Making Hay with Sarah Holm

My Charlottes

Tue, 04 Sep 2012 14:06:00 -0500

Week of September 17rd, 2012

My Charlottes

By Sarah Holm

�Charlotte is fierce, brutal, scheming, bloodthirsty�everything I don�t like. How can I learn to like her, even though she is pretty and, of course, clever?�
― E.B. White, Charlotte's Web I have always liked spiders. I love their webs, their colors, and their incredible variety. When my family moved to our farm I got to know spiders even better. The barn is so quiet. One automatically lowers one�s voice upon entering. It is as if the barn is sleeping and one is ashamed to wake it. What if the barn were to wake and realize that it has been empty for years? My bare feet make a soft padding sound on the cool cement floors. I am probably hunting for kittens. I did little else the summer of my seventh year. It was our first year on the farm. I go into an old horse pen at the end of the barn. It has a door that leads to the outside. The floor of the stall is covered with several inches of hay. But my feet disturb it and I realize the hay is actually dust. The dust acts as a skeleton for the hay. I mean to duck out through the door. I nearly put my face into the web of the biggest spider I have seen outside of a zoo. The spider is as big around as a man�s thumb. It is brown with grey and yellow markings. Its outline against the sun has a hint of fuzziness that is suggestive of fur. Its legs are large, but disproportionate to its bulbous abdomen. The abdomen is so large I wonder if this spider swallows its flies whole instead of drinking their blood. Its eyes are huge and black. They glitter at me fiercely. I can even see the spider�s mouth clearly. I back up quickly and the spider drops from its web like a big fat marble. It scuttles into the woodwork of the door frame. It moves so fast for such a large spider that I scream. The barn is still sleeping. Sunlight drifts through the horse stall door. The sun reflects on the dust floating in the air and makes it sparkle like gold. Once we began milking cows the barn spiders became scarce. It is rare for me to stumble across one now. I do not know why they left. Maybe the barn became too busy for them and they disliked all the people. Perhaps the flies that came along with the cows encouraged too many other types of spiders to move in. Other than cobweb spiders, the most common spiders that took up residence in our barn are the funnel spiders. These thin but large, agile spiders create a triangle shaped web in a corner that is solid like a sheet. Then they make a little tunnel to hide in at the tip of the corner. Any insect silly enough to try to walk around on the web is pounced upon and dragged into the little tunnel. Because there were so many of these spiders and not enough foolish flies to go around, they were always hungry. My sisters and I would tease them, touching their webs with our fingers or a piece of hay so that they would jump out and try to get us. Sometimes they would attack each other or even attempt to wrestle and kill hornets and wasps. While our dad tried to keep his barn clean and urged us to sweep the spiders away we spent many engaging hours catching flies and feeding them. Some of us picked out favorite spiders and named them. Occasionally, if a fly managed to get away not once, but twice, we praised it and allowed it to live. We recognized valor in both species.
It was a beautiful relationship. The spiders got to eat. We got to eliminate pesky flies and liven up the humdrum routine of daily milking chores. They were fierce and bloodthirsty, it is true, but we learned to like them.

Farm Talk

Wed, 04 Jul 2012 14:00:00 -0500

Week of September 3rd, 2012

Farm Talk

By Sarah Holm

Farmers can talk of little else but farming, so when my neighbor delivered a load of organic hay, that is what we discussed. At one lull in the conversation, he pushed his hat up higher on his sunburned forehead and spoke deliberately. "I've been thinking about how much things have changed in just ten years." "Such as?" I asked. "Well. I guess the biggest thing is the corn. We just never had corn like this. I remember farmers getting 65, 70 bushel an acre, an' people thought they were doing just fine." "65? 70?" I was incredulous. "Yep. Now a body near �bout �spects 150. If a fellow were getting 70 now, he'd figure it wasn't even worth his time." He chewed on a Roma tomato. I contemplated the young man. Even though he was not much older than me, it seemed I had missed out on a completely different era of farming. "Tell me," I queried, haltingly. "When you were a kid, could you actually walk between the corn rows?" As a seven year-old city kid, one of my most precious dreams was to run between the corn rows of an endless green field exactly like all the farm kids did in the books I read. But by the time I was able to run through a corn field, it was a painful experience. The rows were so close together that the leaves of the corn plants not only touched, they overlapped. The leaves would slap my face, leaving nasty cuts on my face and hands that filled with pollen and sweat and stung like the dickens when I showered. "Oh sure," he said, "of course." "What's the normal planting space now? What was it back then?" He grinned at me. "Well you know what the row space was originally? 42 inches, because that was the width of your average draft horse," he laughed. "Then they figured out how to line corn. They used a cable to square a field off, an� they figured out how to plant corn in a grid shape. That way, you can cultivate not only up and down the rows, but across. Get a lot more weeds that way." "But what is the row space now? Hardly anybody cultivates anymore. Who do you know around here that still cultivates?" "Now, just wait. So then tractors come along and they went down to 38 inch rows, since you didn't have to fit a horse. But you can still walk through 38 inches. Now the standard size is 30 inch rows." "But I hear about guys planting 20 and 18 inch rows. They have that corn packed in like sardines." He was twisting a blade of grass in his hands. He pulled on it now and it snapped in two. "Standard is 30. You really got to be set up for 20 inch, 18 inch corn, if that's what you�re gonna be doing. People do it, guys who are really pushing it. But you can't cultivate at all with 20 inch rows. You're completely dependent on chemicals to manage weeds." "But who around here still cultivates?" "Nobody, really. Well, the organic ones.� We were silent for a bit. I was seeing the acres of green corn across America and imagining the pounds of chemicals necessary to create such a landscape. "What else is different? Any other major change that comes to mind?" "Well, cow life span. Ten years ago, it seemed to me it was normal around here to get five lactations. Now we get two. Also, a cow could give about 60 pounds of milk a day and that was considered okay. Now she should give at least 80.� "If a cow is worn out after two lactations, then she is only living for about four years. It takes her about two years to grow up, so the farmer really only has her for two years as a milking cow. That's a crazy replacement rate. How can you make any money doing that?" "It's a tough row to hoe, alright. I was in Detroit last fall. I saw so much empty land in the middle of the city. A fellow gets crazy ideas when he sees that. Why can't somebody farm it? Every deserted lot should have a garden in it. Those people could grow so much food they don�t know it. Lots of that land is better quality than what you and I are farming." "How is your land doing?" I asked. Organic farmers inquire about the land in the same manner that other people inquire about your family�s health. "I haven't done any soil tests yet or none of that, but I know it�s doing better. But I'm grazing our old cow pasture, which was basically a dirt lot. We called it a pasture though. Didn�t really have the right to." "What did you seed it with?" "Some clover. I speculated that'd grow just about anywhere." I nodded approval. "That's real good. Clover heals the soil." "It does? What does it do?" For a second that old skeptical mocking look came into his face. What are these crazy organic people going to tell me now? "It fixes nitrogen," I said, quietly. "Oh? Well ain't that something." Photos by Andrea Holm

Farming Around the World

Mon, 18 Jun 2012 08:19:00 -0500

Week of June 17th, 2012

Farming Around the World

By Sarah Holm

Last Saturday I had my friend Youngju and her host family out to my house. She is an exchange student from Korea I met at my university. She had not yet been on a Wisconsin farm, so of course I had to have her over for barn chores and dinner. After all, a person cannot really know Wisconsin until they have been to a farm! We all had a wonderful time. As it turned out, since Youngju lives in the city in Korea, she had never been on a farm before. I was impressed to see that she was not afraid of the cows. I know I was afraid of them when we first started farming. Having Youngju out to my farm made me remember my experience in Costa Rica last fall. I and my study abroad group spent one day in a remote part of Costa Rica working with some small subsistence farmers. In Spanish, they are referred to as "campesinos.” This word comes from the word "campo," which means "field.” Campesinos are the peasants in Costa Rican farming hierarchy. Wealthy farmers with larger farms are called "granjeros,” which means "farmers,” or "rancheros,” ranchers. The campesinos we visited in Costa Rica had been given their land by the government seven years ago as part of a land reform program. Their government had been trying to alleviate some of the poverty in the cities by moving people back to the land. Campesinos are not going to get rich—most of them do not even sell crops—but they can own their houses and land and feed themselves and their families. My campesino family consisted of a father and mother and three sons. All of the sons were grown and living off the farm, although one did come to help often. My campesino father had about three acres of land. He was growing sugar cane, corn, rice, beans, watermelon, plantains, bananas and cabbage. He also had one horse (that I got to ride all day!), two pigs, lots of chickens and a dog. They also had a pet kitten, which made me very happy. Pet cats are rare in Costa Rica, and I missed my kitties. Sadly, they didn't have a cow. I was missing my cows too! My campesino father had his land laid out very well. He grew rice in a low marshy spot, and beans above it on a sunny hillside. His largest field was for watermelon, and he had planted plantain trees all around it in a nice hedge. Our job was to cut the dead leaves off of the plantain trees. They are not really trees; they are large plants. They have a sort of trunk, although it is not of hard wood. I was thrilled because I finally got to use a machete. Our program director had told us she couldn't stop us from using dangerous tools but she would appreciate it if we chose not to. She was looking directly at me but I pretended not to hear her. While we worked amongst the plantain trees, I asked my campesino father about the various plants I saw. It was sad because neither of us knew the English translation for the plants, but I was fascinated nonetheless. Every single plant had some sort of medicinal use. What is more, he knew what moon cycles were best for picking certain plants. I explained to him how organic farmers in the United States are rediscovering medicinal herbs. He thought it was very amusing that we would spend money on veterinarians and medicines when the plants could do it all. I was very humbled by his botanical knowledge. Some day I hope to go back and learn it for myself. The best part of the day for me was learning how to make tortillas with my campesino mother. She is a brave, strong lady. I couldn't imagine having to cook over an open fire inside a wooden house like she does every single day. Especially not in Costa Rica where it is always hot anyway. We began with fresh corn that had been soaked in water for a day. I put it into a little hand mill that was mounted on the counter and I ground it into a bowl. Grinding the wet corn was difficult. I laughed and told her I was afraid of her. She asked me why, and I said that she had to have the strongest arms of any woman in the world. She laughed so hard she had to back away from the fire so she wouldn't burn herself. I added a little more water to the mixture and watched in amazement as her and our program director expertly made perfect little circle tortillas. The secret is to take a banana or plantain leaf and hold it over the fire until it wilts. You put the mixture on top of the leaf to form it and it settles into a circle quite nicely. Then I put it in the cast iron skillet over the fire, flipped it once, and there it was. It was the best tortilla I ever tasted made by the some of the nicest people I have ever met. They had made this little piece of land into a food paradise through a lot of hard work and dedication. I hope they prosper for years to come.

Farming, Mud, and Boots

Tue, 10 Apr 2012 14:28:00 -0500

Week of April 8th, 2012

Farming, Mud, and Boots

By Sarah Holm

As everyone knows, the arrival of spring means the hard frozen ground gets deliciously warm. On a farm, this means we go from fighting with snow to fighting with mud. Now our farm doesn�t have very many muddy spots. We work very hard to manage our cow lanes to prevent erosion and mud. But the fact remains that our cows walk in and out of our barn four times a day. Cows love to either huddle in a herd or walk in a single file line. This means that the same ground gets stepped on over and over again. So despite our best efforts in the springtime, we normally have one or two places near the barn that are very muddy. Springtime is one of the reasons I love whoever invented boots. Every farmer knows that a good pair of boots can make all the difference in the world. Any and every task is helped with properly shod feet. Many farmers favor rubber Wellingtons as their boot of choice. But my family tends to use steel-toe boots, although Rachel rebels and uses cowboy boots. Steel-toe boots are excellent for milking cows because if a cow steps on your toe, you can�t feel it. They are also easier to run in than rubber boots. We rotationally graze our cows so we walk and run through our fields every day moving cattle. I would also argue that steel-toe boots, while not as fashionable as cowboy boots, are way more stylish than rubber boots. Be that as it may, steel-toe boots have some downsides. Firstly, the majority of them are not waterproof. They also have laces, which tend to break through the rigors of farm work. Additionally, they do not go up nearly to your knee like rubber boots. They only go a bit past your ankle. Many times I have misjudged the depth of a patch of mud and have emerged with one boot filled with mud and a ruined sock. I also think they wear out faster than rubber boots. That probably depends on how you use them however. I know the rubber boots I have had in the past ended up getting full of holes from being speared one too many times with a pitchfork. Sadly, I have been bootless since I came back from Central America in December. The day before I left the States I had taken my old steel toe boots on a walk to the dumpster. They had survived an entire winter and summer of use and were way past retirement. They were both cracked, the sole was falling off of one, and the laces were rotting. I thought saying goodbye to my boots was a proper symbolic way of taking leave of my cows for three months. I thought as I threw them away that I would begin farming again in December with a new pair of boots. It is now March and I still do not have a pair of boots. This is why you should never leave the farm � no one believes you when you say you�re back. To ask them to spend money on a pair of boots for you is only to beg to hear, �Why do you need boots? Aren�t you leaving? How long are you going to be here anyway? There are a bunch of old boots in the basement � use those!� So I make do with the rejected boots of antiquity who live in a pile in our basement. They are all boots who have been discarded by others� feet for being the wrong size, uncomfortable, or otherwise dangerous to one�s health. Most of them are pretty worn out, but not quite worn out enough to be thrown away. My first pair was too small for me. I hobbled around in them until they cracked from the stress of winter. I threw them away and found another pair. This pair was actually comfortable, but they had the biggest thickest tread I have ever seen. The soles alone added two inches to the height of the boot. Because of the tread, they tracked in a lot of dirt, but otherwise they were serviceable. Sadly last week the sole on the left boot began to fall off. I glued it back on but I knew the boot�s clock was ticking. As it always is in farming, the sole chose to fall off at the most inconvenient moment. My sister and I were trying to corral a heifer into the youngstock shed. Outside of this shed is one of the muddy spots on our farm. As I ran back and forth through the mud, my sole came halfway off, stuck itself down into the mud, and tripped me. I got back up, shook the mud out and kept running. Again, I was tripped by my boot. We were at risk of the heifer getting away from us, so I pulled the rest of my sole off, and hopped and skipped through the mud on one foot. We eventually trapped the heifer. I ruined my one sock and caught a cold from having wet feet. Now I am on a pair of boots that are too big for me. My toes jam against the front of the boots every time I take a step. I�m getting blisters as we speak. But honestly, I don�t mind any of it. Spring is here, summer is coming, and my trials are giving us all a head start on spring cleaning the basement. Who knows, I might make my way through that pile before May.

The Cow and the Moon

Sun, 05 Feb 2012 12:47:00 -0600

Week of February 5th, 2012

The Cow and the Moon

By Sarah Holm

A warm day in February I came home from working at the university all day and decided to give Mary and Rachel a vacation and go to the barn myself.

Danny and Andrea

My first task was to get some new calves in. They had been let outside for the first time today. The five young calves were out in the pasture with about ten older heifers. The babies I was after were small enough to walk right under the bellies of the other animals. They also were better at hiding themselves and at this point I could only see two. One, named Bambi, was in the corral by the barn. I was glad to see her so close as she was also the oldest and heaviest one. Bambi was not going to go in the barn without a fight. I followed her around and around the corral cajoling her with soothing baby talk in an attempt to grab her collar. At times she would decide to try to bolt for the barb wire fence and I would have to run and head her off before she jumped through it. I finally captured her up against the barn wall in the far corner of the corral. I had a second to get a firm grip on her collar with my one hand and set my other hand on her back before she took off, bucking and kicking. It�s hard to hang onto a twisting bucking calf. It�s harder when you�re both on top of what amounts to an ice rink. Then, if your hat falls over your eyes, you just plant your boots in a skater�s stance, hang on tight and pray that you don�t crash into the fence or the barn wall. We crashed into a metal feeder. I quickly shoved my hat off my eyes and put my other hand around her head. �Woah, baby!� I said, firmly. She kicked me in the shin. I gave up peaceful measures and dragged her step by step into the barn. Once inside she perked up her ears and trotted happily into the pen where she laid down with a happy sigh. The second calf was easy. After her, I spotted the last three sunning themselves in a snow-free spot on top of the hill. I climbed up and took two by their collars. They didn�t want to follow me. They went into a classic Jersey passive-aggressive mode of defense: playing possum. �Come on,� I pleaded, rolling my eyes at them. �It�s getting cold out here.� I poked one in the belly. She rolled her eyes back further in her head to emphasize the fact that she was dead. �Fine,� I said, �be dead. See if I care.� I took the two �dead� calves by their collars and began to drag them across the snow. They slid along quite easily as the snow had the perfect half sticky crust on it and the hill was steep. They started sliding so fast they actually got scared and got up. We ran the rest of the way to the barn together. The last calf was just a little baby. I ran after her, and picked her up in my arms. I ran back to the barn with her, occasionally positioning my feet like a snowboarder and sliding down the muddy hill. I dropped the last calf in the pen just as Mom came into the barn to drop Danny off. I was panting and covered with mud and snow. �What happened to you?� she asked. �Calves,� I gasped out, pointing weakly with one hand. �Yay! Baby cows!� said Danny. �Come on, Danny boy,� I said, �Let�s go get the cows in the barn for Daddy!� �No, Fweeba! Baby cows!� he yelled defiantly. He got down on his hands and knees and tried to crawl under the gate into the calf pen. �Listen, beautiful, we have to go get the momma cows for the baby cows.� That made sense to him. He sat up. �Momma cows?� �Yeah, Danny! The baby cows need their momma cows so they can have milk to drink. Okay?� �Okay! Momma cows an� baby cows! Milk!� I swung him up on my shoulders and we began climbing the long steep hill to the cows. The sky was just beginning to blush a deeper shade of blue. �Fweeba! Look! Moon! An�, cows!� �That�s right, Danny. There�s the moon and there�s the cows.� Danny kept his gaze fixed on the moon as we climbed. He was chattering quietly to himself in a serious tone. ��Ey, �ey, diddle, cat an� diddle, cow an� jumped an� moon, an� dog an�� Suddenly I realized that he was reciting the old nursery rhyme. �That�s right, Danny! Here, let�s say it together.� It was going to be one of those moments. I tried hard to remember everything that touched my senses. I wanted to lock this moment in my heart to keep for always. My boots made squelching sounds on the melting snow, I could smell the cows waiting for us on the top of the hill, and my clear voice melded with Danny�s trilling one in the old poem as the old moon rose above us. �Hey diddle diddle,
The cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon,
The little dog laughed to see such sport,
And the dish ran away with the spoon.� His serious voice told me that for him, in his two year old mind, it wasn�t just a nursery rhyme. It was poetry. Not only was it poetry, it was beautiful and magical poetry. In Danny�s world there was no reason why his cows couldn�t jump over the moon. We reached the top of the hill. I stopped to take a breath. Danny�s hand shot out to point ahead of us at the herd. �A dish ran away with a �poon, Fweeba! Oh no! Fweeba, look, the cows! Okay, cows! Look cows�a moon! Let�s go! Jump!�

Daniel

Sun, 15 Jan 2012 13:10:00 -0600

Week of January 15th, 2012

Milking with Daniel

By Sarah Holm

I studied abroad this past semester in Central America, so it has been a while since I have written for Making Hay. I hadn�t expected it, but, while I was gone, I missed my two-year old brother Daniel the most out of my siblings. I am amazed to see how much he has grown in that short time. When I left he didn�t know my name. Despite clinging to me constantly, he had failed to master the word �Sarah�. If Mom wasn�t in the room he called me �Mom�. If she was in the room I was demoted to �You!�, or, if the situation was particularly urgent, �Hey you!� He still doesn�t know my name. He calls me �Fweeba�. But that�s better than �Hey you!�, right? Barn chores with Danny are an exciting experience. They normally go something like this: He says he doesn�t want to go to the barn. I tell him that�s fine. He can stay in the house with Mom. I get my barn clothes on and open the door to leave and he throws himself on me, sobbing, �Fweeba! Fweeba! Don�t Go! I gonna go to da barn!�. �Don�t cry, beautiful,� I say, �You can go to the barn. Here � let�s put your boots on!� He instantly becomes silent in the cold winter air. I release his arms and shift him to my hip. He grabs my face between his hands and beams angelically into my eyes. �Wook, Fweeba!� he announces joyfully. �Da milk truck!� In the barn we follow behind Dad as he feeds silage to the cows. Our job is to put a measure of dried kelp and a measure of sea salt on every cow�s helping of silage. Danny calls it giving the cows their �salt and pepper� and he stops to instruct every cow to �Eat your pepper! Yum yum!� So far his encouragement is not appreciated by the cows. He likes to stand on top of their food while lecturing them. A few cows stand in awe of this heavily bundled midget with the big voice and hand gestures of a preacher, but most stare sullenly at the live obstacle prancing about on their dinner. When we begin to milk the cows, I begin to feel like I need another pair of hands. Last night my 12 year-old sister, Mary, and I were milking. Mary walked out of the milkhouse with the milking machines as I began to wash the cows. The wash rag I pulled out of the bucket was boiling hot, so I was balanced at the edge of the gutter behind the cows holding it by one corner to avoid burning my hands. Danny was between Mary and I. As he spotted her, a large grin spread over his face and he ran toward me in mock terror screaming �Fweeba! Fweeba! HELP ME!!!!� Mary obligingly joined in with a large exaggerated evil laugh � �Mwhahahahaha!� Danny shrieked and threw himself at me, grabbing me tight around my legs.I nearly fell into the gutter and my rag went flying, which I caught and scalded my hand on. The cows all turned their heads and stared. I picked up Danny and removed him from the edge of the gutter. I kneeled next to a cow to wash it before milking as Mary left to fetch more milking machines. �Haha,� Danny said to me, his voice lowered conspiratorially, �Mary scary.� �Yes,� I agreed, equally serious, �Mary is scary, isn�t she?� �Mwhaha!� Danny says, clapping his hands together. Tonight, Danny stands on his tiptoes to retrieve the dipper from the windowsill. The dipper is basically a spray bottle. It holds a weak iodine mixture that we spray on the cows� teats after milking. It protects them from bacteria. �Now Danny,� I say, from underneath a cow, �What are you doing with that?� I turn to be confronted with the nozzle directly in my face. Danny is holding it firmly at arm�s length, aiming for my eyes. The dipper has been transformed into a gun. �Hey now,� I yelp, knowing how that iodine can hurt if it gets in your eyes, �Be careful!� I duck but it is unnecessary as Danny only manages to drop the dipper. �Oops!� he says, laboriously picks it up and wanders back and forth practicing, his Elmo hat slipping down to almost cover his eyes. When returns, Danny is ready for her. Laughing crazily he runs at her trying to spray her. �Hey!� Mary yells as the red liquid lands on her coat. It stains everything it touches orange. She tries to take it away from him. �Noooo, Mary! Nooo!� he yells. �Mary!� I yell, �You�re under fire - and I think you�re wounded.� �Oh,� she says, giving Danny his gun back, �Ahhhh! Please! Don�t shoot me!!!� Danny is rendered helpless by a fit of giggles, plus his hat is completely over his eyes. �Hey babyface,� I call, �Get over here so I can fix your hat. Mary, can you get these milkers on? Let�s get this show on the road, people.� Danny trundles obediently over. I adjust his hat. �There you go beautiful.� He starts spraying again. Later I will have to catch him and try to scrub the orange off his face. We try to entertain Danny as we milk so he doesn�t wander off. But soon he gets bored and walks down to the end of the aisle and lets himself into the calf pen. We only have one little calf indoors right now. Danny calls her �Bambi� and any cat in the vicinity �Thumper�. I relax for a bit only to look up and see Bambi running around in circles in terror in the pen with Danny chasing after her. He is trying to throw hay on her head. �Danny!� I call down to him, �Don�t scare the baby cow! Be nice to the baby cow!� He stops and looks at me. �Okay, Fweeba.� It�s quiet for about five minutes. Then I hear the calf racing around again and Danny�s �Mwhahaha!� rising from the pen. �Mary, can you switch this milker for me? I have to go rescue that poor calf.� I run down and open the pen door. The calf leaps for the opening, trying to escape this fearsome toddler. Come here, Danny, I say. He throws the hay at me instead. He is covered with hay, and his pants and coats are stained with milk and iodine. He runs but I catch him. I calm Bambi down and we both pet her and tell her we are sorry she got scared. She gets over it pretty quickly, associating the sight of me with food and thus forgiving everything. �Okay, Fweeba,� Danny announces, �I gonna go to da house now!� He takes off for the door. �Okay beautiful, let me take this milker off this cow and we�ll go.� Mary holds down the fort while I rush to take him back. We stop in the milkhouse to wash his hands and face and spray off his boots. We step outside into the dark. The milk truck tank gleams silver in the lights from the barn. Remembering the beginning of chores, I turn Danny�s head slightly and say �Look, Danny, a truck!� He shakes his head and shakes his finger under my nose. �No, no, silly Fweeba. Dat�s not a truck! Dat�s a MILK truck!�

Garden Story

Wed, 08 Jun 2011 13:10:00 -0500

Week of June 6th, 2011 | Cold Spell following Record Heat

A Garden Story

By Sarah Holm

Spring is a revolution. Every year I watch the struggle between Old Man Winter and the sun and wonder who will win. This year we nearly missed our spring. My fellow students and I were joyfully walking around in shorts for a few days only to have it snow again. The first few weeks of May found strange get-ups on everyone on campus�bare legs sticking out of winter coats, dresses paired with snow boots, and that fashion statement I sincerely hope is only found in Northern Wisconsin�sandals and socks. But the revolutionary forces of spring did eventually conquer, if only for a few weeks. The animals and plants on our dairy farm are quickly rushing into summer. If anyone dares to complain about the pell-mell pace of the warm weather they are met with an old joke. �Well you know what they say about the seasons in Wisconsin, don�t you?� �What?� One must respond obligingly. �There are only two. Winter and road construction.� This spring I instigated a revolution of my own. For years I have struggled to maintain our large garden. I love watching things grow, adore messing around in the dirt, and get an immense satisfaction out of any harvest. But every year the garden and I go through the same routine. I plant it, keep ahead of the weeds until July, and then, when the hot sun prevents the movement of everything but the weeds, the weeds take over and I venture back out in September through waist high foliage to hunt for vegetables. Every year I vow to not let the weeds win. I make plans for organization, swear to not plant more than I can manage, and obtain promises of help from my other family members. Things improve a little, but the end result is the same. But this year spring came so late I was given time to think. I hadn�t dared to venture out into the mess of mud and skeletons of weeds that was the garden, so I had stuck to my flower beds. I was kneeling by the side of one bed that is filled with violets and my thoughts began to float over my history of gardening. The violets were crisp and clean and beautiful, but what I loved the most about them was their wildness. I had rescued them from the lawn years ago as just slivers of roots and they had thrived in the gravely soil of the old farmhouse�s eldest flower bed. I had thrown large rocks in between them to catch the water from the roof and they climbed over and around them and poked their buds through cracks. I thought guiltily for a second that they should be controlled. It wasn�t respectable to let your flowers act like weeds. Suddenly the thought hit me that they were my flowers. What is more, these were my flowerbeds, and it was my garden. Although I did all the work I still thought of everything as belonging to my mother and grandmother. I realized that I was trying to plant in a way that pleased my mom, almost copying exactly what she had taught me years ago as a little girl. This blinding flash of the obvious continued. I realized that my mom loved to line plants up and tie them up straight and mulch in between them and color coordinate everything just so. I didn�t want my flowers to line up. I wanted them to have company. I didn�t want my vegetables to be in rows. I just wanted lots of them. I didn�t want plants to grow in certain places. I wanted to let them grow wherever and however they wanted to. So I revolutionized the garden. First, I cut it to half its size. It is now only thirty feet long and thirty wide. I cut out the wet spot that always flooded and announced to my dad that it was to be lawn. I took the daylilies that had been told to grow in a line against the fence and put them into a big circle. I took some old boards and created seven square shaped raised beds. I dug up the strawberries one by one and put them into one of the box beds so tightly together that I would never have to weed them. I used the extra fencing from shortening the dimensions to reinforce the areas where the chickens were getting in. I moved the gate and its attached bluebird nest (complete with babies) from the center of the garden to the side simply because it was easier. Best of all, my family helped me. Apparently my stranglehold on tradition for fear of disapproval was simply a construct of my imagination. My mom was happy to be left with a garden that one person could manage. My dad was delighted to have the eyesore in his lawn at least reduced in size, if not eliminated. My great-uncle Jon even came over to plow up the ground with his little tractor. I wish I had taken a picture of my uncle plowing. Our chickens had come running over at the sight of the newly turned dirt and there was a busily scratching red chicken for every two square feet. They moved in waves away from the tractor as it slipped on the mud and tore through the dirt. I was a bit put-out when I discovered they were gobbling up all my earthworms, but it couldn�t be helped. When he was done, my uncle put the tractor in idle and we talked for a bit as we stood in the newly turned dirt. He lives in a little spot in our woods and is visited by herds of deer and other wild animals. He had seen some gray foxes the other day. I was surprised to learn they could climb trees. �Well I suppose I should go,� he said, and turned and walked toward the tractor. �Thank you so much for your help,� I smiled, feeling a bit self-conscious now that I was in his debt. I thought of a remedy, but he already had eggs. �I have to remember to not to drive on your driveway,� he pretended to grumble as he climbed into the seat. �Oh yeah? Why�s that?� �Because your father hates it when the dirt from the tires gets on the blacktop. He won�t even let me take the gator on it.� �Well please do listen to him! I�m the one who has to sweep the driveway when it gets dirty!� I laughed. He kept grumbling as he drove off. �Makes me drive on the lawn! It�s like geez! What is this� the servant�s quarters? I�m not allowed to use the front door? No, no, you can�t come up here, go up the back steps! Why I�� I laughed and waved as he drove away. A few minutes later my mother drove by on the riding lawn mower as I was planting some gladiolus bulbs in a big bunch between my hazelnut tree saplings. She slowed down and frowned as she saw the circular hole. �You aren�t going to line them up against the fence?� She gestured with her hand. I took a deep breath and smiled. �Nope!� �How sad.� She sighed and made a little pouty face, but then winked at me and drove past. Exuberant, I pushed the dirt over the bulbs� my bulbs.

7 Questions with Ceara

Tue, 06 Jul 2010 14:43:00 -0500

Week of July 5th, 2010 | Stormy Weather

7 Questions with Ceara

Ceara W lives on an Organic Valley dairy farm in Jo Daviess County in the northwest corner of Illinois, with her parents and two brothers, Austin (20) and Braden (16). Her sister Kaleena, 22, lives in Wisconsin. Ceara, 18, is a high school junior with plans to pursue a career in nature photography. We asked her some questions to get to know her and her farm! What does your family raise on the farm? We have 81 dairy cows, 2 dogs, 15 cats and kittens, 2 horses. We raise calves, grow corn, hay, oats, beans, wheat and have a garden with tomatoes, potatoes, peppers, melons, radishes, lettuce, carrots, squash, pumpkins. We also have grape vines and strawberries. What�s your favorite farm activity? Feeding baby calves, they are fun to pet and take care of. What�s your favorite season? Spring, because everything is getting green, the flowers are blooming, the birds are coming back, and it�s warmer after the long cold winter. What�s the first thing you would want to show a visitor? I would show them kittens, newborn calves, and our horses first. What�s your role on the farm? Help my dad milk cows in the mornings, feed the baby calves every night, help mom in the house during the day, unload wagons of baled hay in the summer, help my brothers if they need me throughout the day. What do you do for fun on the farm? Growing up, my siblings and I developed a game to play with neighbors and friends. We call it �Jail Tag� and we play it in the winter, when our haymow (the loft in the barn where we store hay) is full. We make tunnels and trap pits in the hay to hide in and whoever is �it� has to find us and put us in the jail which is down below the haymow. We have 15 or more people, so the games go on for hours. In the summer, we play flashlight tag all over the farm and fields, usually after chores at night and early into the morning! Several times a summer, my brothers, mom, and friends go canoeing down the Apple River, which is just below our family farm. We need 7 canoes to fit everyone (two per canoe), so we use our two and borrow more from a friend. We spend half the time in the canoes, and half the time getting back in them after we flip them over and fill with water! It takes us 5 hours to canoe to where we get out. It�s a lot of fun! I also like riding horses, planting flowers around the farm, nature photography, ballet, canoeing, and jogging. What�s unique about your farm? Our farm has been in our family 150 years as of January 1, 2011. It has been passed down from my father�s great, great, great grandfather since 1861. My dad is the 5th generation and my brothers Austin and Braden will be the 6th generation. We own the exact same acres originally purchased in 1861. We live in a house that was built in 1901 by my great-great grandfather, Charles. Part of our existing barn was built in 1900, and we added on in 1980 to make room for 81 milking cows. We live in the only county in Illinois that has rolling hills. The rest is pretty much flat! Our farm was the second certified organic farm in the whole state of Illinois, and the second farm from Illinois to join Organic Valley. Farm Fact: Records indicate alfalfa is the oldest plant used as livestock feed dating back to as early as 1,000 B.C. Alfalfa is one of the most nutritious crops to feed to animals.

A New Calf

Sun, 06 Jun 2010 00:00:00 -0500

Week of June 6th, 2010 | Stormy Weather

A New Calf

By Sarah Holm

I ran back and forth from the field and the barn, setting up gates and turning the fence on and off as we worked to get the cows and a new calf in.

�Whose baby is it?� I asked Laura as she came up behind the herd with a cow the calf was following. �I can�t tell. Its mother doesn�t care about it, only this cow here does, and she had a baby a month ago.� Laura wanted to leave it out in the pasture to wait for its mom to come back, and I finally agreed. She went one way with the cows, and I turned to cut through the pasture and directly to the barn. The calf was walking around in confusion. The dry cows and heifers in the neighboring pasture were bellowing at it curiously, and it kept startling and then tripping over itself and blinking its big brown eyes. I noticed the flies were bothering him, he hadn�t quite gotten the hang of using his tail yet, and I felt sorry for his innocent confusion and suffering. �Baby, baby,� I said softly in a sing-song voice, holding out my hand and walking slowly towards him with rocking steps reminiscent of a cow. He backed up instinctively, but then toddled forward cautiously and sniffed my hand with a brief unpracticed snort. He relaxed a bit at my unthreatening smell, giving me enough time to get my hand under his head. I began rubbing him as a mother cow licks her newborn, with rough circular motions that rubbed the hair the wrong way. He jumped around excitedly for a few seconds, and then relaxed, shut his eyes and gave himself up to the pleasure. I rubbed the few pieces of manure off his back that the flies were attracted to, petted him a little more, and set off for the barn again. I had work to do. I was not going to be rid of him so easily. He cheerfully trotted along beside me like a little dog, pressing against my leg as if we had trusted and known each other forever. Fences had no meaning for him, as I went over them, he simply went under. I decided to bring him in, put him in a calf pen until his mother was identified and milked, feed him a bottle, then send him back out with his mother. I opened the barn door and his eyes widened at this wonder. Before he could have any second thoughts about going into this big dark scary cave, I gathered his legs together, hefted him up to my chest and carried him inside to a calf pen. Laura and I let the cows in and discussed how to handle chores. It was decided that I would move the fence for the cows and feed the chickens while her, Rachel, and Mary milked. I had figured out who was the calf�s mother fairly quickly� a cow named Helen. After I had fed him a bottle of his mother�s milk, I brought him out to the pasture with me. I knelt on the floor of the calf pen, ducked my head under the bull calf�s stomach, skillfully grabbed his legs and stood up with him now lying across my shoulders. I braced myself for the initial struggle, and when it was over, made my way out of the pen and through the breezeway to the pasture. Once in the pasture, I set him down and shoved him in the direction of a cow that stared at him in dumb amazement. I always enjoy moving the fence. The warmth of the sun on my bent shoulders as I hooked the wire through the posts, the sounds of the creaking wheel as I wind the wire, the clatter of the plastic posts as I carry them and walk with a steady measured pace through the waste high grass to step them in at proper intervals all sing of a beautiful rhythm that cries of peace and plenty. As is their custom, a song sparrow stayed one fence post ahead of me, treating me to bursts of a bubbly song. The notes are so intertwined and filled with trills and layers and spirals that it always sounds to me as if the land were singing. The one thing that spoils moving the fence for me is my overactive imagination. Sometimes I become afraid of this deep grass where I cannot see where I am stepping, filled with little animal trails and dents and depressions. Memories of skunks stumbled upon, and badger holes with pointed snouts and raised gums revealing pointed teeth ducking quickly into their land of roots and dirt, of coyotes, and foxes, and snakes, began to rise and make me fear this silent field of grass, waving like the ocean, may be concealing as many secrets as the watery deep itself. I finish setting up the one line, and turn to take down the other. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I see a brown animal stalking me in the grass, its spine and muscles moving like a snake and shining in the sun just below the grass heads, disappearing in and out, but undoubtedly coming after me. I whirl about, fence post in hand. Then I abashedly realize it is the new little bull calf. He has come after me�no doubt in hopes for another head rubbing. The milking cows were standing by the old fence line already. As I began to remove it and let them into the new grass, they rushed past me with the sound of the wind through oak trees, coughing and snorting and occasionally running into each other. Then their legs hit the new grass and it was quieted into �swish, swish, swish�, and the noise of grass being ripped and chewed. Farm Fact: A Jersey calf weighs around 60 lbs. at birth, and grows up to weigh-in at about 1,000 lbs!

The Other Side of the Fence

Sun, 04 Apr 2010 00:00:00 -0500

Week of April 4th, 2010 | The weather was amazing.

The Other Side of the Fence

By Rachel Holm

Rachel running.

This is a story from Sarah's sister, 12-year old Rachel Holm. Rachel helps with all the barn chores, hiking out over the hills some mornings before the sun is up to bring the cows down to the barn for milking. She loves horses and books about horses. She is always ready for an adventure and can often be found drawing or playing her guitar.

Every day my ten year old sister and I spend time with our old white horse, Leo. Today, I walked along leading him, Mary on his back, her honey colored hair partly covering her blue eyes.

"Mary," I asked, "Would you like to ride up View Hill instead of jogging around in this small pen?"

It was a clear day and I felt like having the wind on my face and letting Leo smell freedom.

"I don't know," she said, "It's a little risky because of the electric fence that runs up the middle of the hill. What if Leo runs into it?" It was true that getting around our farm is sometimes difficult because we are always moving fences so the cows constantly have new grass.

"Well, I rode up View Hill once before and he didn't run through the fence. Besides there is two of us so we would be twice as strong!"

"I suppose," Mary agreed, "But you have to go grab the saddle blanket."

Mom had saved an old saddle from her childhood in the shed but she never has shown us how to use it, so we just sat on the blanket. Instead of a bit, we tied strips of leather to his halter. Perfect—just like an Indian pony!

You see, our farm is an Organic Valley dairy farm. Usually, our Jersey cows get all of the attention. Or the chickens that run around scratching the soil in the pastures. Cows give milk each day and chickens give eggs, but our Dad had the opinion that all a horse gives is a headache. So, I was thrilled when Dad allowed old gentle Leo to finish his days on our farm, sharing our heifers' organic hay. A neighbor wanted a good home for him since his kids were allergic to horses and Leo was too old to sell to anyone.

Doubled up on Leo's back, Mary and I headed for that highest point on the farm we call View Hill. I was almost on his neck, and then I told Mary to scoot up and hold on to me tight so she wouldn't slide off his rump.

We whooped with glee as Leo cantered up the hill. At the top of the hill, Mary and I began to talk while Leo grazed. Soon, I remembered the fear Mary had had about the fence. It was just a slim silver wire that Leo really couldn't see but I knew he would feel! I immediately started pulling backwards on the reins. But he kept walking toward the fence that he didn't know was there.

The main problem was that Mary couldn't reach the reins and Leo had no bit in his mouth, only a halter.

"Pull his head up so I can grab his reins!" she yelled in my ear.

"I can't, he's too strong!" I screamed back. My hands burned as I pulled as hard as I could, all the while Mary was crushing me as she tried to reach the reins.

"He's going to break the fence!" Mary yelled again.

"I know!" I half screamed, half groaned. "I hope it's not on!" I yelled as he pressed his chest against the wire. The fence had electricity in it that would run through anything except wood, unfortunately, we were not wood.

ZAP! The first shock hit Leo and went through his body, then through Mary's, and then through mine. ZAP! It did it again, but harder. "Hang on!" I yelled to Mary as Leo bolted forward instead of backing away from the fence. It zapped us one more time, and I felt sick to my stomach. Leo did three crow hops and the next thing I knew I was falling through the air! I landed underneath Leo's hooves as he was bolting again from being zapped a fourth time. I jumped out of the way of his flying hooves. Then I turned back to Mary, who had been squished when I fell on top of her. I realized that Mary was still getting shocked! She was tangled in the fence, it had actually wrapped around her twice! I ran to her and grabbed her by the arm and tried to haul her out of the fence. I had to drop her on the ground and untangle her by hand so I was shocked again. By now I felt really sick from all the shocks I had gotten.

"Where's Leo?" Mary asked. I pointed out toward him. He was peacefully grazing. As we walked over to grab him, he raised his white head and nickered at us.

"You bad horse," I said to him as I patted him on the neck. This time he seemed to be listening, and he put his fuzzy white ears back. "It wasn't his fault, he didn't know the fence was there," Mary defended him.

The fence was snapped. After half an hour of being shocked while trying to mend it, we decided to tell Dad the truth about Leo getting out of control and busting the fence.

When we got home and told Dad, he laughed and said the broken fence was no big deal, and that he was just glad that we had pulled through safely.

Farm Fact: No two horses are identical.

Milking Time Back at the Barn

Sun, 10 Jan 2010 00:00:00 -0600

Week of January 10th, 2010 | The weather was warming up a bit.

Milking Time Back at the Barn

By Sarah Holm

Cows file back to the barn.

As I ran to the barn, the sharp sound of my boots hitting the ice-covered driveway echoed sharply off the circle of buildings. The icy sound vainly tried to fill the yard long silenced by winter, but it quickly dissipated, swallowed by the cold. The weak sun was quickly disappearing behind a line of trees when I entered the quiet empty barn.

Every winter evening, the barn is so bare, so still, that it reminds me of when it was abandoned and we didn't have cows. But a couple of 'Here, kitties!', brings several cats running from their warm beds in the straw, and causes a couple of calves sleeping in a pen to open sleepy eyes, shake their heads and blink solemnly. There is life here.

I prepared the barn for the cows and went outside to get them. I always try to get them in before the sun goes down, and this day I was going to be successful. Our barn sits at the base of a very steep hill. The cows overwinter in the pasture at the top of this hill. The lane up it is treacherous. The natural steepness of the hill, the ice, the hard-packed snow, and my smooth steel-toe boots combine to make it a difficult climb. I run so I can jam my boots into the snow hard enough to get traction. The air is so cold that when I open my mouth, the moisture on my teeth immediately dries up and my breath turns into a fog that sifts onto my face and leaves it chilled and gray.

The cows are waiting about thirty feet from the makeshift barbwire gate. The dark brown circle they stand in is a stark contrast to the acres and acres of white spreading out before me. "Here boss! Come bossy!" I call over to them. My beckoning was unnecessary; they are already running toward me. I realize I may not get the stubborn gate open in time, and my calloused numb hands struggle with the cold wires of the gate frantically. I only have it opened two feet when the herd shoves toward the opening like a wave. Just as I feared, one cow rams right into the gate and get entangled in it. I struggle to keep the barb wire from cutting her and to keep the other cows away as I talk her out of it.

"Whoa! Whoa girl!" I say in a deep voice, holding out one hand in front of her face. Now she realizes the predicament she is in. As she starts to step about frantically trying to get away, I move close to get a hand on her. Touching her with my bare hand, I again tell her to calm down, and mentally will calm into her through my touch. The change in her demeanor is instant. She breathes deeply, relaxes, and at my verbal and physical direction, slowly steps her way out of the wires. "There you go girl," I say as soon as she is free, and with this assurance, she quickly runs to catch up with the herd. I fasten the gate behind the cows and follow them down. Going down the hill is almost as hard as going up. I usually end up running a few steps and then turning sideways and sliding on my boots for awhile. Occasionally though, I hit a crust of snow and get pitched into a snow bank, fence, old thistle, or cow.

The past few years we have been plagued by drought, and the nation's economic situation did not help the farm financially. We couldn't afford corn or corn silage. I had asked Dad what we were going to feed the cows during winter one night after dinner.

"Twigs and snowballs," he had said. "Twigs and snowballs."

Remembering this, I happily watch the cows lick up their meager ration of oats and eagerly rip into their rich green alfalfa hay. They do not give a lot of milk on this simple fare, but they are not malnourished by any means. Their hair is long and thick, their eyes are bright, and the herd has no mastitis infections or foot problems. The whole herd is energetic; even the old cows move like sassy young heifers.

The cows joyfully eat their hay while Rachel, Mary, and I milk them. They throw slices of hay into the air with their teeth, releasing clouds of miniscule alfalfa leaves. If a person goes into the field aisle for even a short time, they will emerge with a bright green tinge.

We were almost done milking when Erika came in with the baby.

"Hey Danny!" I cried, straightening from taking a milker off of Penny. The ten-month old stared soberly at me from inside his bundle of clothing. He turned to look at the line of cows, then turned and looked back at me and blinked.

"He wouldn't stop crying so I brought him out here," Erika explained. She set him down and he grabbed a hold of her fingers and they set off to march up and down the feed aisle for thirty minutes. "Gah. Gah. Gah," I could hear him repeating as he pointed at each animal. I knew Erika was helping him pet them. He loves the cows, and they are always curious to see him.

I finished milking and took care of the milking equipment in the milk house. I had just gotten the wash cycle going and the calves' bottles ready when the door opened slowly. No one came in though, so I turned from the sink and walked over to see what was going on. Danny had led Erika to the milkhouse and had made her open the door. We laughed at his surprised expression upon seeing me, and I gathered up the bottles and all three of us went to feed the calves.

Daniel was fascinated with the calf feeding process. He even wanted to hold the bottle for a calf himself. I let him do this, but he got tired and sat on Erika's lap to watch me feed the calves. But he was not content to sit forever. "Dah! Daaah!" he yelled urgently and reached for a bottle.

"Here," Erika said, "You better just let him have the empty one. He just wants to hold it."

I gave him the bottle and he held it contently for awhile. It was rather funny to see, because the bottle was almost as tall as he was. Erika and I were talking about something, when I realized Daniel was rotating the bottle towards his mouth. "Erika!" I gasped, and grabbed for it. She jumped and snatched the calf-spit covered nipple away from his mouth. "Danny! Don't eat that!" The poor boy looked at us, heartbroken, and his mouth began to quiver. "Oh, the poor baby!" I said, "He was only trying to get something to eat!" This struck us as so funny that we could hardly stand up for laughing. Pretty soon the baby was laughing too. "Eeee! Eee! Eee!" he screeched in between his laughs, and wildly waved his fists in the air.

Farm Fact: A female bovine that has not had a calf is called a heifer.

I may not always be there, but I've still got it

Sun, 25 Oct 2009 00:00:00 -0500

Week of October 25th, 2009 | The weather was gray & rainy.

I may not always be there, but I've still got it

By Sarah Holm

One extremely cute calf.

"Define Selective Incorporation," my laptop screen flashed at me. I sighed and looked out of the student mall café window at the drizzly campus lawn. I wish I was outside, I thought, as I tapped my pen against my pile of textbooks. But looking at the students rushing through the cold air from building to building with their shoulders hunched up and hands deep in their pockets made me change my mind. At least it was warm in here. "Define the Gender Gap," my screen demanded. Slightly annoyed, I reached to answer the question for what seemed to be the hundredth time when a loud buzzing noise made me jump.

I scrambled through my papers and found my irately buzzing cell-phone. I normally hate talking on the phone, but I was getting tired of studying for this exam. Anything was a welcome break. "Hello?" Dad's voice came over the line faintly, crackling in and out. "Hey! Sarah? How's college going?"

My mom and the baby Daniel, Laura, Andrea and Erika were out of town, so only Mary and Rachel and my cousin Rebecca were at home. Dad was experiencing some delays at work, and he wanted to know if I could go home for barn chores. "Sure," I said, actually quite happy. "Let me finish up my work first and then I'll go home and help them. They ought to be able to get a good head start."

An hour later I pulled into the driveway of our farm. As I drove past one of the pastures I looked at the cows. It was an odd feeling for me not to be able to know immediately which cows were dry and which were milking. I started to realize how long a week is when it comes to farming. So many things happen and so many changes are made, that I can feel like I haven't gone to the barn for a month. Getting out of the truck and carrying my things to the house I could hear the milkers running in the barn. It was amazing to think that only three young girls, ages eleven, twelve and thirteen, were out there milking thirty five Jersey cows.

I hadn't eaten for several hours so as soon as I got in the house I threw a couple eggs in a pan and let them cook while I put away my things and changed into my barn clothes. After I laced my boots up, I ate my eggs quick, threw a sweater on and ran through the rain to the barn.

I must have smelled like eggs, because as soon as I stepped into the warm barn, I was attacked by a tribe of cats and the dog. "Sarah!" cried Mary, Rachel and Becca and they ran over to give me smelly wet hugs. I tried to reciprocate the hugs, but had to keep pulling cats off of my pant legs. Puppy shoved his muddy body against mine and almost knocked me over. I almost stepped on a kitten, and then almost stepped on five others. After I had regained my balance, I took in the pack of screeching felines. I had never seen so many shapes and sizes of cats in my life. "Meow!!!" they screamed at me in chorus. Slightly deafened, I turned to the girls. "Holy cow," I said, stunned, "How many cats do we have?" "Twenty-four," Rachel said matter-of-factly. Since when did that happen? I thought and looked up to assess the cows. Only one milker was on a cow at the end of the milk line, and half the cows were outside again already. "Hang on," I said slowly in astonishment, "You guys got all the cows milked? By yourselves?" The last I had known, Mary and Rachel didn't even know how to set up or take down the milkhouse equipment.

"Yep!" they all grinned and tried to convince me to go back in the house so they could say they did chores by themselves. They finally let me stay though, after I promised not to tell anyone I helped.

My part of chores was rather interesting. Since I didn't know exactly what was going on, I got to be ordered around by my little sisters. They naturally took advantage of the situation and gave me all the jobs they disliked the most. I didn't mind. I was proud of them, and it was all rather amusing.

Just as I was beginning to feel outdated to the point of needing to be replaced, Dad called. I needed to set up some water tanks for the dry cows. "Hey Sarah," Rachel said coming out of the breezeway as I hung up the phone, "You go feed the littlest calf that is in the youngstock shed." "Okay," I said, "but I have to do some things first."

I walked out behind the youngstock shed through the cold rain with ten cats at my heels. "Meow!" the kittens cried as they got stuck in the mud. The cats finally gave up and disappeared, I presumed to the shelter of the shed. I dragged the tank into position and hooked the hose up. Then I followed the hose to the Y hook up and turned it on. I walked back to the tank to check the water flow. No water. Hmm, I thought, maybe the water in the youngstock shed is off.

I slipped through the wet sand and over the fence to the shed. A mass of enormous hay bales reared up before me, blocking the way to the spigot. Hey, I thought, I didn't know Dad had bought hay for winter already. I eyed the bales. Over there was a dark spot that must be where I could get to the spigot. The cats had found me again. They meowed and did their best to trip me as I walked to the small crack. I reached in as far as I could, but I couldn't reach anything. I jammed my hat down farther over my ears and pushed my way in between the bales. My hands groped around in the dark until they found the spigot, and I tried to remember which hose went where. I fiddled around with it some until I was sure it was on, and then squirmed out of the passage. I emerged from the bales and while trying to brush the hay off, almost twisted my ankle on a cat.

I walked back to the water tank. Still no water. Shucks. What am I doing wrong? I followed the hose to the Y again. There was my problem. The hoses were twisted and I had turned the water flow to the wrong hose. Feeling rather silly, I fixed it and was rewarded by the sound of water flowing into the tank.

Then it was time to feed the calves. Since I was no longer able to go to the barn, Dad had bought two mob feeders so we wouldn't have to feed bottles by hand. The mob feeders are kind of like big buckets with nipples at the bottom. "Here Sarah!" said Mary as I came into the milkhouse, "You can carry the milk." Have you ever tried to carry two brim-full five gallon buckets of milk past two dozen cats? It is not easy.

Mary set the feeder up and I went to pour a bucket of milk into it. "No Sarah! Stop!" she yelled, "You can't put it in yet, wait for the calves!" I tried to set the bucket down carefully, but a cat got in the way and I ended up filling my left boot with milk.

So my capable little sister ran off with her cousin to get the calves and I was left behind to guard the milk from the cats. I stood there in the rain, feeling rather foolish. It was hard to get used to. Here I was making all these silly mistakes, and my little sisters were running the place..

The calves stampeded past the gate several times while the girls chased them. I quickly got tired of standing in the rain and watching the girls chase the calves. I moved the mob feeder, making sure I made a lot of noise with it. The calves stopped their shenanigans and looked up. I put my hand inside the feeder and banged it around. It made a loud clanking sound that carried up the hill to the calves. With a few joyful kicks, they came running down the hill and right up to the feeder.

I laughed at the wet girls who came following after the calves. I felt better now. I may not be as involved as I used to be, but I haven't forgotten all the tricks I've learned.

Farm Fact: The mother cow makes a very special milk for her calf that is called colostrum. Colostrum has extra vitamins and protein and is very good for the calf. A young female cow is called a heifer and a male is called a bull.

A Tomato to Remember

Sun, 13 Sep 2009 00:00:00 -0500

Week of September 13th, 2009 | The weather was warm, sunny & dry.

A Tomato to Remember

by Sarah Holm

Heirloom tomatoes

I remember the first time I ate a tomato.

Oh, I had had tomatoes before, if you could call them that. Those pale pink slices you get in your $1 fast food hamburger. I had eaten a few of those. But always with my eyes shut tight, the gorge rising in my throat as my taste buds screamed in protest over eating this awful, slimy, cold, foul tasting thing. I only ate a few. Soon I began inventing all sorts of ingenious ways for them to disappear. They all ended up rolled in a napkin, and thrown in the trash.

Even when Mom made me eat a tomato from the garden I didn't like it. It was our first year on the farm, and she had started a garden. She had bought these 'Big Boy' beefsteak seedlings from the parking lot at a major store. I remember her cutting them for a turkey sandwich in our farm kitchen. She wore a red apron and her soft brown hair was curling from the heat around her face, which was flushed with the excitement of her first garden tomatoes. Her enthusiasm was infectious; I was almost ready to believe that garden tomatoes tasted different than the ones you ate in town.

The knife bit into the tomato and the juice ran out, carrying along some seeds with it. Mom ate the first slice immediately. I watched her face. "Well, it's a lot better than a store tomato!" she said, with false cheeriness. But I sensed she was disappointed. She gave me a slice and I ate it. It was passable. It really didn't taste like much, maybe like tomato-tainted water.

I left the kitchen, leaving my mother sitting at the table. She was slicing and eating the tomato sadly, an absent look in her eyes, her fingers hovering above a napkin as they dripped with the bland juice.

But I wanted to tell you about when I tasted my first real tomato. I was fourteen or fifteen years old, and our family was at the Minnesota State Fair, helping to run the Organic Valley booth. We were giving out samples of cheese and milk and having a wonderful time meeting people who bought our products and telling them about our dairy farm.

I had been on my feet for hours with nothing to eat but some cheese. I was hungry and thirsty. Then two organic vegetable farmers came in with a pile of tomatoes. They began cutting them up and giving them to people. Most people turned them down, saying they hated tomatoes. But the ones that accepted got the biggest grins on their faces. I overheard phrases like, "It tastes like it's from my grandmother's garden!" again and again.

I was curious and hungry—so I went over to the farmers' table and looked at the tomatoes. The table looked beautiful, covered with tomatoes of every shape and color—pink and purple, yellow, orange and red. I stood amazed.

The woman farmer noticed me. "Would you like one?" she asked.

I didn't know what to say. I hated tomatoes. But these looked so different, like no tomatoes I'd seen before. I hesitated and she handed me a slice in this little paper container. It was plump and cool, but not cold like it had been sitting in a refrigerator. It seemed to be a fruit that loved the heat and wasn't affected by it. The seeds and juicy pulp stayed with the flesh. It looked beautiful.

"Yes." I gasped out, holding it in shock. "I want it." And a desire to eat it engulfed me. I picked it up, the farmer watching my every move. "I don't even like tomatoes," I confessed, looking into her hazel eyes as I brought it up to my mouth. I was nervous, afraid I wouldn't like it after all, that I would spit it out in front of her.

I glanced at it again and stopped in confusion. "It's yellow," I said, my disappointment welling. "It's not ripe!" I lowered it back toward its paper container. She looked at me, surprised. "It's supposed to be yellow," she said, gesturing toward the table covered with the rainbow colored fruits. "They're all heirloom tomatoes, all different colors and sizes. Even the purple ones are ripe." She smiled at me. "Not all tomatoes are red, you know." I smiled back, relieved. "I know," I said, not having the faintest idea what she was talking about.

As if stepping from a high precipice, I closed my eyes and gingerly bit into the tomato. Oh. It tasted so good! Warm and cool at the same time. Like a drink of cold water and yet like food. My mouth filled with the taste of the sun, the rain, and the earth. I could smell and see the tomato as it grew. My mind was filled with everything this tomato had seen in its life, the dew in the morning, the quiet star-filled night, the earthworms that trundled beneath the soil at the roots of its mother plant, the farmer with the watering can, the hot, hot days and the cool wind. I came to my senses, the tomato gone. Breathing heavily, I looked at the lady farmer in amazement. "Thank you." I gasped, "Thank you." "Did you like it?" she asked happily.

"Yes, oh yes." I said simply. "I loved it."

That is the story of my first tomato. Ever since then, I have planted organic heirloom tomatoes in our garden. And now, just like my mother did, and my grandparents did, in the hot summertime, when I am hungry and thirsty all at once, I go to the garden and pick a tomato. And then I go and sit on a swing, and eat it like an apple.

Farm Fact: According to the U.S. Department of Agriculture, Americans eat more than 22 pounds of tomatoes every year. More than half this amount is eaten in the form of ketchup and tomato sauce.

A Round Bale Tale

Sat, 08 Aug 2009 00:00:00 -0500

Week of August 8th, 2009 | The weather was colder and wetter than normal.

A Round Bale Tale

by Johan Doornenbal

Doornenbal family

Hello, my name is Johan Doornenbal; I'm a 16-year-old organic dairy farm kid in Oregon. Our farm ships its milk to Organic Valley. Here is a story from my experiences. I enjoy photography and took all the pictures that accompany this story.

Spring 2008: "Hey Johan," said my dad, "Let's start making some of our own winter feed for our cows." He wanted to save some money, and we had lots of grass, so we decided to make grass silage, a new venture for us.

There are two varieties of silage—chopped and baleage. Chopped silage is more common. The grass or corn is chopped, put in a big pile, and covered with plastic and tires to hold the plastic down. Baleage is a large bale wrapped in plastic. The difference between silage and hay is that silage has more moisture than hay; the plastic covering or wrap is used to keep the moisture inside in order to ferment the corn or grass into a sort of "sauerkraut" for cows.

We had plenty of grass, all that we needed was the proper equipment. My dad already had two tractors, but nothing else. Equipment costs money, which we certainly didn't have much of. We prayed, knowing God delights to answer prayer.

Jon, a dairy friend of ours, was trading in his fairly new Claas baler in order to upgrade to the latest-and-greatest, so he arranged with the equipment dealer to give us first dibs on it. After the dealer's mechanics had the baler working perfectly, they brought it over to our farm.

We also needed a wrapper, to wrap the bales with the plastic as they were made, as well as a mower. Our friend Matt mowed the grass for us with his very fancy mower. And Jon's friend lent us a wrapper on a "try before you buy" basis.

Now it was time to make the silage. After checking to make sure the grass was dry enough, Carter, our summer college student employee, ran the baler and I ran the wrapper. After working about two hours that morning, I went to my homeschool co-op; that afternoon, I got right back to work again. Carter and I stopped at 11:30 that night—having made, wrapped, and stacked 109 bales. We were done making silage.

Or so we thought. A few days later my dad decided that we should make more silage, so he set aside a few more fields, including one of our next door neighbor Neil's fields. Neil had asked dad to manage his fields, since only a few horses grazed the 50 acres.

Then the problems started. Matt was cutting his own crops for silage, and wouldn't be able to mow any for us for a couple weeks. Another neighbor was making hay and didn't want to do any more mowing. So, no mower. My dad talked to yet another neighbor, Gary, who said he would look around for us. Worried, my dad talked to a salesman, seriously considering spending $18,000 on a new mower.

That same evening, Gary came by to tell us that he had found an old John Deere mower, which a friend of his would lend and possibly sell to us. Once we pumped up the tires and gave it some grease, it ran beautifully. My dad and I were happy, although Carter would have preferred the brand new one!

Getting back to business, we made silage in four more of our fields. Jon called, saying he had an old mower on his new property that we could pick up if we wanted it—he had no use for it. Carter had helped Jon make silage earlier that summer, and said it was a New Holland.

Starting on Neil's field, our borrowed mower promptly broke down. One of the gearboxes was broken. That was a real problem, because the machine was old and a new gearbox would have to be adapted to fit it. We decided to go get the old mower that Jon had offered.

My dad and Carter hopped into the truck to go get it. An hour and a half later, they discovered it was in much worse shape than the one we were using; but it was a John Deere. In fact, it was the exact same model as the one we were using! The gearbox appeared to be intact; but they had no tools to remove it, so there was nothing to do but drive the long distance back home.

The next day, Carter was sent back to the mower with tools in order to salvage everything he could get from it, including the gearbox. But the gearbox dug its heels in and refused to move. Carter called John Deere.

"Well," they informed him, "you need a pickle fork."

Not knowing what on earth a "pickle fork" was, Carter salvaged all the parts he could without the "pickle fork."

That evening my dad arranged for a John Deere mechanic to take the gearbox off the mower and install it on our borrowed mower. We were back in business within 15 minutes after he left. (The mechanic showed us the pickle fork; it's a wedge of sorts, but shaped like a huge fork.)

Finally finishing mowing Neil's field, we began the process of baling and wrapping on Friday. During this time, my younger siblings had been attending Vacation Bible School; the final program was happening this very night. But, I was the wrapper-man, and we still had many bales that needed to be wrapped (I could wrap about thirty bales in four hours), so I would likely be out there half the night and would miss the program.

"Bang!" That afternoon the wrapper got a flat tire. (I don't blame it. It had been bouncing around in bumpy fields for days!) The tire store wasn't able to send out a repairman until the next morning, so my plans changed. I got to enjoy the program after all, and finished wrapping the silage the next day.

We were finally done—309 round bales, several hundred pictures, a very sore neck (stuck in a semi-backward position for a week!), and a lesson in God's provision.

Farm Fact: Grazing cattle can minimize the invasion of non-native plant species.

Eternal Optimist

Thu, 25 Jun 2009 00:00:00 -0500

Week of June 25th, 2009 | The weather was unusually hot for end of June..

Eternal Optimist

by Sarah Holm

Sarah feeding one of her cows.

This evening I sat on the stone bricks that walled in the flowerbed next to our freshly painted farmhouse. I was holding my baby brother, Daniel. His bare feet and legs were joyously kicking the hot air, his toes digging into the sadly wilted grass of our lawn.

"Goo!" cried Danny, trying to jump away from me with a tremendous kick, "ga, ga, ga. Goo!"

We were watching Lupin and Eli, two overgrown kittens; wrestle each other for the possession of a turkey feather. Daniel reached for them, his fingers begging to grab hold of their tails and pull. Occasionally the cats would look at the four-month old with a gentle curiosity. Then, as if to humor him by including him in their play, they would roll toward him, their pink mouths opening in lazy yawns, their paws gently patting with sheathed claws at his wiggling toes.

While Danny talked to the kitties, I watched Andrea bring the cows up the lane to the barn. Our land was so dry that just the steady walking of the cows made a dust cloud higher than them by several feet. The dust settled on Andrea, sticking to her damp body, painting her skin a strange dark hue.

The wind had picked up and it began to feel cooler. The milkhouse door clanked shut as my sisters prepared for the milking. I noticed clouds in the distance. I didn't want to get my hopes up, but I couldn't help it. Out of habit more than anything, I closed my eyes and prayed silently for rain.

It seems as if I've said the same prayer several times a day for five years. Sometimes I say it apathetically, almost automatically, but usually I say it with a strong passion, like the plea of a condemned man for mercy. We have been in a severe drought for so long that walking into our empty haymow, it seems like the memories I have of the towering piles of sweet smelling grassy hay, fresh from our fields, belong to a different person.

Rachel and Andrea milked the cows on the south side while I let the others out of the north side. It was hot and the flies were biting, so the cows were fidgety and grumpy. Violet threw a fit and tried to kick her milker off. I sighed and petted her soothingly. It was the heat, I thought, and the dust. That's why the cows are so jumpy and why everyone is so grumpy. I thought of the dry grass outside and the dark skies. If only it would rain. As we finished milking, we realized a very small drizzle had started.

I put a raincoat on and set out to move the fence. I walked down the lane happily, enjoying the drizzle on my face. Soon the dust disappeared and puddles and little rivers began to form. I had a stream of water running down my face and dripping off the end of my nose. I could feel the relief of the grasses, and the joy of the sparrows that splashed nearby.

There was a roll of thunder and it began to pour. Happily, I waded through the long wet grass to the fence and opened the gate. It had been so long since it had rained like this. I couldn't remember the last time we had a thunderstorm. Maybe, just maybe, there wouldn't be a drought this summer.

"Come boss! Come boss! Here bossy!" I called to the cows hiding in the woods. They must not realize I have the gate open, I thought. I walked about halfway into the new pasture and yelled at the top of my lungs.

"Hey! You guys! Over here!" I waved my arms in the air. Rain ran down the ridiculous huge stiff sleeves of my raincoat and water hung on my eyelids. Water ran into my mouth, and its sweetness coated my teeth.

The cows had finally heard me. Bucking and kicking they ran down the woody hillside. I could see bushes cracking and bending as their brown forms emerged from the underbrush. They ran to the new grass at an easy gallop, their tales held straight up in the air. I had raised every one of these cows from the minute they were born and so I stood, unafraid of their games. Some of them had big mouthfuls of wet plants in their mouths, like dogs with bones. Scarlett and Princess licked me all over and affectionately rubbed their wet heads against me. My legs and my coat were wet, covered in cow hair and pieces of red clover they had left behind.

Farmers are eternal optimists. This truth popped into my head. Nothing had stopped my hopes and prayers. Calmly, I acknowledged that Life will send me storms and droughts and plagues. But there would always be a respite from the hard times. Every time it rains, it gives our farm strength to survive. That is what you have to do sometimes, just survive. You cannot always prosper. Security does not exist in the farmers' world. We are always at the mercy of so many things, especially the weather!

Farm Fact: The average cow weighs 1,200 lbs. (544.8 kg) and has a life span (if left alone) of 18 years, but 25-30 are possible.

Bouncing Bovines

Tue, 05 May 2009 00:00:00 -0500

Week of May 5th, 2009 | The weather was sunny and warm.

Bouncing Bovines

By Andrea Holm

Andrea and sister Rachel.

Andrea Holm is a seventeen year-old Organic Valley farmer. She is one of six sisters, ages 18-10, who work together to run their thirty-five cow organic dairy farm in Elk Mound, WI. They rotational graze their Jersey cows, who are all pets. Every day Andrea can be found in the barn milking, or out in the pasture moving fences, if she's not there, you will likely find her in the house playing the piano.

It was a wonderful spring evening in early April, while the ground still resembled a brown wasteland, you could see individual blades of grass peeking through the thawing ground. After finishing chores and scraping the corral, I started to walk the cows out to their paddock. As I walked over the hill I could see the cows were headed out to the farthest corner of their paddock, the opposite direction of their hay feeders. I started walking backward towards their feeders calling as I went, "Come boss...come bossy..., wrong way babies, your feeders are over here!" Immediately I caught the attention of a spunky cow named Minnie. She diligently turned around and headed my way, bobbing her head as she came. Reluctantly, the rest of the cows followed, trailing behind Minnie who was eagerly trying to catch up with me. As I went faster, so did Minnie, and so did the rest of the cows who were starting to think that there actually was something interesting where I was going.

I crested the hill and Minnie came in sight of the hay feeders. She gave them hardly a glance, and continued to look at me as if saying, "Well, what next?"

"Go on baby." I said, "Your hay is right there." Minnie refused to take the hint, so I continued to the feeders, with Minnie following, and with the rest of the cows following Minnie. I ran the last few yards to the nearest feeder, and heard Minnie galloping behind me. I reached the feeder and turned around, Minnie snorted and skittered backwards a few steps. Laughing, I realized what it was she had wanted the whole time, me to play with her. Obliging, I ran behind the feeder, Minnie bounded forward and stopped with a snort on the other side of it. I ran around the corner at her, she bounded at me, I halted, and she bounced away in a circle.

By now all the rest of the cows were on the top of the hill with us and avidly watching Minnie and I play. I ran back behind the feeder and Minnie bounded back forward, ears as far forward as they go. I ran out at her and skittered sideways around her, sending her off in another ridiculously looking bouncy circle. She stopped and coughed a bit, and when she finished, I ran around her again in the funny sideways shuffle that cows love to use. This once again sent her bounding away and bouncing in a circle, but this time a cow named Autumn joined her in the dance. Again I ran at Minnie, only this time I ran straight at her face, then turned around and ran away a few yards. This sent Autumn bouncing in a circle while Minnie bounded around butting the other cows and then ending with the bovine's irresistible bouncy circle with a few other cows joining in.

By this time I was getting tired, but Minnie still looked quite fresh. So I took off for the water tank, about 30 yards away. By looking at her shadow, I could see that Minnie was chasing after me, but by the sound of it, so were the other cows too. Sure enough, when I reached the tank and whirled around, the whole herd was there—as excited as Minnie. I ran at Minnie and a few other cows that were by her and they all took off bouncing around in circles, which sent everyone else bounding off in circles, which excited the first bouncers again and set them off, and so on.

It was quite a sight, about 60 Jersey cows, all having the time of their life, bouncing around in circles, udders swinging crazily on cows, and heifers making ridiculous little moos.

Laughing, I turned around, slipped through the barb wire fence, and headed down the hill. To my right was a beautiful setting sun, to my left was a pale full moon, down the hill ahead of me was the barn, house, and other buildings, as well as my younger sisters in the front yard, shouting and yelling as they tried to play a three person softball game, and behind me probably still bouncing around, were our wonderful cows.

Farm Fact: A cow grazes by curling her tongue around the grass and cutting it off with her lower teeth and a slight upward movement of her head. She will eat about 100 lbs. (45 kg) of grass a day.

Turkey Tales: In which I acquire another worthless pet

Sun, 12 Apr 2009 00:00:00 -0500

Week of April 12th, 2009 | The weather was beginning to show signs of spring.

Turkey Tales:
In which I acquire another worthless pet

by Sarah Holm

Archibald da Turkey

I bought an old tom turkey last Thanksgiving. I wanted him for a pet, not for the meal. I didn't know a lot about turkeys, I had always thought of them as big chickens. But when I looked into my new pet's eyes, he stared fiercely back at me. I could just see the wheels turning in his head. "Dad," I called, "come look at my turkey. He's smart!"

When I first got the turkey, I kept him in a big metal cage his former owners lent me, inside a calf pen. Our dog, Puppy, was really worried and excited about him, so I tried to give the turkey a space where he could feel safe. The turkey, who's name was Tom, was getting really upset though, what with the dog barking and all the commotion, and he kept spreading his tail feathers and strutting. I finally kicked the dog out of the barn, and then I left too, trying to give Tom a little peace.

Later, Rachel and I were feeding him bread and trying to think of a new name for him. I wanted my first turkey to have a more memorable name than Tom. Although scary looking, Tom was pretty gentle, and the bread had made him fast friends with us. He clucked and squealed at us from behind the cage, his feathers rising up and down, as he begged for more bread.

"King?" I wondered aloud, "Ajax? Alabaster? Horatius?"

"Poofball," suggested Rachel as Tom began strutting, puffing out his chest and tail feathers to ridiculous lengths.

"Poofball! I don't think so! I want something more prestigious."

Tom had fallen in love with Rachel. He looked up with hero worship in his shiny black eyes for the lovely being who was feeding him. He charmingly asked for another piece by chirping like a baby. "Squeak! Squeak!' A rather ridiculous noise to hear coming from a huge fifty-pound bird.

"Sorry, Poofball," Rachel spread her fingers wide to show him, "All gone."

"Hmm," thought Tom, turning his head to the side to peer at her fingers, "not exactly bread, but..." Snap! He reached out and grabbed Rachel's finger in his huge, sharp beak.

"Aahh!" yelled Rachel, jerking her hand away.

In an explosion of feathers, Tom quickly retreated to the back of his cage, frightened by her scream. I laughed uproariously as Rachel sucked her finger and suggested another name.

"How about Greedy-guts?"

Tom must have been embarrassed of his cowardice because he soon started strutting again. Trying to prove how big and strong he was to us. "You stinky old Greedy-guts!" scolded Rachel, poking him in his expansive stomach, "You just about bit my finger off!" Tom didn't approve of getting his stomach poked, but regally shutting his eyes and ignoring her kept strutting.

'I know," I said, "His name is now Archibald."

"What!" yipped Rachel, "Archibald!"

Suddenly the turkey reared up and gobbled right in Rachel's face. Rachel shrieked in surprise and fell over backwards.

"Rachel," I said proudly to the prostrate girl, "Meet Archibald."

After a week or so of living in the shed, Dad made me move Archie out to the calf barn (a lean to shed on the side of our barn), because he was scaring the cows as they walked by. I must admit, it was annoying to have to wait for him to stop gobbling before talking to someone. Not a good thing to have going on when you're in a hurry.

I thought Archibald would enjoy being outside and in the calf barn, but it took him a while to get used to it. He was afraid of not being in his cage. He tried to make friends with the ducks, which was a complete failure. They were terrified of him. Every time he came near them, all sixteen of our ducks would run away, screaming bloody murder. Then Archibald would try to catch up with them, making them think he was trying to chase them down and eat them. Sometimes they would even run outside, with the turkey after them, and flounder around in the snow before getting stuck. Several times this winter, I would have to go outside and dig a bunch of quacking ducks out of a snow bank; my poor turkey standing puzzled in the midst of them, shifting his big bony feet as they got cold. Eventually Archie gave up on the ducks, and now he hangs out with the chickens. The chickens didn't even take a second look at him. I guess they just assumed he was an extremely big rooster.

Now that spring is finally here, Archibald, the ducks and the chickens are free to go where they please. Archibald was a little hesitant about this too, but now he is happily adjusted. I think it's pretty neat to have a full-grown turkey walking around our yard. I guess you could call him the poor man's peacock.

Farm Fact: The turkey is one of the most famous birds in North America. In fact, Benjamin Franklin wanted to make the wild turkey, not the Bald Eagle, the national bird of the United States!

Holm Girls' Dairy or Rabbit Refuge?

Sun, 01 Mar 2009 00:00:00 -0600

Week of March 1st, 2009 | The weather was starting to get warmer.

Holm Girls' Dairy or Rabbit Refuge?

By Sarah Holm

Laura with El-ahairah and Cookie.

I have always had an affinity for rabbits. My first rabbit, a white angora buck, I was probably too young for and I'm sorry to say he was rather neglected. But after his death people kept giving me more rabbits and the more I learned how to care for and play with them, the more I grew to love them.

Rabbits can be very good pets. They are very quiet and clean. They do not bark, or jump up on you like dogs do, nor do they require as much space as a cat. They do not get lonely if you are gone all day, but will eat and sit quietly, groom themselves periodically, and calmly wait, thinking various bunny thoughts and dreaming bunny dreams.

Lately, however, I am afraid my love of rabbits has taken a rather unmanageable turn. Looking back, I believe it started two summers ago. Laura and I bought two baby rabbits, a brown Mini-Rex we named Hazel, and a brown and gray speckled Mini-Lop we named Dandelion. We did not have a secure cage for them because they were so small. So we asked our parents if we could keep them in our room. Apparently there are benefits to having hideous ancient carpet and peeling wallpaper, as they said yes.

We litter boxed trained them and had all sorts of fun. Laura taught Hazel how to play tag. It was pretty funny to watch. Laura would sneak up on Hazel and, with exaggerated stomping, chase him under our bed. Laura would freeze and wait; pretty soon Hazel's little velvet nose would peek out from under the bed skirt and it was Laura's turn to run. After being chased around the room by the tiny rabbit, Laura would leap up onto the bed, screaming in mock terror. So eager was Hazel in this game, that the plump little bunny would put his paws up on the bed and wiggle his nose ferociously at my sister. Then Laura taught Dandelion, who was a very greedy rabbit and twice the size of Hazel already, to jump up on our bed. I thought this was pretty neat until Dandelion began jumping up in the middle of the night and trying to sleep on my neck. Several times I woke up to find the terrifying fuzzy face of some unknown animal gazing into my eyes. I would leap up screaming and poor Dandelion would be catapulted into the air.

I finally made Laura move them outside. I still feel guilty to this day about it, because two days later they dug a tunnel under the cage and escaped. We never saw them again.

Then last summer Erika and I bought two baby English Spots at the Kickapoo Country Fair. They are sisters and we named them Mopsy and Flopsy. Then some friends of ours gave us their pet rabbit. Their mom made them choose between a rabbit and a cat, and, foolishly, they chose the cat. The young buck, who we named El-ahrairah, is an albino Jersey Wooly. I was quite satisfied with the amount of rabbits we had but then some friends of our friends called and asked if I would take their rabbit. I agreed because it was a Netherland Dwarf, the smallest rabbit breed in the world and I have always wanted one. So the dainty, light brown doe came to join my collection. I named her Hyzenthlay. I thought I had enough rabbits, but then some friends of the friends of our friends called and asked if I would take their Mini-Lops. They were moving and their bunnies needed a home. How could I say no to such a story as that? Besides, I didn't have any Mini-Lops. So Chocolate and Blackberry are now with us. The Mini-Lops' former owners also gave me the phone number of a friend of theirs who needs a home for two rabbits and ten chickens. The ten chickens are tempting, but I'm afraid if I call, I'll find myself stranded with two more charming, but rather worthless, glorified rodents.

It's getting to be quite the job to feed them all and clean their cages every day. It should get easier in the summer. I am going to put them and their cages in my garden, where they can eat the weeds and I can collect their droppings for fertilizer. Rabbit droppings are supposed to be the best fertilizer, after cow manure.

My sister Mary tells me that Erika left El-ahrairah (the only male) unsupervised amongst the girl rabbits, so now I've got baby bunnies on my mind. Thankfully, only Chocolate has begun making a nest, so hopefully the population boom will not be too bad. I had to give a pretty stern lecture to Erika about the birds, the bees and the bunnies and the benefits of birth control. She has promised to be more careful in the future.

I am not too upset though. I've always wanted to raise a litter of rabbit kittens—baby bunnies are awfully cute.

For anyone who would like to read more stories about rabbits, I recommend the book "Watership Down" by Richard Adams. Laura and I had some lovely summer evenings with this book. I would read it aloud to her while she petted Hazel and Dandelion, we would have the windows open to the dark night outside. Sometimes we would have to stop the story to listen to coyotes yapping or to the hoot of an owl. I'm sure you would enjoy this book too.

Farm Fact: The largest litter of baby rabbits is 24. It has happened twice. Once in 1978 and again in 1999.

Flood of Memories

Sun, 11 Jan 2009 00:00:00 -0600

Week of January 11th, 2009 | The weather was unusually cold & snowy.

Flood of Memories

By Sarah Holm

Alex the calf.

It was nine o'clock. I was just about to crawl into bed with my sister, Laura. With the ring of a phone, pandemonium broke loose downstairs. People were shouting, doors were slamming, and Mom (who was upstairs with me) started yelling for me. I scrambled out of bed and ran to her room. "Yes?" I asked. "The barn's flooded. Get out there and help your dad."

Downstairs, I put coveralls over my pajamas, slipped my boots on and ran through the cold night to the barn. My youngest sister, Mary, followed me.

A flooded barn is never a good thing, but it can be a disaster in the middle of winter. The water goes into the gutter behind the cows and if it freezes, you can have one long gigantic iced cube. The gutter is where the cows drop their waste. A metal chain in the gutter runs along and pulls all the manure out of the barn. If it freezes, then you can't take the manure out of the barn, which causes a host of problems.

At first I didn't see any water. All the aisles were dry. But then I looked in the gutter. The water was almost a foot deep on the east end of the barn, and it was slowly making its way toward the much colder west end.

My sister Andrea was in the south calf pen, madly shoveling wet bedding and water out of it. It was a strange sight. Water filled the pen. The bedding floated on top like some strange floating island. The inhabitant of this sorry mess, a newborn heifer calf, was hopping around miserably. She kept trying to get on top of the bedding, which wasn't working so well.

I started scooping out the water onto the walkway, where it would pour into the gutters. As we worked, Andrea told me what had happened. Dad had been storing an old pillar in the calf pen. The dog or the calf must have knocked it over, and the post fell on a drinking cup, snapping it neatly off the wall, leaving the hose it was attached to running. It was a miracle that it was even discovered. Dad had been in the basement putting more wood in the furnace when he heard the well pump running. He knew there wasn't any water running in the house, so he had gone out to the barn to investigate.

The calf was fine, but she was starting to panic. I picked her up and carrying her on my shoulders, I put her in the north pen and told Mary to get a towel and dry her off. I went back to help Andrea finish cleaning out the pen. Dad was there, fixing the drinking cup, and he immediately gave me a different job. "Sarah," he said. "You've got to stop the water from getting to the west end of the barn. If it gets down there and freezes, I don't know what we're going to do. Use as much straw as you have to, soak the water up and keep it from going any farther."

I ran and got the wheelbarrow and quickly filled it with bedding. Then I took it around the barn, stuffing straw in every space I could find in the gutter. I did this again and again.

By the time I was done, Andrea had cleaned and bedded the pen. Dad had fixed the drinking cup, and Mary had the calf dry.

"I'm done," I told Dad.

"I hope it works," he said, "Why do things like this always happen right when it gets below zero?"

"Murphy's Law, " I said, and laughed.

I carried the calf back to her pen. She lay down quickly, sighing and shivering. "Poor baby," I said, kneeling by her. "You were really scared weren't you?" I took her soft brown head in my hands and rubbed under her chin softly. Instantly, she relaxed. In a few seconds she was asleep.

"Oh!" Mary cried sympathetically, "the poor baby!" As I stood up Mary lay down next to the calf and hugged her. An orange cat immediately leapt up on my sister's back and curled up on her neck.

"Oh, Sarah, look!" she breathed, "Isn't she cute?" But really Mary was the cute one. Her messy blond hair spilled out from under her hat, framing her face, which was rosy red from the cold, her big blue eyes shining.

Not a lot of kids would willingly get out of bed to go outside in the freezing cold and deal with such a mess. "Thanks for coming out, Mary." I said, "You were a big help."

The next morning, it took Dad and I a long time to clean the barn because the gutters were so full of bedding. But we were just glad the gutters hadn't frozen.

Before Dad went to spread the load he came in and talked to me. "Well, good thing it didn't freeze," he said. "I don't know what we would've done then." Tongue in cheek, I replied, "I guess we would have had to shovel it all out by hand." I expected him to laugh, but instead he considered my comment seriously. "I never thought of that," he said, "I guess you get so dependent on machinery, you forget. Yeah, that's how we did it when I was a teenager." He laughed and started to walk away. "Well, that makes me feel a lot better," he said. "We'll never have to be afraid if that happens again."

I watched him go, stunned. I couldn't believe it. The idea of shoveling all the manure out by hand made him feel better? I fervently hoped I would never have to do that. Did he realize how many wheelbarrow loads of manure that would be? It would take all day! If not two....

Farm Fact: Cows can sense an impending storm by the lowering pressure before a storm and will lie down.

Christmas Cats

Sun, 07 Dec 2008 00:00:00 -0600

Week of December 7th, 2008 | The weather was seasonably snowy & cold.

Christmas Cats

By Sarah Holm

Button, sitting on our woodpile.

Inside our white farmhouse everyone was busy with Christmas preparations. Even outside in the quiet stillness of the cold afternoon I could hear the vacuum cleaner running. Mom and Erika were watching over at least five pumpkin pies and one cheesecake. People who were trying to clean kept getting shooed out of rooms where presents were hidden.

It was nice to be outside where I could pause for two seconds without getting run over by someone carrying tubes of wrapping paper or strings of Christmas lights. I had welcomed the chance to take out the garbage just so I could get a little peace and quiet. The snow was so sparkly it hurt my eyes. The snow was so cold it squeaked when I walked on it, setting my teeth on edge. Nothing was outside, not even a solitary sparrow.

After I put the garbage bag in the dumpster I went to the barn with the old soup carrots. I put the carrots in the fridge, but saved one for Dandelion. The bunny was very happy to get it. He sniffed it all over before flinging his long floppy ears back and eating it joyfully.

I stood up and looked around in the dim light for the cats. They were all sleeping in a heap in the north calf pen.

A heap of cats on a cold winter's day is the sweetest thing. I slowly opened the door to the pen, trying not to wake them. But they heard me, and as I kneeled into the straw beside them, they were opening their eyes and yawning.

Misty and Athena were on the edge of the pile. They gazed at me with their deep golden eyes as they sat primly upright, their paws tucked under themselves. "Hey mommies," I crooned, stroking their glossy fur.

Now Toady was awake. "Squeak!" she cried, bounding out from underneath her father's stomach. I scooped her up and kissed the squirming kitten on the head. "Purgle-squeak!" She purred as she wiggled out of my hands and dropped into the straw. Toady went straight back to her dad, Puff, burrowing into his belly so she could stay warm. Puff opened one eye and angrily leaned down to bite the baby. Then he saw me. "Rowr?" he asked, assuming an expression of innocence. What are you doing here? He seemed to say. Freddy and Button were plopped over each other. They were sleeping very hard. They didn't even wake up when I kissed and stroked them.

Then a head came squeezing its way out from underneath and between them. It was Grandpa! I pulled him out and held him. He was very hot and very squished looking. They were all awake now. The group of cats all gazed happily up at me as they snuggled together to stay warm. Grandpa started his rusty worn-out purr as I set him down. Toad ran up to me and started begging to be petted. As I stroked her she began to purr.

Then "rumble, rumble," Athena's purr joined in. "Brrr-un, Brr-un," Misty started. "Grrrr, hmm, Grrr, hmm." Puff's bass joined the ladies. I leaned down close to Fred and Button. Sure enough, they were purring too! Barely audible, their sound of contentment rose and fell as they breathed. "Prrrr, purr, Prrrr, purr, Prrrr..." I petted them all one by one then picked Toady up. I held her and sat listening. All the different purrs combined made a sound reminiscent of a choir.

"Now this is Christmas," I thought "a big, sleepy pile of cats."

Farm Fact: Cats are the only animals that purr. Cats purr at about 26 cycles per second, the same frequency as an idling diesel engine.