work here at Old Man Farm is a bit like this - a thousand dabs of mud that don't look like anything much. We, too, hold a vision in our heads and have faith that our daily efforts will some day create a work of art.

The First Post

For years, I have imagined keeping up a regular correspondence with the people I care about. I have even kept an optimistic cache of notepaper in my roll-top desk, to be used on that oft-imagined day when I find time to write. In more recent years, I have thought that an annual Christmas letter would be a more reasonable way of keeping in touch. (Don't look feverishly through your stack of mail for last year's letter - you didn't get one.) I am somewhat better at emailing people, as emailing is an activity one can participate in even with small children hanging off one's body... But the grim truth is (as most of you know) that I am NOT good at communicating individually and fully with all of the people in my life.

This blog is my attempt to remedy that situation.

The reason I'm feeling compelled to improve my communication is that I find myself, at age 37, settled in a breathtaking corner of the world and working on a project we could not possibly have undertaken without the help of many of YOU. I want to be able to share my gratitude, my vision for this place, my small triumphs, and a few of my challenges, with the people who helped put me here.

We will be sharing the unfolding story of Old Man Farm, our family life, our efforts toward sustainability, and our involvement in community development. We will also be posting some pictures... and trying to entice some of you to come and visit!

For now, here's a picture of Old Man Farm. More to come!