I Have a Problem, Part I

Hello. My name is Sonja and I have a problem.  I'm addicted to farming books, or farm books, or books on farming.  On agriculture.  I'm not quite sure how to categorize them.  

I know it's impossible to be addicted to books, (of any genre) and I'm quite certain there are no known cases of farm-book junkies. Or, maybe, I'm simply the first to declare my addiction publicly. :) I also realize my body doesn't need these books.  I don't get a rush, or a high, from them.  Although I do get red, blurry, tired eyes after a late night reading-bender.  And, yet, I can't stop reading them.  For, like any fantasy, or mystery, or good old page-turning drama, they transport me.  To a world that is foreign.  A world of mystery, of husbandry, of hay-filled barns.  A world of vegetables, herbs, and cocky, spurred roosters.  To a world I think I would like to visit.  To a world I might like to live in.   

It all started with those darn chickens.  The chickens I couldn't stop reading about.  Well, I should have made myself.  My husband should have made me.  Someone should have made me.  But no one did; so I kept reading.  I have since read about raising cattle, sheep, and goats.  I've read about raising rabbits and keeping bees.  And then I read some more about chickens.  I've read about CSA farms (Community Supported Agriculture).  I've read about men farmers, and I've read about women farmers.  (Funny, smart, women farmers.)  And with each new book, my addiction grew stronger.  For all of these books were so good, so funny, so heartwarming.  And, yes, so sad.  For as Catherine Friend so gracefully wrote,"with raising livestock comes death stock." Mostly, though, I loved how all of these women writers/farmers (the common thread) embraced their hobby, their craft, their livelihood, with joy, grace, and humor.  Farming is not an easy life.  But the love these women have for their land, their animals, their fellow farmers makes it a very appealing lifestyle to those of us not lucky enough to be a part of it.

My original plan was to blog a little about each book after I finished it.  A quick, little review wherein I'd share the few tidbits I learned.  Nice and simple.  Short and sweet.  And then, I'd be done.  Finished.  I'd move on. Back to where I belong: The Land of Fiction.  I'm hearing very good things about The Burgess Boys, by Elizabeth Strout, and Kate Atkinson has a new book out.  Sadly, it is not a Jackson Brodie novel, but that's okay.  It probably doesn't have anything to do with husbandry, or dispatching animals, or how to care for a  pullet.  Or, even what a pullet is, for that matter.

But I couldn't get enough of this memoir stuff.  Did you know memoirist is a word?  I did not, until very recently.  But I like it.  I can even see this word after my name; if I close my eyes and try real hard, Sonja Larson, Memoirist.... Yep, it has a nice ring to it.  I don't have any cute sheep to write about though (at least not yet) and I don't know if anyone wants to read about my summers at Pillar Point, playing Yahtzee with my Grandma in her motor home, all the while counting the minutes until I could grab hold of her CB radio and bellow out to the water, "breaker Ripcord.  Are you and Big Hammer coming in for lunch soon?"  

So, yes, returning to fiction is probably a good idea. 

But not today.  Maybe tomorrow.  There's more to learn, to enjoy, to dream about.  And I just discovered the author of Chick Days, Jenna Woginrich, has several other books. (See what I mean about the whole fascination/addiction thing?)

  

Nora Jane and I read this book together.  And the pictures
of the "three girls" as they grow will make grown-ups and kids alike
flock to the computer and order up a batch of chicks.
(At least in this house)

Unless you want to try to make your own butter (it's surprisingly very easy and your kiddo will declare, "it's delicious!") or bake your own bread, you might want to stay away from her book, Made From Scratch, however.  

The problem with books is that they put notions into your head.  Which explains why, in the last week, I have churned butter, and baked two beautiful loaves of bread when I have four perfectly good grocery stores within a mile of my house.  So, not only have I been reading about farm-life, I've been wondering if it could be a life (style) for me.  I think I'd make a darn good farmer.  I get up early. I'm already a home-body.  I've got a healthy, green thumb.  I'm nurturing.  I enjoy animals.  I care about the environment.   And, while I don't want to get too New-Agey or anything, all of these things bring me great joy and inner peace.  There's a peace in nature, the natural world, the animal world, that we miss out on when we aren't surrounded with it.  I'd like to have more of that in my life.  

And, besides, why else would God give me Nora Jane.  The only nine-year-old I know who CANNOT sleep in past 6:30 a.m.  EVERY DAY.  She's meant to be up, gathering eggs, milking something.

And I come by all of this naturally.  It's in my genes.   I've heard that my Grandpa Dahl used to grow enough vegetables to keep my Grandma canning all summer and I remember him growing enough corn to feed our entire neighborhood.  His parents, before him, raised livestock, grew vegetables.  My Great-Grandma even traveled to Seattle's famous Pike Place Market to sell her eggs.  I like to think she'd support my decision to farm, but who knows.  She might just tell me to put down all those damn books and go for a bike ride.  Oh wait, that's my Dad's voice I'm hearing. 

But my Dad isn't my only obstacle. I am married to someone who, for some silly reason, enjoys leaving town on summer weekends, to play, and who is completely happy buying his meat and vegetables.   So you can see my dilemma.

Farming definitely comes with a lot of commitments:  time, land, money, energy.  But I don't think any of these memoirists intended to convert the rest of us to a life of agriculture.  I think they simply wanted to share their stories, provide some entertainment, get their readers thinking about where their food comes from, and show us that we can be involved in that process, as much or as little as we choose.

That's what I'm doing now, choosing.  Choosing to be more involved in the process.  Choosing to be more aware of my food sources.  Choosing to grow a few more of my own vegetables.  Without any livestock here on the farm,  the only eggs that need collecting are colored on Easter,

Easter morning egg collecting

Notice the lovely, functional farm-attire
(aka pj's stuffed into boots)

and the only jersey cow milk we drink comes from the store in cute little bottles with hefty price tags.  But that's okay.  

I may not be a farmer per se, but I still have a garden and containers filled with the promise of a summer harvest.  I have fingers anxious to dig in the dirt.  I have bird feeders that need filling, a dog that needs medicating, and a cat that needs to stop shredding my couch. And, come summer,  I will have my own cutting garden.

Cutting Garden in Spring

Best of all, I will still be able to pile into that van on Friday nights with Dave and head out to play.

So if you think these books aren't for you, think again.  Just like the heroes in your favorite novels,  farming memoirs are filled with protagonists who struggle to overcome, who prevail, who experience heartache and loss.   They are faced with conflicts every day.  Whether  it's moving pigs thirty feet into a new barn,  assisting a ewe with lambing, halting a runaway horse, or keeping the weeds from overtaking their grape vines, they are all struggles.  All real.  And all worth reading, learning from, and laughing about.  

So give them a try.  When you're done, you may just want to plant your very own herb pot.  Or start your own cutting garden.  But be warned, if you decide to go big, (you know, like inviting a couple of chickens into the family) I can guarantee you will meet Mr. Skepticism.  And he has friends.  And they aren't very nice.

Keep on keeping on-

S-

P.S.  A pullet is a female chicken under one year of age :)