Carolina and Bessie; Or Just One More Reason We Are Not an Organic Farm

N. Carolina with her new herdmate Virgina behind her.

Those who have followed the farm for a while know that we were originally all about goats. We had no intention whatsoever to own cows. When people asked if we were sure that the milk they were tasting was, in fact, goat milk, not cow milk (because it tasted so much better than the goat milk they were accustomed to getting from the grocery store), we assured them that there were no cows on the farm at all.

Then, in 2020, I found myself tired, exhausted, and just plain drained. It might have had something to do with trying to finish my masters degree at the same time as running a small family farm and a large weekly farmers market, but the end result was the same. I posed a question to Tim--what would he think of shutting down the farm? Just quitting, going under, whatever you want to call it. Our side gigs, which at the time included both managing the market and teaching, were sufficient to pay the bills, while the farm, as always, was in a desultory circle around the proverbial drain. Our largest bill was animal feed, second was the electricity for the dairy and creamery. It was a smart financial decision to get out of farming.

Instead we got cows.

Right now I can't even recall the path the conversation took that led us from "Let's quit," to "Let's expand," but we soon found ourselves with a sweet Jersey cross named Virginia. Virginia led to Georgia, Mississippi, S. Carolina, and Virginia's heifer calf Shenandoah. (We'd decided that our cows would be named after southern states, and their babies would be names after towns or regions in those states.) Over the years since we first discussed quitting and instead dug the hole deeper, we've had to euthanize a cow due to an uncurable illness, we've sold a cow to a friend, and we've lost a cow to pregnancy complications, leading us back to where we started, with just Virginia supplying an increasing demand for Swede Farm cow milk. It was clear to our customers that we needed another cow, even if we took a while to agree. Once we decided that it was probably smart, we went cow shopping, only to find that we are definitely in a sellers market for cows, for reasons I may get to in future posts, but for now, I want to talk about N. Carolina.

When we started our search for a new cow, at first we just looked at Jerseys, or Jersey crosses, which were already in milk. Jerseys are smaller, eat less, and give super creamy milk. The proverbial black and white cow one sees on Etsy tee-shirts and cookie jars are Holsteins. They are large cows, they produce a lot of milk, and eat a lot of food. They just seemed like a bit too much cow for us. Yet as I scrolled through the for sale listings, one cow caught my eye. She was a Holstein, and she was large, very large in fact, for she was pregnant. Strike one: a Holstein. Strike two: not even in milk, the very reason we were looking for a cow. But every single Jersey in milk that I'd called about for the past two weeks had been sold within hours of being posted, so perhaps it was worth looking into.

And so we hooked up the trailer and drove to Italy, Texas.

She was clearly in good health, which subsequent blood and milk tests have confirmed. She was also huge. And skittish. And clearly close to calving, as she was already dripping milk from a very capacious udder. The couple who had listed her weren't even in dairy, they raised beef cattle, but the wife had owned a dairy for years, decades ago, and had a soft spot in her heart for dairy animals. 

"When they ran her through the auction, they said she was from an organic dairy," the woman explained, telling me that she had felt sick, thinking "She's got a big ole baby in her and they're just gonna turn her into hamburger." 

Her husband chimed in "So when she got home I went to unload the trailer and here was this Holstein among the Angus I'd sent her for!"

We are often asked at the farmers market if our dairy is organic. It is not. Often the assumption is made that the reason is the high cost of organic certification, but the truth is that once a dairy has jumped through the hoops to satisfy the requirements to be organic, the certification fees are the least of it. The requirements are many and often difficult, if not impossible for a small farm to satisfy. For us the biggest reason has to do with medication. We have a small herd of goats and a likewise very small herd of cows. With the goats we are currently milking great, great, great, great, great granddaughters of some of our very first goats. We raise our animals as holistically as we can, but sometimes we face a situation where medications are needed and there is nothing we can do about it. One of our favorite breeds of goats are LaManchas, a breed with ears that are very small and close to their heads, not unlike human ears, just smaller and hairier than any but a hobbit ear might be. Ear infections can happen--and can be very dangerous in LaManchas, calling for antibiotics. The organic code mandates that organic dairies may not withhold needed medication, which is a compassionate approach. The problem is that these animals may no longer be used for milk on an organic dairy. So what do you do when you are a small farm with animals you've needed to medicate but whose milk you can no longer use? Small farms don't always have room for non-producing dairy animals, nor the money to run a livestock retirement home. So the other options are to butcher them, or sell them to non-organic dairies. We decided long ago that we are not going to do this. When we have delivered a baby goat, bottle fed it, watched it grow, marveled at how it looks just like her grandmother Nyla, waited excitedly for a baby from this goat, we are not going to butcher it or sell it. Other farms do, and this is fine. We also do sell animals, but when we feel it is best, and when we can carefully select where they go, not with our backs against the wall. Ultimately what it comes down to is that we do not feel "organic" to be an animal-friendly designation for dairy animals. Perhaps for meat animals with a relatively short lifespan, but not for an animal you hope to work in partnership with for over a decade.

From what we can tell, this is likely what happened with N. Carolina. She was in the prime of life at five years old. She was in crazy good health. She had an uncomplicated pregnancy. She was less than a month from having a healthy baby--yet likely because she'd needed to be medicated, she was sent to auction where she was destined to be turned into hamburger.

We are so thankful that there was someone at the auction who recognized "She's got a big ole baby in her and they're just gonna turn her into hamburger." That they were able to bring her home. That they kept an eye on her, made sure she was settled and that there were no health issues brewing.

So we brought her home, she and that "big ole baby" in her. She was named N. Carolina by the customers who urged us to shop for an addition to the herd, which was a perfect fit as we had recently lost S. Carolina. And two days after we got her to the farm, she calved, giving us a sweet baby girl, named Bessie after the North Carolina town.

We think that's a better ending than being turned into hamburger.

Bessie

Preparing for the Zombie Apocalypse

Usually Emma makes the weekly feed run. She isn’t working during the week, she has time on her hands, and it is an excuse for her to spend time with one or two siblings. She drives to the farm, leaves her silver Camry, grabs her sister Libby, or Dixie, or brothers Seth, Noah, and Judah, and they hit the road on a mission in the farm truck, which is technically the 12 passenger van, all but one bench seat removed. Drive 48 miles, pick up a literal ton of feed and hay, return home, by way of a favorite coffee bar on the way out, lunch and perhaps a quick stop at a grocery store, and coffee again on the way back. It’s a trip that takes three hours, perhaps four, depending on whether her siblings persuade her to stop at the used book store as well.

But sometimes Emma can’t make it. Her car is misbehaving, she has errands of her own to run, or she and husband Shaye are out of town. So then it falls to me. When I go, I usually bring Noah, perhaps one or two of the others. These days it’s often Noah as he is going through a rough patch; that transition from farm kid to adult can be tough without a culturally imposed demarcation, such as leaving for college, or moving out of the house. So we drive, and talk, and sometimes listen to audio books. His favorites are Deep Creek by Pam Houston and Creativity, Inc by Ed Catmull. Sometimes we listen to the music of his choice. Note to parents–listening to music with your kids is a great way to gain insight into their thoughts, and what influences them. Noah being a country kid, neck deep in rodeo and such, the songs are often love ballads to girls in tight jeans. Or tractors. Or family. Or family land. Sometimes they extoll the glories of the United States military and “God Bless the USA,” which I don’t necessarily take exception to, after all, I have close family members who’ve served in the military, our farm itself being named after one of them. My love for the United States is a bit nuanced, though, having grown up overseas and learning about our nation’s complex history of involvement in other lands, with or without the sanction of the peoples of those lands.  Still, I am blessed that he does listen, or at least does a good impression of listening when I cut him off mid stanza to say “OK, hold it, can we turn this off for a sec?” and launch into a discussion which (I hope) draws his attention to the fact that not all flag-waving is straightforward and worthy of a parade.

Sometimes, though, it is Tim who rides shotgun. 

It doesn’t happen often that Tim and I go on a feed run together these days. I’m not going that much anyway, and when he is depressed, he prefers to remain at home. Between these two factors, it’s rare. When he does go, though, I usually drive. We talk, yes, but these hours in the car are often spent with me driving while he reads to me. This is a tradition going back to when we were both attending the University of Houston and had commutes to class of over an hour each way, and he would read, or when he drove, we’d listen to books together. Those were the days when we were working our way through Brene Brown’s books. Now they may be nonfiction books we find intriguing, such as on behavioral economics, or about depression. Lately, it’s been Joan Didion, which has been fun. Two weeks ago, though, he brought along a deck of cards with questions for couples to ask each other. We’ve done this before with racy cards, but this time they were simpler, more conversation starters. 

The one that stood out was likely intended to be more lighthearted. “What is the first thing I would do in a zombie apocalypse?” His answer was something along the line of “I don’t believe in zombies, but I guess I’d freeze?” I immediately thought back to reading I am Legend in a class on genre and form and the endless routines undertaken by the protagonist in order to keep the zombies at bay. I remembered Mat Johnson saying in the class that post-apocalyptic writing was usually a means of working through the societal fears at the time of writing. Thinking of routines designed to try to control the impossible superimposed on a pervasive sense of fear combined to prompt my response, that I live the zombie apocalypse every day on the farm. 

Even before a mystery metabolic disorder wiped out twenty of our milking goats over the course of a month late in 2011, much of our farm routines are an attempt to control nature and shape the lives of our animals. The exact time of milking, the percentages of protein vs fats vs carbohydrates in the grain mixtures we feed our animals, the aligning of date of breeding with vaccinations, the medicine cabinet full of remedies we will usually need to throw away because they’ve passed their expiration dates unopened. All of this is a bulwark thrown up to protect us against that time when the footsteps pounding across the grass and through the front door are carrying the alarm that Lottie/Windy/Dawn is acting odd or is down and can’t get up, or “Got stuck in a fence and maybe has a hurt leg?” It never fails, of course, that the specific emergency is precisely the one thing for which I am unprepared, and even now, after raising goats for a few weeks shy of nineteen years, they never fail to surprise me, and teach me something new, something I’d not yet known that I needed to be afraid of.

Sitting here today, though, looking over my desk and through the window at the trees across the road, I know what this particular season of fear looks like. This lesson we learned twelve years and eight days ago when billowing black smoke rose over the trees to our east, followed within a few hours by a sheriff with a bullhorn announcing that the time to get out, to leave, to seek safety was now, now. I blogged during that time, of what it was like, running back and forth from pasture to the livestock trailer, of standing in the living room, freezing, as Tim said he’d do in response to zombies, unsure what to grab, what to bring, what we needed to be safe, to be prepared. It was our teenage daughters who thought to grab the diaper bag, the family pictures, the quilt sewn by my grandmother. I did make mental notes throughout the week we were evacuated, of the things I wish I’d thought to bring, and that I prayed would still be there when the fire was contained, was out. When we returned to a farm layered with charred bark, and dusted pink by the fire retardant dropped by the planes which had flown overhead, thankfully it was to a house and dairy which still stood, though less than half a mile away houses were lost. We hung the quilt back on the wall, we cleaned out the raised garden beds of the bark which had fallen on the tomatoes and peppers, and wondered if these beds were still safe to use, after being sprayed pink. 

Now we drive down country roads leading to the farm and note the trees. When we faced the drought of 2011, we didn’t know the difference between a tree that is stressed by drought, leaves dropped in order to conserve what it can, and a tree that is drought-killed: a tree killed by drought often has branches still full of leaves, just leaves which are brittle and brown. Back then we also didn’t know that trees stressed by drought can die years later, long after rains have returned, sometimes five years later. We lost well over a hundred trees on our acreage during that drought and the following years. Although this year hasn’t been as dry as it was in 2011, the driest year on record for the state of Texas, it has nonetheless been brutal. This month is set to be the hottest August in the past 150 years, and it shows. Although we have nowhere near the dead trees we saw in 2011, the days carry with them the brittleness of watchful waiting. The sky is scanned, hopefully for rainclouds, and for smoke. Electronic signs along the highways warn of fire conditions, and restaurants post on their signage “Pray for Rain” just above “Tuesdays Kids Eat Free!” Recently on the social network Nextdoor, someone in our area posted that they witnessed a driver toss a burning cigarette from their car window. Readers demanded that the perpetrator be arrested. 

We have discussed whether we need to make preparations in case we face another wildfire in our area. We have a much larger livestock trailer now, which is a comfort as with the last fire we were forced to leave some animals behind. Of course we also have larger animals now, and adding cows to the mix might change up the dynamics somewhat. There are less people on the farm to worry about, but more years of living on the farm to imbue every corner, tree, and fencepost with memory. I will, at least, put together a bag with the important documents I left behind last time. I will probably have a tote bag ready with needed medications, for people and animals. Or maybe I won’t. As I type this I now feel as if I am possibly being overly concerned. Perhaps it was the mention of zombies. Perhaps it’s just anxiety, driven by the clear blue cloudless sky over the brown parched grass and cracked soil. But at least, we agreed, we should make sure the trailer tires are full of air and the van is full of gas at all times. Like the baby books tell you to do when you approach your due date. Because who wants to be caught off guard?

Hmmm. Where to Start?

It has been years since I have blogged. Literally. Years. (Eighteen months, to be exact.) So what brings me here now?

Phew. Where to begin?

To be honest, I came here to cannibalize, or at least, to glean from past posts. You see, as I posted back in 2014, I returned to school at the University of Houston. My goal was to complete the BA that I walked away from in 1985 when Tim and I married. Ultimately I wanted to apply to an MFA program to take the writing that so satisfied me here in this blog, and hone it, polish it, take it to the next level. You can't get a master's degree without a bachelor's degree, so the BA had to be the first stop. Let me tell you, it has been one wild and crazy stop! As it just so happens (like anything just happens) the University of Houston has a nationally recognized graduate creative writing program. A program that includes the phenomenal faculty teaching at the undergraduate level. So while I have been finishing up that degree, I have been able to sit at the feet, if you will, of the very same caliber of instructors that I thought I would have to wait until graduate school to study under.

I have won writing contests. (You can read about it here, including the actual winning piece.)

I have been published.

I have been able to serve as editor for the undergraduate literary magazine, Glass Mountain.

I graduate in May, and have just days ago clicked "submit" on the last of those graduate school applications. Those programs that have astonishingly high acceptance rates, such as 2%, or even... .5% That is point five percent. As in half a percent. Yikes! Contrast that to one five year PhD program that I looked into that warned of accepting only 6-8 students out of 150 applicants. I cocked my head and thought "Dang, that's a great acceptance rate!" If I keep up with thinking like that, I might start investing in Powerball, or even run in a marathon...

Part of that degree that I will earn, come May, is a senior honors thesis. Guess what I am writing my thesis about? This may come as a shock, but I opted to do my thesis on...farming. More specifically, our farm memoir. After all, why waste the years spent suffering researching? As I drew up the outline for the farm memoir, it occurred to me that coming back to the old home place and poking around in the dusty closets of the blog might yield some long forgotten nightmare memory that might work well in a farm memoir/thesis/exposition.

So here I am.

Is anyone else here?

At any rate it has been fun to write just for, well, the relaxation and joy of it, instead of for a grade.

Maybe I'll see you around sometime. And fill you in on the kids who have grown up and moved out, the farmers markets started, the kids who have gotten married...

In the meanwhile, see ya at the market!

Identifying the Serpent

Shopping in Switzerland

In my last blog post, I talked about farmers markets--specifically farmers markets as we know them in Texas, visiting the bucolic ideal that we were introduced to when we began selling at markets. We discussed the downward spiral of farmers turning to more value-added products, markets turning to more products produced far from any farm, and customers turning away from markets, leading farmers to have to be more flexible in what they produce, hence the value-added products. Which is the chicken and which is the egg in this scenario?

Here at Swede Farm we have noticed an overall decline in market sales for the past two years. This decline holds true for markets in Houston and in Austin, large markets and small, weekend markets or week day markets. When we speak to other farmers and market vendors, they report a similar trend in market sales. One conjectured that it was due to the proliferation of farmers markets in the city, noting that it was with the expansion of markets that their income dropped an average of 30%. Market managers note that the cities being served should be able to handle an abundance of markets. They point to the population of Austin and Houston, they note the demographics; well educated consumers with disposable income, and conclude that Texas cities should see thriving markets in all areas, on all days of the week. Ironically, these same market managers comment that their markets are down--and they point to the growing number of markets as the reason for why the numbers are down.

The truth is, though, that most of these markets are small, falter early on and rarely thrive past the first two years.

The truth is, that these vendors are in multiple markets. Each time a market opens, the farmer or prepared food vendor stretches to be in the new market as well as their old markets. If sales are down at one market due to the opening of a new market, the decrease of sales at the established market should be made up by sales at the new market--yet this is not happening.

Markets are not failing everywhere, our travels have confirmed this fact. Over the past two years, we have been able to visit markets in multiple cities in the United States, from New York City to San Francisco and others scattered between the two. We have shopped in markets in England, Germany, France, Italy, Switzerland, and Spain. We have seen thriving farmers markets of all sizes and in varying kinds of neighborhoods. There are a few key factors that we have noted that seem to differentiate Texas markets from the thriving East and West coast markets. We believe that these differences create a challenge that Texas markets must address in order to not only survive but also thrive.

While there have obviously been farmers markets in American from the earliest days of the nation, the modern farmers market movement is fairly young. The proliferation of farmers markets across the country can be traced in large part to the growing awareness of a need for sustainable local food systems. Consumer awareness was captured by books such as The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan (2006) and films such as "Food, Inc", directed by Robert Kenner. This joint awareness of the importance of local foods and the pitfalls of factory farming were a boon for farmers who were looking for another way of doing business. The growing local food movement inspired many to leave their corporate jobs in order to be a part of the new movement. Some of these adherents gained the courage to begin their own sustainable farms, while others committed themselves to organizations such as Sustainable Food Center and GrowNYC that seek to establish new and functional food infrastructures. Consumers, informed of the impact of "factory farms"and desirous of supporting local businesses sought other ways of shopping, searching out farmers markets, shopping directly at farms and becoming involved in a CSA program. As new farmers markets emerge and (hopefully) grow, the supporting organizations travel to places such as New York City and San Francisco in order to "see how it's done". Unfortunately, while these vaunted market systems are inspiring, they provide a model that may not be one that can be replicated in Texas.

Buying from friend Lynn of Lynnhaven Farm in Brooklyn

San Francisco and New York City have several natural characteristics that change the dynamic of their local farmers markets. Both cities (and others with highly touted farmers markets such as Portland, OR and Seattle, WA) have metropolitan areas with land areas ranging from 84 square miles (Seattle) to 302 square miles (NYC). Houston and the Dallas/Forth Worth metropolitan areas begin at a hair under 600 square miles for Houston and over 600 square miles for theDFW area*, and these areas are growing rapidly. What does this mean for the local food movement?  In order to buy farmland, would-be farmers must go further and further away from the city centers. Most markets, inspired by early pioneers in the local food movement, adhere to a 150 mile rule, meaning that farmers must be located within a 150 mile radius of the city in order to sell at the market. As farmers must move further and further away from city limits, the "crop" of farmers from which a market may draw their vendors necessarily grows smaller and smaller. Fewer farmers make for weak markets. One alternative to this challenge may be increasing numbers of urban farms. There are cities in Texas that are exceptions to the monolithic struggling market system, cities such as Austin. How does Austin get around the challenges faced by Houston and Dallas? Austin is not as sprawling as Houston or Dallas, with less than 300 square miles Austin is literally less than half the size of her neighbors to the North and Southeast. This means that there is more potential farmland within the required 150 miles radius available to would-be farmers who want to vend at Austin markets. Austin also utilizes more urban farms. This may not be long-lived, however, as urban farms, find themselves increasingly under attack. As the neighborhoods surrounding them become more gentrified, urban farmers face being zoned out of existence, or taxed out of existence, as the value of surrounding neighborhoods skyrockets.

Market in Leipzig, Germany

The second major difference in these cities with thriving market systems dovetails with the size of the cities, and this is the availability of mass public transportation. Populations that are more likely using trains and buses to get from work, to home, to shopping are also more likely to be buying smaller amounts of food, They are less likely to be engaging in mass shopping excursions for the simple reason that the average trip to a big-box grocery store will yield more food than can be easily carted home via the subway or even via a bicycle. Markets that run each day of the week and in different parts of the town will be more likely to see business when one is grabbing a few quick items on the way home. More sprawling cities, such as Houston or Dallas, will see commuters driving personal vehicles long distances. Stuck on freeways for hours, it would appear that they are less likely to adopt a 'guerilla' method of grocery shopping, relying instead on occasions during which they may stock up in bulk--not exactly a farmers market friendly method of shopping. Even cities with notoriously arduous commutes, such as NYC, that nevertheless manage to maintain a thriving farmers market scene, draw large amounts of shoppers from those who live within the city itself. These are shoppers that utilize the markets to get truly exceptional items in smaller amounts that can be found by means of a small deviation in their routine, made possible due to extensive public transportation systems that allow them to access perhaps smaller but stable markets in different parts of the city. This is not dissimilar from what we observed in European markets, where the farmers markets are used to bring the high quality items to shoppers accustomed to a two-tiered method of shopping, with shelf-stable staples bought at small corner stores while the fresh goods at sourced at open-air markets.


If the challenges facing farmers markets in the larger cities such as Houston and Dallas are apparently immutable issues such as sprawling cities and lack of acceptance of public transportation leading to different shopping habits, is there any hope to be found for farmers markets? Does this necessarily mean that farmers markets are doomed to be sub-par in our larger cities?

We do not believe this to be the case--provided the systems set up to support local farms and farmers markets recognizes the differences between Houston and New York City. Addressing the challenges faced by our larger cities will require the courage to admit that Houston is not NYC, nor is it San Francisco. Markets will succeed when we embrace a Texas-style ingenuity and flexibility to get the job done. Standards need to change, expectations need to change, rules and regulations need to change. In addition to the issues hobbling our markets, we have competition drawing away our educated consumers who desire to support the markets. We need a two pronged approach to solving the problem. First we need to recognize the strengths of the competition and adapt to better compete and secondly we need to reassess what will make a successful TEXAS farmers market system.

This is what we will be discussing with the next blog post. As always, please chime in with your perspectives and solutions. We need to implement changes that will make the situation better for everyone.

*Size of cities based on information found at this site.

Looking for Eden

The scene is as close to pastoral as one can hope find in the midst of a large city, tables groaning under fresh produce and baskets piled high with fruit while fresh cheese and eggs are carefully placed in large handwoven baskets--a treasure to be carried home and lovingly prepared. This is what we see every morning from our tent at the farmers markets. In that careful moment between daybreak and blistering Texas heat, customers stroll from one farmer to another. They move, list in hand, from "their meat guy" to "their egg person" to "the milk people". Their shoes still bear the trace of the dew gathered as they walked through the park to reach the market, their voices are hushed as they shop. These early shoppers shared with the farmers the hushed expectancy of a time dedicated to food and to valuing the farmers whose labors bring the food to market.

There is something incredibly rejuvenating about a farmers markets. We sell at markets and it is deeply satisfying on a visceral, even spiritual, level, to be able to pass along the tangible result of our efforts. To hold in our hands the proof of our labors is a privilege. To be able to hand this to someone who values the care and sacrifice that went into the creation of that food is a blessing. We are, we know, supremely blessed, to be able to share life-giving sustenance to others.

At the end of market, we gather our food for the week. We have shared our riches with others, we gather from others bounty that will feed our children for the coming week. We have held back some cheese for our friends and they have reserved honey for us. Sometimes there is little left. We may wish that we had been able to grab some of the lime basil before it flew off our fellow farmer's tables, but we rejoice with them that they sold out. There is often a festive feel to the end of market. We have crossed a finish line in bringing our product from the field to the creamery to the market; we are gain the precious burden of bringing the fruits of our friend's labors home to feed our own children. It is a symbiotic relationship from every angle. Farmers need the city customers, farmers need each other, farmers need the organizations that run the markets, who in turn need the farmers to fill the market and the customers who value the market. Given the realities of 21st century living this is about a perfect situation as one could possibly find, a return to Eden within the confines of some of the largest cities in the world.

Lately, though, we wonder if there may not be a serpent in this garden, or at least a root-rot that may be eating away at the markets.

To be honest, there have been murmurings of discontent with our market models for some time, now. As far back as the March/April 2009 issue of Mother Jones, an article titled "Foodie, Beware" warned that a subtle shift was taking place in the markets. Farmers were turning to value-added products, then leaving markets altogether, for wholesale opportunities such as selling to restaurants, stores and delivery services. A shift was taking place, from markets filled with farmers to markets filled with prepared foods and loosely food-based crafts so that the shopper could fill those capacious baskets with dried flowers and spice rubs while they eat fresh breakfast tacos and sip good coffee. The customer may not complain, after all, these are the kinds of purchases that give that extra flavor and joy to life--but are these still properly to be called farmers markets? How many farmers does it take to allow a market to retain the title "farmers market"? What of the farmers? They talk quietly among themselves about declining sales. The "real" customers are not shopping in the numbers that they once were, they have been replaced by those who visit once, perhaps from out of town, or by those who come for the weekend routine of fresh pastry and coffee and to listen to the band and do a little people watching. These customers do not make up the bulk of what the farmers had grown accustomed to seeing, but customers are customers, right?

Unfortunately, no. These customers do not buy like the customers that we had grown used to at markets. Farmers, anxious to make ends meet adapt to the customers that do come to the markets. We have seen peach orchards turn to selling primarily dried fruit and preserves. One family did not even plant their usual market garden this year, as their focus has become handcrafted soaps and skincare products. In both cases the reason was simple--there are not enough customers to buy the fresh fruit and vegetables, leaving the farmers scrambling to develop products that will remain shelf-stable and bring a consistent income. The dedicated shoppers who come for the pure farmers market fare leave disappointed when they are unable to get the abundance of seasonal produce, many of them leaving the market system and turning to the organic fare in the grocery stores, leaving less customers to buy the kale, carrots and cantaloupe, and the downward spiral continues.

Where did this spiral begin? Can it be stopped? Is it perhaps time to acknowledge that the return to the market system that supports local, sustainable farming has failed? We have some thoughts that we would like to share from our years of selling at market and our observations of markets that we have visited across the country and even internationally. These will be shared in tomorrow's blog, in the meanwhile, we would appreciate any comments that readers may have regarding the current situation of farmer's markets in the United States in general, Texas in specific.

Until tomorrow~                

Life Journeys

Everyone at some point in their life has experienced a life journey. These journeys are unique in that we know where we begin, we know where we hope to end. We may even know what we believe will be the route that we will take. The other aspect that we know when we begin these journeys is that they seem like they will be interminable. We look ahead and the destination is so far ahead that we almost cannot bring ourselves to take in the entire journey at one glance, it is simply too daunting. Given the overwhelming nature of the journey, we opt to take it one section at a time.

What are these journeys that almost all of us undertake? One may be parenthood. The baby is born and we are warned that we must consciously try to embrace each day, because they fly, oh! so! fast! and some day we will miss these times.

Instead, sleep deprived, we live in a world where every night takes forever. We wonder if the thankless days of spit up and dirty diapers will ever come to an end. Just when we despair, we are rewarded with that first milk-drunk smile from our wobbly-headed baby and we know that we can carry on. We have learned a lesson, though, that the days stretch on with little to differentiate them from another, so we look for that milestone and we live from milestone to milestone. The first smile becomes sitting up, becomes crawling, becomes walking, preschool, junior high, high school, then college. At that point, we have learned to endure the days, months, years of sameness by leapfrogging from one experience to another, losing the days between. The time comes when we stand at the end and look back and wonder where did the time go? How did we come to be here, kissing that wobbly-headed baby goodbye and turning back to an empty room? Wasn't it just yesterday that they were born?

This is by no means the only such journey that we undertake. We have marriage, school and running a business or working at a job. What each of these journeys have in common is the experience of feeling as if progress comes incredibly slowly while we are in the midst of it, only to look back and see two things, simultaneously. First, we see the personal growth and change that occurred through the trek.  Secondly, once we have arrived at our destination, we notice that the trip seems to have just begun.

We are pretty familiar with these kinds of journey at our home. We have raised five of our twelve children to adulthood--yet those baby pictures seem as though they were taken just yesterday! We homeschooled each of these children and are close to graduating our sixth 100% homeschooled student--yet we remember the challenges of phonics and learning place value. We have been married for thirty years, next month--yet I still seem to feel our hands trembling as we slid those rings on each other's fingers as if it happened this morning. We have been busy building a farm and it many days it seems as though the grinding nature of farming has stretched each day into a week, each month into a year, so that the process has taken an incredibly long time--yet it seems as if it was just yesterday that we walked the land unsure as to where we should build the first barn.

This most recent life journey of our family, particularly our family farm, really took us by surprise and hit us hard. We had been deep in the living day by day aspect of the journey, changing course as needed, but never doubting that the trek would take us to where we had planned to go. This all changed, when suddenly we were forced to look up and we realized that the steps had taken us from our charted course until we were not even certain that we could see our destination. It was as if we were lost in the fog and not even sure that we would be able to make it back to our original path! All we knew was that we had given our hearts and our hands to laboring to build something special and now we faced seeing it all slip away.

It didn't, of course. We learned that some in whom we had placed our trust were not worthy of that trust--but we also learned that there were many others who believed in us and supported us. We learned that while we will never be the same, we have learned that we are far stronger than we ever imagined. We learned that the bitterness at looking back at the journey can swept away by the hesitant joy of looking forward to a new beginning. Mostly we have learned that life cannot be lived by simply struggling to get through the journey, but that the journey is best lived by seizing life and joy with both hands and not letting go, regardless of how dark the storm clouds may seem.

What Happens when the Local Food Movement Turns Against Itself?

In Henry IV, Part One, Shakespeare tells the story of a rebellion turned against itself. Bolingbroke and his compatriots were successful in overthrowing the king of England. Things should have been looking rosy for the new king, Henry IV, but instead he finds himself facing threats from a very unexpected quarter. It seems that his brothers in arms, those with whom he set out to create a new land, had turned against him. Why?

Well, for the very reasons that one might predict. They disagreed with how the new king was conducting affairs, which evolved into the most basic of motivations--jealousy and competition. 

Why have plays such as this continued to resonate with audiences? After all, very few of us are actually kings, or hope to be! They continue to speak to people because kings or not, the experience of fighting the good fight, only to find yourself at odds with the very people with whom we have fought that fight is almost universal.
For us at Swede Farm, nothing has brought this experience into sharp focus as has this fundraiser. When we began the dairy, it was with two goals. The first was to provide for our family. The second was to, by succeeding, help further the revolution against big agriculture and a factory farm system of food production. We wanted to see more people aware of small-scale, sustainable agriculture and the importance of supporting local farms and local farming communities. We were not alone, there were others in the fight, and we wanted to see the numbers swell even further. Our mission statement from the very beginning has stated that we wanted to share freely with others, we were open to supporting and mentoring those who would stand with us in the fight and work to provide local food to our surrounding communities. In the beginning, the battle was glorious and empowering, full of the excitement of shared goals. We saw successes and the future seemed bright. Then, there began to be signs of discontent. In the beginning, differences were overlooked as we each took a different front in the battle. We were at war with an entrenched system and each farm was a battlefront. As the months stretched into years and the reality of fighting a battle that was muddy, bloody and long took it’s toll, these differences began to take on a bigger meaning. Instead of the differences of each farm being seen as a different way of waging war against the common enemy, the differences came to be seen as proof that the other farms were, in fact, the enemy. The sense that there was only one way to wage battle turned the fight into cannibalism, each farm seeking to undermine the other. 

We cannot get away from the reality that there will always be some measure of competition. In order for small farms to survive, they will be fighting, at least in the beginning, for the same food dollars. What we absolutely cannot forget is that when we turn that fight inward towards each other in competition, we lose the ability to fight against our common enemy. Each battle won against “big ag” and the established way of bringing food to the public brings more converts, which translates to more money and security to small farms. Each farm that comes under attack due to backstabbing in the name of competition means that the battle for sustainable agriculture is weakened. We will not all fight in the same way and how we do business will reflect this--but we cannot forget that other small farms are not the enemy! Our fundraiser was not begun (contrary to what some have said) in order to persevere over our local food competition. Our fundraiser was begun so that we would be able to remain in business precisely because we feel that our farm is not just about providing for our family, but also about a bigger battle being waged. We had other jobs and careers long before we began farming. From pension administration to midwifery, we have always provided for our family. We did not leave these careers for farming in order to become wealthy, we did it because we believed in teaching our children how to be self-reliant and we believed that change needed to take place in how our nation sees farming and community. We do not desire to win over our local competition, nor do we desire to keep others out of the local food market. More successful farms translates to more stable food markets which means a better chance of retaining consumers. More consumers converted to shopping locally means more chance of success for new local farms. Each local farm that goes belly-up does not mean more customers for the farms that remain, it means a lessening in the collective power of the movement. Is gaining a short-term battle for an individual farm worth risking the overall war? 

We do not think so, and we are thankful for our supporters who seem to agree with us. May we never forget, as did those who fought with Henry IV seemed to do, that winning a small battle may come at the risk of losing the bigger war.

http://www.gofundme.com/czsu9o

The Beast

Something a little different--as I have mentioned on here, I have returned to school to get a degree in English, specifically, creative writing.  My heart's desire is to take it further, to a Masters degree. This has proven to be a challenge for me as I have spent so many years writing what is now known as "creative non-fiction". I am enjoying every step of the way, though, and relish the opportunity to improve my skills. In the past few years I have done very little on this blog. Well, I decided that since so much of my time has been spent writing for my class, I should share some of that writing here, where so many have encouraged me in my writing endeavors.  So, here ya go, my first assignment in my first official "Creative Writing" class. I hope you enjoy...

The Beast

He didn’t know what jolted him awake, he only knew was that she was gone.  He called out her name as his eyes scanned the room, not really focusing on anything in his panic.  His breath sounded harsh and ragged in his ears and he could feel his heart pounding out of his chest.  He called again, in desperation, “Claire!”

Footsteps sounded in the hall, then she rounded the corner, flying through the doorway.  “What?!  What’s wrong?!”

He looked at her wordlessly, drinking her in.  He gulped for air, each searing breath bringing him back to now, away from the terror of his dream until he was able to answer  “I…you…I don’t know.  You were gone.”  

He could tell from the way her mouth quirked that she was biting back a joke and he was grateful.  The panic was still over him like a mantle and he was not sure how he would have taken condescension, still, the predictable everyday flavor of the action helped bring him even more into the day.  He said helplessly “I guess it was just a dream”.  He felt stupid for behaving like a little kid and wished he knew why his gut still twisted.  

Later at the table she toyed with her spoon.  He knew that she wanted to ask how he was feeling, the fiddling was a certain tell that there was something on her mind, but he did not feel like going into it.  He looked away, towards the window through which the sunbeams streamed that held the dust captive.  His eyes traveled the light as it slanted through the air past the table and back again, back and forth, not looking out the window.  “You running by yourself today?”  

“Mmm” he answered with an absent minded nod.

“You ok?  I mean, you gonna to be ok to run?”

“Yes” he snapped “It was just a dream, for crying out loud.”

“Whoa!” she put up both hands “I was just worried about you, ok?  No need to get nasty, excuse me for caring.”  She pushed back her chair, standing abruptly.  Shaking her head as she wheeled around to cross the kitchen with her coffee cup, she set it down next to the sink.  He could tell that she was hurt by the way her chin jutted out. He sighed.  Dang, she was so moody these days.

Running was a good amnesiac.  As each foot pounded the pavement he could feel the anxiety slowly slipping away to be replaced by the mundane.  Might. Need. New. Shoes. Need. To. Re-search. Wonder. Dinner. Tonight. Claire. Still. Mad?

He stood in the shower and the water streamed down his back, steam rising.  She hadn’t been at home when he got back from running.  He thought that she had mentioned needing to run some errands.  He guessed that she would be home by dinner time, she always was.  Then they could go out.  She would be home by then…certainly she would.  He felt the uncertainty knot in his stomach and he shook his head.  Of course she would be home.  She was probably home already, he wouldn’t have heard her coming in over the water.  He dried off, the steam making rivers that ran through the mirror.  He gave a quick swipe of the towel on the mirror but it fogged up as quickly as the towel left the glass. He felt the tension grow at the inability to see clearly in the mirror.  He shook his head, water splattering the mirror and walls and growled at himself as he wrapped the towel around his hips.  What was wrong with him?  The knot grew, tightening into a fist that began almost to hurt.  His heartbeat grew louder in his ears, picking up tempo.  The fear grew palpable, something unnamed crouching in the corner waiting to strike.   He bolted for the door and flung it open, calling out “Claire?!”  His voice sounded muffled in their bedroom and his desperate footsteps consumed the distance to the bedroom door.  He grabbed at the doorknob, his panic growing as his hands slipped on the slick metal until it turned and he propelled himself out into the hallway, calling again, “Claire?!!”

Silence.  

Down the hall he pounded, the beast hard on his heels.  He burst into the den and rushed to the window, faster, faster, the lamp toppled from the table as he shoved aside the blinds to look outside.  Nothing.  No car, not even people on the quiet street.  He placed both hands on the cool glass, the slick cold jarring after the suffocation of the steamy bathroom.  He rested his forehead on the glass beside his hands and drew a deep and shuddering breath.

He did not know how long he stood there.  He was not aware when the shift occurred, he only knew that it did.  No longer being chased, the cold window slipped from a lifeline into clammy shame.  He felt the leg of the table pressing uncomfortably against his own.  He had not been aware when it turned over.  His eyes became seeing once more and he saw the car with the familiar dent turn the corner and pull into the driveway and he felt rather than heard the garage door beneath him slide open.  He looked around, embarrassed, and grabbed the table, setting it upright and scrambled to replace the lamp.  He eyed it critically and rotated it so that the crease on the shade faced the street and bolted back to the bedroom.

He heard her call out that she was home and he called back to her.  He looked around the bedroom quickly—all seemed normal.  He ducked into the bathroom, keeping the door open, and looked around,  Brush teeth?  Shave?  Shave.  

Razor in hand, he looked in the mirror.  He didn’t look like a man who had just battled with…what?  He looked again, deeper.  Was he going crazy?  She stepped into the bathroom and he whirled stepping towards her as he reached out.  Pulling her to him, he buried his face in her hair.  “Mmm, you smell good.”   She laughed and pushed him away.  “Stop it, you nut, you’re getting me wet!”  Hands on his shoulders, she held him at a distance while searching his face critically.  “You ok?”  she asked.

“Because I think you smell good?” he retorted, finding safety in the familiar banter.  “Because you look good?  Because you feel good?”  he grinned as his hands slid down her back until they reached her waistband.  Hooking his thumbs inside the fabric, he moved his hands around her waist, tugging as they reached the front so that she fell into him.  She hugged him back and he repeated “but you do smell good.”

_____________________________________

They went to their favorite Middle Eastern place, with the falafel as dry and crumbly as old play-doh but with soft and fluffy pita bread.  They made it fresh here, they could watch from their table, if they wanted to, but they looked at each other, instead.  

“So, what do you think?”  she asked.  He looked at her.  His mind was blank, he was so tired.  He tried to grasp at words, but they spun, swirling away.  “Well…?”  She prompted.

“I don’t know.” He finally managed to grasp at the desired words.  “Tell me the details again.”  She sighed in exasperation.  He could tell that she was impatient, that this was important to her, but his brain felt like the thickest mud and he was unable to think clearly.  All he knew was that she was going away.

“…Should only be four weeks, six max.  I was thinking that maybe you could join me for part of the time?  I would have to work, but not every day and we could explore together.  It has been so long since we took a trip and you do have several weeks vacation time coming…?”

He sighed.  “I don’t know.  When do you have to let them know?”

She dropped her eyes to her plate.  “Well…”

He drew in his breath sharply.  “You already took it, didn’t you?   You already said yes.  Dammit, Claire…”

“What?!”

He just shook his head in disgust, not meeting her indignant face but looking at a distant point over her shoulder

“Why are you so upset?  I have taken trips like this before, you have never had problems with it in the past, why shouldn’t I take it?”

“It didn’t occur to you to consider my feelings on the matter?  That’s not cool.  I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Well, I wouldn’t keep you from going, either!” she looked away.  He couldn’t read if she was hurt or being stubborn—she did both with total abandon.  

“Look.  Its not that I don’t want you to go.” As he said the words he knew they were a lie.  “Its just…”

“Come with me!  We can make a fantasy of it!”

“I can’t.  Maybe.  No, I probably can’t” he shook his head “I have work…”  He tried to ignore the growing feeling of dread.  Why did she have to go?  He realized that he was clenching his jaw and made a conscious effort to relax.  “Look. We can talk about it tomorrow, see what we can work out then.”  He made an effort to catch her gaze as he forced a grin.  “Ok?”

______________________________________________

They drove home in silence.  He was sure that she was working on new ways of framing the argument, but he didn’t care, he appreciated the respite.  He didn’t have an answer as to why he didn’t want her to go, he just knew that he didn’t.  It had just been a crappy, weird day all the way around, this didn’t help him feel any more settled.  He hated feeling weak and uncertain, but he just did not feel settled about this.  She was right, he knew, she had taken trips like this before and they were good at turning them into fun as well as work, but all he knew for sure was that the thought of her going caused the gnawing feeling to grow and his breath to catch in his throat.  What was wrong with him?  This was crazy!  He shook his head to clear his thoughts and she turned to look at him quizzically. He didn’t return her gaze and after a few minutes she turned to look out the window.  Silence lay between them in bed as he turned his back to her, lying on his side.  He could tell by her restlessness that she wanted to talk, but he did not trust himself to talk and he did not offer the opportunity, feigning sleep.  He listened to her breathing as it slowed and settled as she finally slipped into sleep.  As he heard her soft snoring begin, he heard the familiar creak and crack of the beams in the attic.  He knew this familiar sound well, it was as comforting as an old pair of sweats but tonight it seemed foreign.  He heard the tapping of the branch on the window—another familiar noise.  He laid, waiting. He had the sense that something was watching, something living and breathing, something foreign.  Something malevolent. He listened, talking himself down with each creak and tap.  That’s the branch.  Just the branch.  Why didn’t I do something about it last Fall when Claire asked me to.  There. That’s the joist upstairs. And again.  Finally he slept.

He called her, but she did not answer.  He searched the house, opening each door, door after door, in endless number, each time calling out “Claire, you there?” Each time, silence answered, but not really silence,  Behind the silence he could hear it growing, the rushing sound like wind, the sound of emptiness.  Now he was running, slamming into the doors, one after another, the noise pursuing him.  He tried looking over his shoulder.  He could see nothing in the dark, but he felt it.  He was the prey and he was desperate.  He whirled around to face it and was overcome.  It was on him, putrid breath and foul, the sound of each breath snarling in his ears and he shrieked.  He curled in a ball to protect himself, shaking uncontrollably, yelling out against the darkness “ClaireClaireClaireClaire!”

And she was there.  He felt her in the darkness and then a great flooding light.  She was over him, kneeling by his side, looking down, alarm on her face.  He bolted upright in bed, pushing her to the side and looked around with wide eyes, the room unfamiliar.  He stared at her, panting.  She reached out for him and he started away, but she grasped his arm and gave it a shake.  “Hey.  It’s OK.  I’m here.”  She brushed his hair from his forehead and looked at him with an inscrutable look, repeating “It’s ok”.  He slumped forward, into her and she wrapped her arms around him.  “Shhh”  They rocked like that for what seemed hours.  He laid down and curled up and she curled around him

“shhh.  It’s just a dream.”  He felt the warmth of her breath on his back.  He relaxed behind her comforting walls.

And the beast waited.

Community, Locality and Legacy

They stand before us each week at market, nervously twisting their hands and confessing to us their greatest longing.  They want to be goat farmers.  Their visions are of wrapping their hands around a teat filled with milk,  eating meals of crusty bread and cheese that they, themselves have made and watching with delight as a baby goat takes it's first faltering steps.  We know that should their dream become reality it will also include putting up fences and staying up late nights with a doe in labor, only to greet the morning with burying a baby too weak to ever see daylight.

They come burned out by graduate school, tired of the corporate grind or disillusioned by what they have come to see as the empty promises of a society built on capitalism.  They have invested years of their lives to jockeying and scrambling amongst the hordes for the elusive spot in the perfect school,  the raise or promotion that will deliver happiness, only to find themselves facing emptiness despite having reached that goal.  When they find themselves looking into that emptiness and asking "what now?" they look for the something to bring value and meaning to their lives.

We have a country but we don't have community.  Our roles in society are carefully defined; we have the service industry, a public service sector, manufacturing.  We are aware of where we stand in a society based on monetary value, what we do not have is an understanding of our intrinsic value on a human level.  We brush against people in transitory relationships; co-workers move on as circumstances change, we shop at stores with an ever-revolving supply of cashiers, we no longer have a doctor, we have a health plan.  Without relationship to shape our actions and interactions we rely on company policy and a dizzying assortment of governmental mandates such as HIPAA, HACCP, OSHA.  Where policy fails, we fall back to cost/benefit analysis.  We buy our tomatoes from the store that promises the best quality for the lowest price.  The store buys it's tomatoes from the farm that promises the greatest quantity for the lowest price with a seamless delivery system.  

Could we fathom a work environment allowing for nonchalant disregard for health and safety if the person working there was our child or our neighbor?  

Would we reduce the value of the callouses on our tomato farming-neighbor's hands if we saw them daily as they battle drought and too-short days?

We turn to rule and law to give form to a society that has lost it's soul.  

What our would-be farmers are looking for are not dirty and calloused hands or that elusive perfectly aged goat cheese.  What they are longing for is an intrinsic value to their very lives.  The reality is that modern society, and it's driving force, consumerism, is a "one night stand".  They want community, locality and legacy.   These are not found in rules, but in relationship, long term relationship.  This comes only when we plant ourselves deep within a community, putting down roots that can withstand drought and buffeting wind and frost.    

How do we know?  Because we have lived this transformation.  When we married, neither of us knew how to put down roots, we were sceptical of their value and yet the vague longing remained.  We bought a house in the city, declaring here we would live and die, these would be our roots.  We felt that the roots were truly the family, the house was simply where we planted.  When we did move to the country, it was in search of nothing more than increased space and freedom to play for our children.  What we discovered in the country was the timeless realization that man and land are inextricably linked.  We are working and moving in unison with a living breathing part of creation and it is humbling to be able to partake.  We realize that it is not simply the land that is being redeemed and brought to fruitfulness, the land itself is doing that same work in us.  We are putting down roots that are more than metaphoric in nature.  We are being grounded in work that has eternal value.  We were created to transform this part of creation and be transformed by the labor of doing so.  

In this transformation we have learned the undeniable inherent value of living and working in community with others who labor to bring forth food.  We have learned of the almost spiritual union that occurs between those who plant and those who eat--when the production of food has not been reduced to being a mere commodity.  We have learned that there is much in community relationship that feeds the soul and without feeding the soul as well as the body, people die, never having learned to live.  We moved to the country, to a way of living that was as foreign to us as if we had moved to another hemisphere.  We grew to trust and depend upon those for whom this was how life had always been.  We asked advice about topics that previously had been mere curiosities, such as when to plant peas and how to maintain a septic system.  Laughing, they corrected our mistakes and they guided us in ways we had no idea that we needed.  They gave advice and they shared in the joys and struggles of our little farm.  They also shared stories that became heartbreaking to me of the community in decades gone by...of the dairies in the county that once numbered well over a hundred, now reduced to a mere handful.  They spoke of the grain mills lost due to lack of business, the family farms sold and parceled due to a lack of interest in continuing the family heritage of farming.   We were seeing how vital farms are to communities as we heard of once strong communities being incrementally swept away by each generation's tide of migration to the city.

We considered the migration that had been made to the city.  The city had held out promises of hope and new beginnings, of innovation and excitement.  What the city had delivered instead was a devaluing of the very things that make us human.  Now we see, each week, a growing groundswell of disillusionment and a desire to return to a life more substantively lived.

Can a migration away from the city return that which has been lost?  Can community be restored and a people regain their soul?