1,008 CSA shares packed - time to turn the page to Season 8!

1,008 CSA shares grown on about 3 acres by 2 1/2 farmers (counting Silas). That was Season No. 7 at Plot Twist Farm!

The end of the year was an unusual one. We had someone in our care, and this, added to the fact that Silas and I have shifted our focus to cyber school, halted my farm work almost entirely, leaving Jason to finish out the CSA season pretty much on his own.

On Saturday, Jason and Silas delivered the last shares of the year. Afterward, we hopped in the car and returned the person in our care to their home. Party animals that we are, we celebrated the end of the season by collapsing in the living room.

But, Jason did have a little surprise up his sleeve, or I should say, hidden away among the farm’s seed stash. After briefly disappearing downstairs, he came back up with a small gray box. The appearance of this little parcel, even for a minimalist such as myself, was quite thrilling. What could it be?! When I lifted the lid, my usual disdain of earthly trinkets was replaced by delight at the sight of a delicate, gold-dipped birch leaf pendant.

He settled on birch after reading it was a symbol of new beginnings. It’s one of the first trees to come to leaf in the spring, and there’s all manner of interesting Celtic mythology surrounding birch. During the Celtic celebration of Samhain (what’s considered Halloween in the U.K. nowadays), bundles of birch twigs were used to usher out the spirits of the past year. As you know from what I shared last week, our minds are all about a new beginning now.

When a season draws to a close, I usually have a sense of relief. Then, a few weeks later, as we pull out the brown tomato vines and put away water sprinklers, I get the itch to start all over again.

But this year, the feeling of relief that ushered out the season has swirled with excitement for next spring like an internal cyclone. I’m not wishing away autumn and winter, because I love all the seasons and don’t generally hurry away any time in my life, but when I picture next year, with all three of us going about our farm work, happily tucked inside the fence, my heart beats fast.

The conclusion of this season was supposed to bring a close to this blog, as well. After writing sporadically about the farm for the past few years, last winter I committed to weekly posts to document the season. Now here we are. We’ve gone through a whole season together. But next year is a new beginning. It will be uncharted territory for us. There’s so much potential. So much to be gained and learned. And as long as I find writing about it enjoyable, I’d like to keep going.

As I finish this, I hear Jason’s chainsaw in the woods. It’s time to think about firewood and kindling and other cold weather preparations. The propagation tunnel is full of seedlings in bad need of transplanting in our winter gardens. When life is all about growing and creating, there’s always a new beginning just around the corner.

~ Stella

The plot twists a life takes

One night, Jason and I once had a conversation in the kitchen that I’ve returned to during my lowest points as a farmer. Back in those days, he listened to farming podcasts almost every day, and he’d report back the most interesting stories. His favorite was the Farmer-to-Farmer podcast, hosted by the late Chris Blanchard. The Ruminant was another good one. These podcasts were like fuel in our earliest farming years. Without them, we may not have kept going during the hardest times. That’s because the farmers who shared their stories didn’t just talk of their successes, they also let us peek into past wounds. The hard stuff. The embarrassing stuff. The real stuff. They revealed their failures to us so we might do better, and they showed us we weren’t alone in our struggles.

On that evening in our kitchen, Jason was telling me about Blue Moon Community Farm, in Wisconsin. He’d heard about Blue Moon thanks to Chris’s podcast. The farmer’s name is Kristen, and her story struck a chord with Jason. You see, there were several parallels between her history and our currently unfolding situation. The main similarity was that Kristen spent years working a second job while farming. This dual life has been Jason’s situation every season. By day, he works in local government. By evening and by weekend, he farms. For more than half the year, he works around 90 hours a week in total. From one season to the next, when it just never seemed to get any easier, I thought about Kristen, and what Jason had told me: after seven years, she was able to quit her second job and farm full time.

In less than a week, another CSA season will have come and gone. Season No. 7. And as I write this, Jason is tucked away in his courthouse office, still working for the county. Clearly, he hasn’t made the leap to the farm yet. So why not?

To answer that question, we need to rewind back to when Jason started the farm as a little backyard operation. At that time, he’d just been hired for an entry-level position with the county. The pay was modest, and it was entirely feasible to build a farm that someday matched the income of his full-time job, so this became the goal.

Then, after years of eking by when it came to money, Jason got a major promotion. Now, he was the director of his department, and we could finally catch our breath financially. It seemed foolish to walk away. Besides that, he liked his job and was excited about the new opportunity.

Then, another change came. At that time, I was the managing editor of a local newspaper. After 14 years as a small-town journalist, let me assure you, reporters and editors are motivated by their love of the work and their communities, not by the pay or hours. And the time had come for me to be with my family. In Season 3, I resigned and began life at home and on the farm.

As a one-income family, we found ourselves struggling to get ahead once again. Even the smallest home or car repair, or medical issue, seemed to put us in a bind. We’d never been what you’d call big spenders, and Jason was making a decent income for our part of the country, so what were we doing wrong?

After going through some really rough money patches, we took a ruthless assessment of the situation and our habits. We were brutally honest with ourselves. Upon doing this, we discovered that the answer, as they so often do, was hiding right under our noses.

It was our debt. Plain and simple. We had student loan debt, credit card debt, and car loan debt. We’d bought into the American lie that debt is “normal” your whole life. That it belonged right up there with the main certainties in life: death and taxes. These debt payments and their monthly interest rates were bleeding us dry for years. If you totaled them up, the monthly bill was the clear reason we never felt like we had any money. It was like constantly treading in deep water.

Now that we had a diagnosis of the problem, we drew up a battle plan. We immediately went into what we dubbed a “budget lockdown.” This meant we set a budget at the start of every month, and not a single cent went for anything other than our absolute necessities or paying off bad debt. We applied what’s called the “debt snowball” method. Look it up, it’ll change your life. We also eliminated anything that didn’t reflect the life we wanted to make. We ditched cable TV, unhealthy and pricey meals in restaurants, and useless consumer crap. We made a budget for our life and stuck to it. (Side note: If this interests you, check out the Mr. Money Mustache blog, especially in his early years. I don’t agree with everything he says, but he shoots straight about the toll debt takes. In one post, he wrote that you should think of debt like it’s your head on fire. The mental image of my head engulfed in flames was extremely useful when dealing with spending temptations.)

The student loans were the first to go. Next, credit cards. Then, our car payment. Every time we paid off a debt, we rolled that money into paying off the next one.

After about two years, we were debt free. It felt like we suddenly had wings on our feet.

Now, our monthly bills include: insurances, our house, one cell phone (I haven’t had a cell phone in 15 years), one landline and internet, and electric, plus a few streaming services.

In addition to our bills, we budget every month for groceries and gasoline, and if there’s a special occasion, or we anticipate a specific expense, we set money aside for it. It might sound strict, and I suppose it is, but you can’t put a price on the mental and emotional freedom a budget provides.

As of right now, we live on about one-third of our monthly income, and save the other two-thirds.

So, here’s the magical thing about paying off debt and living on a budget: you realize you don’t need nearly as much money as you thought you did. And this breaks the future wide open.

With all debts paid (minus the house, as mentioned), we now had an exact number for what we needed to live on each year, and we could construct a farm budget to fit our needs.

At first, we set our sights on spring of 2022. Jason would quit his day job right before the start of Season 8. But around this time, Jason began thinking about his unique skill set from his years of county work. He’d become an expert grant writer and had multi-million dollar projects under his belt. Walking away from those talents entirely, and parting with something he enjoyed doing and believed was worthwhile to communities, would be just plain foolish. He decided he wanted to continue doing what he loves about his current job, but on his own terms, and, most importantly, on his own time. Thus, his new company was born: Spark Community Capital. So, in what’s been our hardest season, we now had a new challenge to contend with, Jason using vacation days, evenings, and weekends, to propel Spark forward.

Almost immediately, Spark began to reveal its potential. With this development, we felt safe moving the quit date up. Jason informed his employer that he’d like to be done no later than Jan. 1, 2022. Whenever they’ve found his replacement, he’ll continue with the county on a limited, as-needed capacity, helping with a long-term revitalization project in downtown Oil City at 100 Seneca (Cornplanter Square - this project is awesome, check it out). But he’ll be a free agent otherwise.

So do you know what this means?!? Jason will be joining the farm next season!!! It sounds odd to say he’ll be “joining” the farm, since he’s already such a crucial part of the operation, but now he won’t be squeezing his farm work in until the sun goes down, or in many cases, long after it’s set.

Now, you might be thinking, “Won’t you be in the same boat?” What about Spark? Won’t he still be working two jobs? Technically, yes, but Spark will supplement our income and help us continue to build our savings and (finally) start investing. And we’re building schedules for us both that keep Spark time and farm time and my other pursuits in check. No more 90-hour weeks. We’re ready to be the farm family we’ve wanted to be.

Isn’t it interesting, all the turn of events - the plot twists - that make up a life? The best outcomes have happened when we’ve followed our hearts and led with our conscience. That’s why my mind always returned to that conversation in the kitchen, when Jason first told me all about Blue Moon. It was his way of asking me to believe in him, and to believe in us. To trust the process and the hard work and long hours. That conversation was his way of asking me if I was willing to embark on the journey with him. With our destination drawing near, we can see new journeys on the horizon. My answer remains the same. I’m ready. Let’s go.

~ Stella

“ Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

— Mary Oliver, The Summer Day

The watermelon picnic

On a sunny, warm September evening, Silas and I rode up to the farm to pick beans. He had on his trademark look - a straw hat on a thin rope, with crimson trim and a red plastic sheriff’s badge in the center. It’s a part of his favorite outfit - his “cowboy shirt,” a button-down, brown, imitation corduroy material and blue jeans that are three inches too short.

As he climbed out of the truck, he looked over his shoulder at me from under his hat, and said, “You know where I’m going.”

“Raspberries?” I guessed.

“No, to look for McChunkys.”

Milkweed McChunkys - our nickname for monarch caterpillars. They feast on milkweed, then spin their cocoons under the leaves. In the caterpillar stage, they’re striped black and yellow, and as September passes, they take on a delightful plumpness. So, they’re, you know, Milkweed McChunkys.

Every time Silas saw me carrying another bucket of beans to the truck, he’d check to see how much longer. “Almost done,” I’d say, and he’d wander off again. He’s a patient kid.

Unable to locate a Milkweed McChunky, he eventually turned his attention to the watermelon patch. He carried over a little melon, and asked if I would “supervision” him while he cut it open.

Silas has used a knife since age three. When you watch both parents use knives all the time, and your best friend is your grandpa, who is always using his knife, the fact that you don’t have a knife starts to irk you early on.

One time, when he was four, I looked up from chopping kale to see him meandering my direction. I remember his slow, weaving route, and how he clutched one hand with the other. Oh, no, I thought. He wasn’t crying, though, so maybe it was nothing. But as he drew closer, the tension in his face was clear.

“Buddy, did you cut yourself?”

He nodded, his eyes welling up.

“Let me see, honey.”

He held up a little bloody slice on his finger. Enough to smart, but not serious. When I told him we’d go home and get a bandage and that accidents happen to everybody, the dam finally broke and he burst into sobs in my arms. I do believe that more than the pain of the cut, he feared having his knife privileges revoked.

Starting around age six, he began whittling sticks and bamboo, and my patience. He likes to sit and do it on the porch steps. After passing him for the sixth time, and watching a small branch transform into a punji stick, finally becoming more dangerous than the knife, I have to take it away from him. He gives in willingly, knowing he’s just made something no kid should have.

He’s always had a good sense about the knife, which is why he asks me to “supervision” him with a melon. I do dislike watching him cut a melon, but I have to admit that he’s careful and he knows the limits of his own strength. He understands that if he’s having to try too hard, it’s too dangerous.

After he shared the little watermelon with me, I suggested he go pick raspberries. Jason planted raspberry varieties that ripen in waves, so we have September berries. Silas said he’d wait for me to pick berries. I sighed, thinking how this would prolong an already late evening.

As I continued plucking beans, he chattered about getting a picnic ready for us. “Oh, that’s nice,” I would say, only half paying attention and trying to avoid the thorns in the beans.

When the beans were finally done, he led the way to the berries. We walked down one side, and up the other. It took awhile, since the little fellow would not be rushed during this activity, which to him is a sacred ritual. And besides, he waited ages for his bean-picking mother.

By that time, the sun had dipped below the trees, and I wanted to go home. Hopefully, he’ll forget about this picnic of his, I thought.

As I opened my mouth to say, “Alright, buddy, let’s head on home,” I saw it. I closed my lips tight and swallowed the words. He’d overturned a harvest bin for a table, and flipped over two little buckets for seats. On the table, he’d laid out two tiny watermelons, two Roma tomatoes, and a clump of wood sorrel, roots and all.

“Ready to have your picnic?” I asked instead, incredibly thankful that sometimes my brain does move faster than my tongue.

We sat down on the buckets, and under my wary eye, he cut up his second watermelon of the night, slicing and turning over and over until he had four wedges.

“I picked you some wood sorrel because I know you just love it,” he said, using his best dinner host voice. It was true, it’s a tender, lemony treat I’ve enjoyed ever since my sister-in-law first pointed it out to me a few years ago. I chewed the sorrel and eyed the Romas, wondering if I’d have to eat a whole, plain tomato next.

But a few bites of juicy Blacktail Mountain watermelon, and a couple nibbles of wood sorrel made him happy, so we collected the tomatoes, dismantled the picnic, and me and the sheriff rolled through the tall grass for home.

~ Stella

Ghost in the pine

We’re still adjusting to cyber school, and a walk after Silas’s last assignment of the day has helped us both this past week. While I prefer a quiet, non-academic stroll, Silas has insisted on toting along our tree identification book, and stopping us every few feet.

I’m not sure if it’s me, or the quality of the guidebook, but I can never seem to help him zero in exactly on what kind of tree we’re staring up at. At least for now, he seems content with painfully general classifications. “Well, I guess it’s some kind of birch,” or, “Well… we know it’s a pine.” While he is interested in trees, I suspect a bid for my attention is at the root of the field guide expeditions.

On one such walk this week, we stood about a half-mile from home, under a towering pine, thumbing through the guidebook’s illustrations.

“Look!” Silas shouted as he pointed. The exclamation made my heart thud to my stomach, and that’s where it stayed as I peered into the forest, unable to see what startled him.

“There,” he said, pointing under the giant pine.

Nestled on a bed of brown needles, her legs folded delicately under her large body was a doe, chewing a mouthful of pine needles and staring at us. Lances of late afternoon sun pierced the boughs and melted to dapples on her tan coat.

“She has whiskers. I didn’t know deer had whiskers,” Silas whispered. He was right, she did, and I didn’t know that either. They twinkled silver in the sun and flicked up and down as she chewed and blinked at us. Here we had stood, with our book, in our straw hats, thinking we were studying nature, when nature was studying us.

Being that Silas is 7, he stared at the deer in complete wonder for just a few moments, then tapped my hand to get me to open the field guide again and get back to work.

“Well, I think it’s some kind of fir, Silas. I really don’t know,” I mumbled distractedly, not wanting to give up the eye-to-eye connection with the doe. 

With another woodland giant vaguely identified, we both looked up from the pages to the hidden den. She was gone. She’d made not a sound, and not a single bough even bobbed. Her pine needle bed was pressed into a cozy bowl. Only speckles of sun warmed the spot now. I was disappointed she was gone. That we’d missed it with our noses in the book. But she never wanted to be seen in the first place, and was surely relieved to be a ghost in the woods again. ~ Stella

Two-thirds of the way through our best & perhaps hardest season

“The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color.” - Natalie Babbitt, from Tuck Everlasting

Doesn’t she describe the beginning of August perfectly? I’m behind the times with this passage, but an earlier draft of this post was written in the first week of August, at about the half-way point of the CSA season, but now we’re two-thirds through, and it feels like the Ferris wheel is on the downturn again.

But let’s backtrack a bit to the half-way point because there’s a clear shift in priorities on the farm at that mark. From March through late July, it’s all about seeding, transplanting, and upkeep. That five-month stretch is intense. During this time, Jason works close to 90 hours a week between the farm and his full-time day job. I clock around 55 hours for the farm, not counting time spent on my separate writing life. Let me put it out here honestly: the current system technically works, but it’s not at all our vision for our family and the farm in the long term. The set up of our lives right now is more about surviving the season, rather than thriving in it.

Around Week 9 of the CSA season, there comes a change almost overnight. It’s the half-way point, and time has run out to seed and transplant most things. And although we’ll continue transplanting lettuce and some fall and winter crops, the time has come to harvest. All of those pepper plants and tomato vines are living out their intended purpose.

Given the design of our life at this junction, there is no time or energy for weeding, or a lot of other tasks that aren’t deemed completely necessary. In the weeks ahead, given our current workload, we must use our strength for harvesting. It makes no sense to weed a parsley patch, when there are ripe heirloom tomatoes to gather. We’ll shift back to more upkeep when the season winds down in autumn.

It’s also that time when you realize summer won’t be here much longer. The other day, Silas and I walked down to look at his garden row. It grows beside a patch of sunflowers and zinnias. I knew they were all in bloom, but only because they sort of flashed red and orange and yellow as I drove by in the pickup every day. This was the first time I stood in front of them and really saw them, all full of beating butterfly wings and humming bees.

Now, let me tell you why this season has been our best, and maybe one of our most difficult. (It’s a toss up between this year and season two.) Here’s the cliff notes version of the farm’s history.

In the beginning, it was a little backyard operation. The next year, we relocated the farm to its current location, and did all farm work by hand. I was still working full-time, and the season was hard, especially for Jason, who sustained an injury and then a wicked case of shingles. In season three, I left my full-time job, and we bought the walking tractor. In seasons four and five, we hired a part-time helper. Then, in season 6, the pandemic shut down Jason’s workplace and he worked from home for an entire season. This freed up his commute times and lunch breaks, and frankly, more of his mental and physical energy, and also meant he could care for Silas while I was up at the farm.

This year, he’s back in the office full time, and we opted to forgo help. So it’s been a tough one.

At the same time, it’s been our best season for several reasons. Chief among them, of course, is the deer fence. The stress of that situation, and all the extra work it created in past seasons is over. There’s also the landscape fabric, and the straw, and the ability to draw on seven years of farming and business experience.

There’s another reason why each week of this season feels like another leg of a difficult journey behind us. A seismic life change is coming our way in 2022. I want so badly to tell you about it, but it’s still a little too soon. As Tom Petty sang, “The waiting is the hardest part.” This season has been one of the hardest because we’re waiting for something. A change is coming.

~ Stella

Um… those aren't potatoes

On Sunday morning, we were digging up red potatoes when the potato digger unearthed these soft, ping-pong ball-sized eggs. They’re the handiwork of a snapping turtle mama.

We’d unknowingly met the likely mother about two months ago. She was trapped inside the deer fence, and we had to use a shovel and wheelbarrow to gently relocate her to the woods.

Now, you’ve probably heard the saying “meaner than a snake.” Well, it could be meaner than a turtle. She was a fierce lady. When I tried to nudge her on the shovel with a hoe, she grabbed the metal in her curved, beak-like mouth and nearly yanked it from my grasp. And when we flipped her on her shell, to better scoop her up, she flipped herself upright with one powerful flop. She weighed around 20 pounds, and was tougher than a little armored tank.

The tractor wheels and tines of the potato digger had went over the potato row about three times before we discovered the nest. We planted the potatoes in the spring, and she must have slipped in and dug a hole for her babies right under our noses.

From what we read, when relocating snapping turtle eggs, you should move them as little as possible, and try to keep them oriented the way you found them. So don’t turn them. It has to do with how the embryo is positioned.

We transported about 40 eggs to a patch of woods down near the farm pond. We dug a hole, and then put soil and compost over them and tried to hide it with leaves. Hopefully, at least a few of them will get a chance to grow up and be as mean as their mama.

We’re wondering if this was the mother turtle. We relocated her from inside the deer fence about two months ago.

~ Stella

Peas & wildflowers

As I walked toward the peas with my bucket this morning, I was stopped in my tracks by how beautiful the little yellow wildflowers looked beside the green vines. This view is exactly how summer exists in my mind.

~ Stella

Tomato progress & seeing things through

On any given day, on any given farm, and probably in your day, too, there’s a list of things to do that just never quite seems to shorten. The curse of the list. You may be familiar with barreling from one task to the other, and getting nothing done well, or completed fully. I say “you” because here at the farm, we’ve checked off our to-do list and have our feet up on the porch railing, drink in hand, by 6 p.m. Ha! If you’ll buy that, I’ve got some oceanfront property in Arizona for you. (Hi there, fellow George Strait fans.)

On Thursday evening, after a round of CSA deliveries, we headed up to the farm to squeak in another hour or so of work. The tomatoes in the high tunnels were getting unruly, and while Jason was most certainly aware of this on his own, I made sure to repeatedly mention it in casual conversation. “Boy, those tomatoes. Really taking off. Whew.” “Have you seen those tomatoes? Wow.”

Jason is very good at graciously ignoring my annoying habit of stating the obvious of what needs done around the farm. So while he was working on the cucumbers in the Big Tunnel, he glanced over at the tomatoes and said, “I suppose you want me to prune those?”

“Oh, well, you know, if you’ve got time…”

While Jason has a farm to-do list that stretches from the tips of his fingers to his toes, he knew the time had come to push those things aside in his mind, and tend to the tomatoes. We’ve already invested hours and dollars into these rows, and with continued proper care, each plant should be worth a lot. So while he could go in a thousand directions, he needed to just sit in the tomato row with the clippers and a bucket. It can be so hard to remain relatively still on the farm, taking care of a task that’s so slow going. It feels like there’s a marathon going on all around you, and you’re just sitting in the middle of the pavement. But when he was done, the tomatoes looked healthy and cared for. The time he spends pruning will have a huge ROI.

We’re both learning to take the time to see tasks through. After weeding the high tunnel peppers the other night, my first impulse was to spring up and head to the other peppers in one of the caterpillar tunnels. Those are in need of serious care before it’s too late. But I stopped myself, literally, mid stride. Wait. You just crawled along on your hands and knees, weeding this whole bed. It wasn’t very fun. Take the time to get straw and lay it down on that row. Then walk away from it for good until you’re carrying a harvest bin and collecting peppers from it.

So, I did, and that meant I didn’t have time to get to those other peppers that night. But right now, one pepper row is fully cared for. I can check it off my mental list and truly move on to something else.

This is tomato tar. When you handle tomato greens a lot, it builds up on your fingers, arms, and clothes. Tomato tar is what makes a tomato plant smell like a tomato plant. The plants have hair-like structures called trichomes that secrete this oil. When you wash your hands, this black residue turns the sink yellow.

Silas and Jay, in the thick of it.

Clipping a tomato plant to the string.

One row pruned. This is in the Big Tunnel, June 17, 2021.

~ Stella

The 1,000-pound day

Today was a 1,000-pound day. My harvest was around 320 pounds, and I hauled it from the gardens to the truck, from the truck to the washing station, from the washing station to the cooler, with plenty of lifting and shuffling in between.

Earlier in the week, Jason was recruited to help with the CSA harvest, but he had a long week of late meetings for his off-farm job, and not enough time in the gardens. My goal was to complete the harvest to free up his evening on the farm.

Today was one of the more tiring kinds of days, but … I took breaks when I needed. Came into the house to get a drink when I wanted. Took as much time for lunch as I felt like. No one told me what to do. I only took orders from myself. I was safe. If I felt like sitting down and feeding the bunny greens, I did. At some point in the afternoon, Grandma showed up on the golf cart and sped away with Silas, giving me an opportunity to work without a child in tow.

If you’ve ever read about conditions on many huge farms, and what the workers go through, than you know I should be grateful for just one long day with so much good fortune.

My original plan was to join Jason on the farm tonight, weed the kale and put down straw. But, I’m 5 feet tall, and half a ton is a lot. After taking off my wet farm clothes that stink like green onions, I remembered that I needed to pick spinach tonight. Dammit! was my first thought. Well, I can handle one more pound or two.

~ Stella

Potatoes & mortality

A farmer may farm for much of their life, but only get so many tries at many things.

Take potatoes. They go in the ground in spring, and won’t come out till fall. A farmer can read about potatoes and BS about them all they want, but still only get one crack at them a year.

This rather jarring reality was put in number form for Jason in a farm documentary when a spud grower noted that a farmer may have 30 years to grow potatoes, but that’s only 30 tries.

If you’ve gardened on any scale, even pots on your porch, you know that the trial and error nature of growing makes that number seem small.

Accepting that the number of tries we’ll get at farming is finite brings both a feeling of peace and a sense of urgency. Mortality can be a real motivator.

While we’d love to have more than 30 years to farm, and, well, roam the planet, there will come a final season someday. A yearly reminder of this comes in the form of the frost.

On the farm, early spring to late fall passes in a blur. One minute, you’re standing in the gardens, with new buds all around, hopeful and excited, then suddenly you’re walking through your own frozen breath, awash in a sense of relief that the season is over, a melancholy you can’t quite put your finger on, and a hot desire to start all over again.

When our last season comes, we hope we’re long into our years, wrinkled and gray-haired. We hope it’s still the two of us, and we can even pass the farm on. We know we can’t count on any of this, but we are here now. There’s the two of us to work the land, and engage fully in this life we have with our son. There are no seasons to waste.

~ Stella

Alright, enough of that. Here’s some potato pics:

Jason, Silas, and Grandpa Gary recently planted spuds. Grandpa stopped by, saw what we were doing, and offered to help. At age 73, he hikes his property regularly, doing a mile loop. About a quarter-mile of it is uphill.

We planted two red varieties this season: Red Maria and Chieftain. We also did two yellow potatoes: Belmonda and Keuka Gold.

We have two potato patches this season. We did four rows on the north side of the Big Tunnel, and four rows to the south of the tunnel.

Here’s Patch No. 2.

P.S. The farm documentary was “To Make a Farm.”