Man, S&%$ Grows Fast When Not Ignored

Just a wee update on our summer farming skills. This is our second summer here on the Central Coast, where days can be sickeningly hot. So far, we've only had a week or so of plus 100 degree weather, but there's gotta be more coming. Last season our crops sucked ass. We had no idea what we were doing and pretty much dumped it all in and threw some water on it every now and again (we really did do more than that, but barely). The results were astounding: we cooked everything before we even got it out of the ground.

So this season we decided to check soil PH, add drip systems and pay attention. Below is the fruit of our labor. We built these raised beds about two months ago and planted them a week or so after that. 

June, 2014

July, 2014 (Today, to be exact)

It's been at most six weeks and somehow we've grown a whole jungle. I've actually found a tiger hiding in there. And, you know, sometimes the plant's foliage will be all huge and braggadocio but it's fruit sucks and you'll get like three piece of crap tomatoes from it (which happened to us all last summer). Well, not this time. Below you can see our average-sized cucumber. The zucchini and tomatoes and squash are all equally as bulging. We have so much produce now that my dogs have decided to go vegetarian. Now that's a true farm dog.  

(What in the hell do you do with sixteen of these?)

FAIL.

This here is the last time you will be seeing our five little quail because as of this morning, Jack thought it would be "nice" to set their cage outside in the sunshine and fresh air. Apparently it was nice, so nice that they all jumped out and scattered to the four corners of the world. And not together, which is the shitty part. Together, they stand a chance against the mean guys and the cold nights. But they are so young and quick, that they literally all just shot off toward whatever direction they landed. We feel horrible. First, it is possible that we quail-napped them and that mom or dad was a short bush over, watching in horror as these ungainly monsters shoved their babies into a saddle bag (I sincerely hope not, but our country friends have since informed us that this is, sadly, quite probable). Then, we move them to a completely different neighborhood with no low-lying shrubbery, and allow them to run off by themselves into the great unknown.
Freaking city folk. What jerks.

What the Duck?

 Well, we found five, day-old ducklings a few days ago while we were out for a ride on our motorcycle, and due to our paralyzing fear that they wouldn't make it through the night without our god-like intervention, we took them home. This brings the total number of animals now living on our modest little farm to 21. Wait, 22. I forgot about the new pig (I'll introduce him in the next post).

Given that we almost killed every single one of them while our hearts were bursting with good intentions, I thought I'd give you a quick what-not-to-do guide to rescuing ducklings.

#1. Wait at LEAST eight minutes before calling it a day and packing them into your motorcycle saddle bag. What the natives have since explained to us is that shit happens in the duck world same as ours. Mom may have gotten held up by an old boyfriend, or maybe dinner took longer than expected. She may have been just down the street but other, less patient ducks kept cutting her off and giving her the finger. To be fair, the little guys came to us and wouldn't venture more than a few feet from our feet, but it's totally possible that they were just out for a bit of fun and knew exactly where they were headed. At the time we seriously doubted it, given that they were roughly the size of the eggs they hatched from and it was almost dark in an area rich in feral cats and coyotes. Still, the guy at the farm supply place mumbled to a co-worker, "Dude, they're wild animals. They'd of figured it out. That's what they do." And then he went on to sell me $74.38 worth of chick raising supplies.
#2. When any creature is one day old, do not set it in a canvas saddle bag with no insulation and proceed to ride 50 mph for 15 minutes in 60 degree weather.
#3. Do not assume that because they are mostly dead and can no longer stand upright, it is because they are hungry. First take into account the harrowing ride they just took, and then google it. Baby ducks don't need to eat for 72 hours after they're born. Shoving their beaks into chicken mush while cheering them on does nothing.
#4. Do not assume that because they are mostly dead they need water. They don't. And since the only problem is that they are nearly frozen to death, setting them down in a lid full of water and dunking their beaks while cheering them on could probably be considered premeditated murder. Or manslaughter if they die. Which thank god they didn't or I would have turned my own self in.

Luckily, that's all we did to the poor souls, and despite it all, they lived. They are right now in their cozy wine box, basking in their brand new heat lamp and cuddling up for the night. Um, except they're not. I can hear them beginning to chirp, and what will follow is an all night party filled with running in circles, jumping on top of each other, and hucking themselves at the walls (I think in search of their mama). I'm not certain, but something tells me this behavior may be pointed at us.

The More Given, the More Expected

Well, I daresay that we are now officially a farm. We have chickens, goats, dogs, a cat, and as of Saturday, a pig! A 20 year-old potbelly pig named Willie. We have taken him in as a favor to Jack's sister, and so far he seems to be doing just fine. She says if he snorts a lot he's happy, and every time I say hi to him he snorts. We're feeling pretty confident that he's not gonna bust out and run for the hills. That always feels nice.

With the addition of another life to care for, I've actually been thinking about death. Potbellies live for about 20 years and Willie is 20. He is the oldest animal on the farm and by far the closest to death. I guess I've never really thought about what one does with a very large dead animal. Set a bonfire? Rent a backhoe? Can you bury a 150 pound animal in your yard? But more importantly I've been contemplating the awesome responsibility it is to care for another life. It doesn't really matter to me whether it's a chicken, person or dog; it's still a life that I have been entrusted with. It's still a life that I must tend and nourish and watch over. Especially if it's an animal (or a baby, I guess). They are completely dependent on us to keep them alive and know what they need when they need it. And since they can't talk, we have to be vigilant in order to understand their needs or pain. But this is not easy. I mean, Willie is 20 freaking years old! I have no idea what he's like when he's uncomfortable, let alone in pain. And this could be a concern very, very soon.  Ah! What if I can't read him? What if he is in pain and I mistake his grunts for grateful applause? Is there a Cesar Milan of pigs? They're smarter than dogs, you know.

(I just have to mention here that as I'm contemplating death and despair, my man is downstairs blasting Gun's & Roses, an album I never even knew he owned.)

It doesn't help my state of mind that my brother and his family just lost almost all of their adolescent chickens to their dog, who oddly enough, is normally almost comatose, and an old student who just lost his dog and best friend of many years. It just makes you think. The more animals you care for, the more death and loss you will experience. And the more you hope that you will be sensitive enough to know what to do and how to help ease their pain (and, let's be honest, your own). I'm guessing that as the years pass and I become more familiar with the deaths of my animals, this won't cause me as much anxiety and anguish, but as of right now, even shit-clots on the tail feathers of my chickens cause me distress. Jack and I had to team up a few weeks ago and cut one off of Big Black Bertha, and now, just this morning, I noticed one piling up on another one of the gals. And of course, the bleeding heart that I am, my first thought is that it must be painful, like when you put your hair in a ponytail and one or two strands of hair are pulled too tightly, except that chickens don't have hands to pull out the rubber band - or in their case, the dried shit ball stuck to their feathers. See? It's things like this that you have to be on top of. Who would ever think that part of being a responsible chicken owner is weekly butt checks for dried shit balls?  But if you don't, who will? Those little ladies lay their hearts out so you can have a hearty breakfast. The least you can do is be on the lookout for unwanted crap clingers.

I guess that's all for now. Here's to another day of health and happiness on the farm and to hoping that we awake to more of the same. And here's to hoping that you awake to the same, too.

If Only We Could Be Like the Trees of the Fields

Why is it so difficult to keep shit in perspective? We are so easily confounded and overwhelmed by nearly everything that comes our way. Before we know it we are overcome by the tide of things outside of our control and shepherded - no, thrust - into a place that seeks to suck the life right out of us. And try as we might, this seems to happen more often than not. Even here in the great outdoors it touches us. We certainly believed that we were escaping that great tide when we chose to move. I mean, what could be more simple? Country life, blue collar jobs, no neighbors, and animal friends a'plenty. What in the world is there to freak out about? I continue to ask myself this every single day, even though I am freaking out continuously. Because there is money, there is status, there is success, there is accomplishment to freak out about. Yes, even here, in good ol' God's country, we are hostage to this age-old story, and in all of the above, we have little to brag about.  Even here, the first thing asked is, "So what do you do for a living?" We ask this first because we have been trained to ask this. We ask this because we don't have any idea what else to ask. We don't know how to ask questions that matter to our souls, like, "What do you love to do?" or "Who are you?" or "What is your passion?" No, we ask the most meaningless and mundane of possible questions: What do you do to make money, which truthfully translates into the saddest but most dogged of human concerns. If I know what you do, I know roughly what you make. And if I know roughly what you make, I can put you in a category that I can judge up against myself. I can know if you are above or below me according to our societies' social scale. I can know if I should praise you or pity you. I know if I am better or worse than you. All because of the amount of money you earn.
Well, here's my heretical take on this bullshit, for what it's worth. Never in my life have I met someone whose money contributed to their wisdom, beauty or compassion. In fact, in my experience, the wonderful individuals who have wisdom and beauty and compassion typically go without monetary opulence. Not that this is necessary, I'm sure, but somehow it seems to contribute to things. And maybe it isn't the money that changes people at all; maybe it's the power that money brings. Either way, most of those who have changed the world have gone without. And I believe that we really should evaluate these sages up against those our culture holds in high regard today. What are we truly longing for in our lives? What secret desires are we wanting them to validate for us? Because I guarantee you that pop stars and athletes and A list actors aren't primarily concerned with the stuff that Buddha and Jesus and MLK and Mother Theresa lived and died for. If you can actually ask yourself what baby Northwest's (or whatever the cuss his name is) parents would dress him (her?) in if attending a Bat mitzvah, or if Posh Spice would drink this particular protein shake (if she is even "cool" anymore), you've already lost it. God bless 'em, they're just people who happen to be rich trying to figure out this freaking life. But to idolize them simply because they're loaded? Yikes.
Then again, what do I know? I rescued a homeless dog, wrapped a Cal-trans orange handkerchief around his neck, and named him Kevin.

Beautifully Blue Collar

Today I had what folks might call an existential realization (that may be the wrong terminology but that just furthers my forthcoming point). I'll get to it momentarily, but first some background. This is slightly uncomfortable to admit, but it wouldn't be truly existential otherwise, I'm guessing (brother?). So we have lived out here in the "country" for near two years now, and up until perhaps this very day, it has been romantic and novel and brave. It has been cool and "an experience" and urban-chic. I mean, what semi-aware city-dweller wouldn't love to say they gave up/sold everything to experience the country life? How very Thoreau of us (and though we didn't build our own dwelling from scratch, we did refurbish a barn, which, to be totally honest, is way cooler by today's standards). And if we don't quite invoke Thoreau, at least Sunset Magazine.

So in the spirit of authenticity, we are poor. But we are poor by CHOICE, and it goes without saying that that puts us in a completely different category than the real country folks out here who are actually poor. For the past 1.5 years as we've both worked basic labor jobs, my story has gone like this: "Yeah, we moved from Corona Del Mar in Orange County (as if we even owned there, but it's the name that really counts to people) in order to realize our dream of a slower, quieter life with land and animals and simplicity. We're still figuring out what we want to do up here, so for now I'm working here in the tasting room for ten bucks an hour because I want to learn more about wine." That part has been true all along, that I wanted to learn more about wine. But the rest of my story implies that we have some sort of cache of cash that allows me to cuss around "learning" enigmatic stuff for as long as I want, because clearly, if we moved to Po-dunk Templeton from CDM, we must be loaded. Though that is completely untrue, I have been absolutely fine with allowing people to assume that. Yes we are technically "blue collar" for the first time in decades, but it's by choice, you see. It's for the adventure, the experience, the story. It's so that we can really relate to our fellow country-folk. It's not because we have to work at these places. Jack doesn't have to spend seven hours a day loading boxes of wine onto trailers. I don't have to pour wine to drunken neophytes six hours a day to make a living. Ha! How silly that you would even think that.

But then today happened. It was a day just like every other day. My winery was hosting an industry party after hours which I was not only not informed of until the day of, but was also sent to Trader Joe's to shop for said event (sounds exactly like a job one does solely for "learning" purposes). When I was done, the check-out man said hello with a wonderful smile, as they are apt to do there, and began unloading my cart. For some reason, today I chose not to remove my name tag before entering (which I never do) and so I found myself explaining what all the pizzas and savory tarts were for, which got us talking shop. My first shock was that I was actually "talking shop" with my grocery guy. I've never done that before in my whole life. I've never had anything in common with the grocery clerk except the weather maybe, or the first graders outside selling Almond Roca for the school fundraiser. Certainly not my life's work. Yet here I was, laughing about consumers and secret product prices. Hee-heeing about customer service and the "people with money" who assume their cash makes up for their lack of taste. And that was the second shock: our talking shop related to the hospitality business, a business that I've never be a part of. People that I have always left tips for with a bit of, "Oh, poor soul. How does s/he ever make ends meet?" (Bare in mind that I was only a teacher. We're not talking hedge fund money here)

He took my money, I took my goods, and that's when it happened, my existential realization. As I pushed my red cart past the free plastic utensils and extra-strength hand sanitizer on the way to my expensive Audi with the now two-year-old dented fender, it hit me like a punch in the face. Him and me, he and I, we are the same. Regardless of the stories we tell ourselves or others, we are blue collar workers. We do a job that anyone with the ability to show up can do. So what that I go home and eat vegan or read Carl Jung or drink impressive sounding wines. So what that he creates symphonies in his garage or lovingly raises children that are not his. In this one thing, we are the same. We work for just above minimum wage in a society that not only shuns such a thing in adult life, but nearly makes pariahs out of those who have no other choice. We - I - have a job that educators spend hours and hours warning their students against. Teaching them that if they don't get perfect grades and get into the "right" college, they will end up like this - like me. Ha! I can hardly breath with the irony of this. No wonder I never spoke such things to my students. How little I knew about why I didn't...

But what I felt most in my core as I walked away from that clerk was that I was damn proud to be in his company. I AM damn proud. We connected on a level void of the bullshit of money and status and subterfuge and pretenses. We saw one another as simply human, as common neighbors in this big ol' world. I can't remember the last time I felt so proud to be like someone else, so proud to be a part of a group. I am the 99%. Jack and I are the 99%.

And goddamn if it doesn't feel just right.