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...