This is probably not the first story like this you have read; it won’t be the last.
Global warming is not an abstraction on the farm, nor is it something likely to have an impact only in the indeterminate future. It is having an impact right now and is forcing us to make at least one immediate decision about planting schedules that will be costly no matter which way we go.
We planted alfalfa, a key crop when raising grass-fed beef, at what seemed to be the appropriate time a few weeks ago. Then we had a few days of 75-degree weather, followed by a hard freeze. Keep in mind, this is what global warming means “on the ground” – the warming of the atmosphere will destabilize the climactic balance, creating a more volatile and extreme weather pattern everywhere. Here in Central Illinois, that meant that the alfalfa jumped up in the warm weather and then got wiped out by the freeze. So now comes decision time: do we replant the alfalfa – it is almost too late – or do we let the field “rest” and rejuvenate it’s variety of grasses. Replanting costs us cash for seed; lying fallow costs us feed for our livestock.
Americans will be facing decisions like this a lot in the coming years, and really dealing with the problem will require reexamining of our place in this world. Global warming effects everything, from big things like foreign policy and the success of political parties to small things like which light bulb do you put in the hallway. Part of what we are trying to do is to look at our farm as a huge solar-driven machine. The grass, the tractor and other motorized vehicles, the cows and livestock are all “operational centers” of our solar machine. Like any other factory, we try to run the machine in an optimal manner, which we find involves constant adjustments and reconsiderations. I think we are all – all Americans – going to be doing this for the rest of our lives.
The Business Process
Spending a bunch of time trying to work out a viable configuration for our “handling facility.” It’s a place where the cows can be safely handled on a one-at-a-time basis, for weighing, checking for pregnancy, etc. Until now we have been using temporary, improvised arrangements when we needed to work our cows. But a permanent facility designed around this application is a much better and safer way to go for cows and workers alike.
The Human Process
Finished putting the vegetable garden in. We did this mostly for ideological reasons: this is a large, beautiful organic farm and we should be eating homegrown tomatoes. It was a bunch of work, but it looks good and will, with a little farmer’s luck, look a whole lot better in about a month. Visitors this summer should expect to eat their veggies!
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Monday, May 14, 2007
Organic Boy
Around here, in Bethany and further, I am referred to as The Organic Guy. Indeed, some that I have talked with think of the organic movement as a kind of cult, a substitute for, or even a refutation of, Christ’s teachings. I can live with the moniker but it’s tougher when my buddies from back east flip it and call me organic boy.
Interesting that these farmers would view contemporary farming practices – copious use of fossil-fuel derived chemical fertilizers, herbicides and pesticides to grow a very limited set of crops (corn, soybeans)– as the natural, preferred state of affairs. And the whole thing held together by govt. price supports which benefit Dow and ADM a whole lot more than the family farmer. Oh yeah, and then there’s Coke and McDonald’s, who essentially sell reprocessed (subsidized) corn. To view organic farming methods as anomalous is to turn history on its head. Organic farming is, by definition, the way the entire world farmed until we started refining oil for fuel and throwing the byproduct on our fields. The way others farm around here has been in existence only since the end of World War II. Coincidence? But don’t misconstrue my meaning – the farmers around here are hardworking heroes and I like them very much. I just don’t much care for the system they are all forced to work within.
The “business problem” of the organic farm is pretty straightforward: how do we use the ancient methods of natural fertilizers, grass feeding, crop rotation and heirloom seeds to consistently deliver a high-quality food that can be sold for a reasonable profit? “Sustainable farming” cuts both ways – it must be sustainable for the earth, but also sustainable economically. Industrial agriculture scales endlessly, which is one of the attractions for investors, but that is not true for sustainable agriculture. At what point do we optimize our profit while not damaging our earth assets? In places like Ireland, Argentina and New Zealand, there are concerted efforts to discover this “balance point” specifically for cattle farms. We will discuss some of those efforts in more detail in subsequent blogs.
The Business Process
I had to go to L.A. to discuss some financial business this week. I hated to leave here for three reasons: 1) I love the farm, 2) Spring is the busy, busy season, and 3) every time I leave something goes wrong. And this time was no different. Some of our very graceful cows broke one of the key water lines and we were stuck with limited water for a while. Oh well, we’ll fix it and keep moving.
The Human Process
A few weeks ago we bought a horse from the neighbor lady for Caitlin, a handsome black gelding named (Four-Legged) Max. She’s been giving him time to get used to her and hopefully will soon get a saddle on him and take him out for a ride. To watch those two try to figure each other out is pretty amusing.
Interesting that these farmers would view contemporary farming practices – copious use of fossil-fuel derived chemical fertilizers, herbicides and pesticides to grow a very limited set of crops (corn, soybeans)– as the natural, preferred state of affairs. And the whole thing held together by govt. price supports which benefit Dow and ADM a whole lot more than the family farmer. Oh yeah, and then there’s Coke and McDonald’s, who essentially sell reprocessed (subsidized) corn. To view organic farming methods as anomalous is to turn history on its head. Organic farming is, by definition, the way the entire world farmed until we started refining oil for fuel and throwing the byproduct on our fields. The way others farm around here has been in existence only since the end of World War II. Coincidence? But don’t misconstrue my meaning – the farmers around here are hardworking heroes and I like them very much. I just don’t much care for the system they are all forced to work within.
The “business problem” of the organic farm is pretty straightforward: how do we use the ancient methods of natural fertilizers, grass feeding, crop rotation and heirloom seeds to consistently deliver a high-quality food that can be sold for a reasonable profit? “Sustainable farming” cuts both ways – it must be sustainable for the earth, but also sustainable economically. Industrial agriculture scales endlessly, which is one of the attractions for investors, but that is not true for sustainable agriculture. At what point do we optimize our profit while not damaging our earth assets? In places like Ireland, Argentina and New Zealand, there are concerted efforts to discover this “balance point” specifically for cattle farms. We will discuss some of those efforts in more detail in subsequent blogs.
The Business Process
I had to go to L.A. to discuss some financial business this week. I hated to leave here for three reasons: 1) I love the farm, 2) Spring is the busy, busy season, and 3) every time I leave something goes wrong. And this time was no different. Some of our very graceful cows broke one of the key water lines and we were stuck with limited water for a while. Oh well, we’ll fix it and keep moving.
The Human Process
A few weeks ago we bought a horse from the neighbor lady for Caitlin, a handsome black gelding named (Four-Legged) Max. She’s been giving him time to get used to her and hopefully will soon get a saddle on him and take him out for a ride. To watch those two try to figure each other out is pretty amusing.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
The Maze and the Desert
It is the pregnant time of year here. In a week the corn has gone from the barest speck upon the deep brown Central Illinois dirt to almost two inches tall and undeniable. Soon the corn will be so tall you can’t see anything but a wall of green and the blacktop directly in front of you as you drive down the road. A maze of maize. We got modest rain at the end of last week and there is possibly more on the way in a few days. Every year at this time a quiet wish crosses my mind: that I never fail to be astonished by this process.
We have visitors out at the farm. Something odd often happens the third or fourth day of their visits. As they gaze out the car window they will initially be stunned at the scale of the agriculture here – mile after mile of planted fields and not much else. But around the third or fourth day they become aware that, in many respects, this is a desert. There are few birds flying about because there are no worms in the fields; injecting anhydrous ammonia into the soil to fertilize the corn and soybeans kills all the worms and bugs the birds depend upon for food. There are few wetlands; the waterways have all been straightened and the wetlands drained to optimize the transport of grains down the Mississippi and minimize the danger of floods. When you look in those waterways, you do not see fish or frogs; fertilizer and pesticide runoff have killed them off. You would see more deer, raccoons and possums in the suburbs of New Jersey than you would see here, because there is no ground cover or trees for them to hide in and they have moved on to places they feel safer. It is thought that humans themselves need to see trees in the distance in order to feel at ease. It is thought to be a deeply buried remnant of our origins on the African plain -- trees meant shelter and safety, game and fruits for food, fuel for fires and warmth. All those things are just south of breathable air in the hierarchy of needs. The visitors see that we don’t have many trees and that stirs an unease within them they can barely articulate. They gaze out the window with an inchoate anxiety that there should be trees here, and birds and fauna and the rest of it, but there are not.
And why is it this way? So we can have cheap food. We have mortgaged our environment, our children’s future and our own health so that the big bag of Doritos costs less than two dollars at the convenience store.
The Business Process
Went into town last week to retrieve my baby chicks. We ordered 100 and we only got 50 in the first box, so I had to make another trip. Here’s one for you cityfolk: the chicks get sent FedEx. Fifty of them arrive in a box you could use to ship ladies’ boots in, but this one has air holes and there are pathetic little chirps arising from it. The rooster chicks are mixed in, marked with a smear of green magic marker on their heads. There is a metaphor in that, but I am way too much of a man to waste time trying to find it. Chickens are a vital part of the farm ecosystem because they are great for controlling flies. As the summer heat builds, the fly population explodes and that can stress the cattle, making them gain weight more slowly. Add a few hungry chickens into the mix and they diligently peck at the flies and the fly larvae they find in the ubiquitous cow pies, thereby spreading the fertilizer while controlling the pests. And of course chickens fed on their natural food of bugs produce highly nutritious eggs with yolks that are hazmat orange, not those pale yellow things we get at the store. And they are huge – Bryan weighed a couple of them and they came in at four ounces each. Makes me wonder if they snuck a couple of ostriches in the FedEx box.
The Human Process
Drove up to Arthur to the Amish music store to get my newest guitar fixed. It needed a new saddle, the thing that focuses the strings’ vibration into the acoustic body of the guitar to make the sound clear and balanced. The elderly store owner took the guitar from my hands and started about the task with an obvious fluidity and craft that were a wonder to behold. His wife, with pretty eyes and one of those embroidered bonnets made from sheer, translucent fabric, sat behind the register with her gaze cast shyly upon the floorboards – we attempted to chat and quickly realized it was inappropriate, so we stopped. Watching the gentleman fix my guit reminded me of a movie I saw years ago where a woman was talking to her friend about a man she was attracted to: “Men don’t understand how much we like to watch them work.” The Amish music guy charged me ten dollars and the guitar sounded great.
We have visitors out at the farm. Something odd often happens the third or fourth day of their visits. As they gaze out the car window they will initially be stunned at the scale of the agriculture here – mile after mile of planted fields and not much else. But around the third or fourth day they become aware that, in many respects, this is a desert. There are few birds flying about because there are no worms in the fields; injecting anhydrous ammonia into the soil to fertilize the corn and soybeans kills all the worms and bugs the birds depend upon for food. There are few wetlands; the waterways have all been straightened and the wetlands drained to optimize the transport of grains down the Mississippi and minimize the danger of floods. When you look in those waterways, you do not see fish or frogs; fertilizer and pesticide runoff have killed them off. You would see more deer, raccoons and possums in the suburbs of New Jersey than you would see here, because there is no ground cover or trees for them to hide in and they have moved on to places they feel safer. It is thought that humans themselves need to see trees in the distance in order to feel at ease. It is thought to be a deeply buried remnant of our origins on the African plain -- trees meant shelter and safety, game and fruits for food, fuel for fires and warmth. All those things are just south of breathable air in the hierarchy of needs. The visitors see that we don’t have many trees and that stirs an unease within them they can barely articulate. They gaze out the window with an inchoate anxiety that there should be trees here, and birds and fauna and the rest of it, but there are not.
And why is it this way? So we can have cheap food. We have mortgaged our environment, our children’s future and our own health so that the big bag of Doritos costs less than two dollars at the convenience store.
The Business Process
Went into town last week to retrieve my baby chicks. We ordered 100 and we only got 50 in the first box, so I had to make another trip. Here’s one for you cityfolk: the chicks get sent FedEx. Fifty of them arrive in a box you could use to ship ladies’ boots in, but this one has air holes and there are pathetic little chirps arising from it. The rooster chicks are mixed in, marked with a smear of green magic marker on their heads. There is a metaphor in that, but I am way too much of a man to waste time trying to find it. Chickens are a vital part of the farm ecosystem because they are great for controlling flies. As the summer heat builds, the fly population explodes and that can stress the cattle, making them gain weight more slowly. Add a few hungry chickens into the mix and they diligently peck at the flies and the fly larvae they find in the ubiquitous cow pies, thereby spreading the fertilizer while controlling the pests. And of course chickens fed on their natural food of bugs produce highly nutritious eggs with yolks that are hazmat orange, not those pale yellow things we get at the store. And they are huge – Bryan weighed a couple of them and they came in at four ounces each. Makes me wonder if they snuck a couple of ostriches in the FedEx box.
The Human Process
Drove up to Arthur to the Amish music store to get my newest guitar fixed. It needed a new saddle, the thing that focuses the strings’ vibration into the acoustic body of the guitar to make the sound clear and balanced. The elderly store owner took the guitar from my hands and started about the task with an obvious fluidity and craft that were a wonder to behold. His wife, with pretty eyes and one of those embroidered bonnets made from sheer, translucent fabric, sat behind the register with her gaze cast shyly upon the floorboards – we attempted to chat and quickly realized it was inappropriate, so we stopped. Watching the gentleman fix my guit reminded me of a movie I saw years ago where a woman was talking to her friend about a man she was attracted to: “Men don’t understand how much we like to watch them work.” The Amish music guy charged me ten dollars and the guitar sounded great.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Why we fight
“An owner’s eyes and footsteps are the best fertilizer for the land.”
That statement, often misguoted and mis-attributed (it is found in Columella’s De Re Rustica, a twelve volume consideration of livestock and farm management written in the first century A.D.) is the heart of the matter. Global warming is making it very clear that this beautiful earth is “our farm” and it is a moral necessity, not to mention essential for our physical survival, that we come to terms with our responsibilities towards that farm. In our 21st century, with unparalleled information and transportation resources, we must begin to act as if we are all the owners of our food chain. Increasingly you hear the expression “carbon footprint,” referring to the amount of fossil fuels a person burns and other carbon dioxide-creating activities they are responsible in the course of their day. What about your “carbon foodprint?”
We all have to use our “owner’s eyes and footsteps” to get an understanding what kind of resources it takes to get food to our tables. There is a concept moving into the mainstream call “locavore” or “localvore” (I prefer locavore because of it’s sneaky inclusion of the Spanish word for crazy, or loca). Locavores are people who commit to consuming only foods grown or produced within 100 miles of where they live. They find burning lots of petroleum to ensure we have ripe peaches in January is fundamentally misguided on a number of levels. The locavore movement is a noble endeavor, but it misses the point by a mile. Do we as Americans understand the amount of petroleum-based fertilizers and pesticides that go into virtually everything we eat? Do we ever consider that modern factory farming methods burn petroleum at virtually every turn, and there has never existed a farmer who chose a certain model of tractor based upon its MPG rating?
We need to use our eyes and footsteps to consider everything we are doing to ensure food is cheap and plentiful, while simultaneously being less and less nutritious and healthful. That’s part of what we want to accomplish with this blog. Please keep reading.
Business Process
What did we do this week to make the farm a more successful business? Well, among other things, we planted 2,000 trees. Six years ago we planted 7,000 hardwoods along the creek that runs through the farm and the new ones are placed to enhance the visual appeal of the farm in addition to expanding the opportunities for wildlife. There’s not enough trees out here because they were all cleared off to make cornfields – trees are so scarce the federal government pays us to plant them around the farm near streams and such. My old friend Scotty came out and helped me select a good, diverse assortment, as well as selecting good locations for them. There is something enormously arrogant about clearing thousands of square miles of trees to create more cornfields we don’t really need, so planting trees out at our farm is my feeble attempt to reestablish some sense of balance – the critical thing when working with the natural world is a sense of balance, and that is not in any way an abstraction or indulgence. The trees we planted also provide shade for structures, reducing the need to cool them with A/C or fans. And, of course, they are unspeakably beautiful to watch as they grow towards the heavens year after year.
Human Process
Had to go up to Decatur to replace my cell phone. I hate cell phones, but the reality is they are a most necessary evil, and the most evil necessity, out here when you are trying to run a business. Somebody called the telephone “the most totalitarian instrument of our time.” Cell phones are so much worse. I needed a new one because my co-worker, Bryan, was playing with the dogs and tossed Miss Brown into the swimming hole we built recently. Now, before you start yelling, Bryan has done this a dozen times with the same dog and she loved it. This time, she freaked out and started drowning. So I jumped in, pulled her to safety, and realized I had my obscenely priced and over-featured cell phone in my pocket. I had a blissful 24 hours without being reached out to and touched, but then I did the adult thing and got a replacement. Dang cell phones. At least I got to be the first human being into the new swimming hole!
That statement, often misguoted and mis-attributed (it is found in Columella’s De Re Rustica, a twelve volume consideration of livestock and farm management written in the first century A.D.) is the heart of the matter. Global warming is making it very clear that this beautiful earth is “our farm” and it is a moral necessity, not to mention essential for our physical survival, that we come to terms with our responsibilities towards that farm. In our 21st century, with unparalleled information and transportation resources, we must begin to act as if we are all the owners of our food chain. Increasingly you hear the expression “carbon footprint,” referring to the amount of fossil fuels a person burns and other carbon dioxide-creating activities they are responsible in the course of their day. What about your “carbon foodprint?”
We all have to use our “owner’s eyes and footsteps” to get an understanding what kind of resources it takes to get food to our tables. There is a concept moving into the mainstream call “locavore” or “localvore” (I prefer locavore because of it’s sneaky inclusion of the Spanish word for crazy, or loca). Locavores are people who commit to consuming only foods grown or produced within 100 miles of where they live. They find burning lots of petroleum to ensure we have ripe peaches in January is fundamentally misguided on a number of levels. The locavore movement is a noble endeavor, but it misses the point by a mile. Do we as Americans understand the amount of petroleum-based fertilizers and pesticides that go into virtually everything we eat? Do we ever consider that modern factory farming methods burn petroleum at virtually every turn, and there has never existed a farmer who chose a certain model of tractor based upon its MPG rating?
We need to use our eyes and footsteps to consider everything we are doing to ensure food is cheap and plentiful, while simultaneously being less and less nutritious and healthful. That’s part of what we want to accomplish with this blog. Please keep reading.
Business Process
What did we do this week to make the farm a more successful business? Well, among other things, we planted 2,000 trees. Six years ago we planted 7,000 hardwoods along the creek that runs through the farm and the new ones are placed to enhance the visual appeal of the farm in addition to expanding the opportunities for wildlife. There’s not enough trees out here because they were all cleared off to make cornfields – trees are so scarce the federal government pays us to plant them around the farm near streams and such. My old friend Scotty came out and helped me select a good, diverse assortment, as well as selecting good locations for them. There is something enormously arrogant about clearing thousands of square miles of trees to create more cornfields we don’t really need, so planting trees out at our farm is my feeble attempt to reestablish some sense of balance – the critical thing when working with the natural world is a sense of balance, and that is not in any way an abstraction or indulgence. The trees we planted also provide shade for structures, reducing the need to cool them with A/C or fans. And, of course, they are unspeakably beautiful to watch as they grow towards the heavens year after year.
Human Process
Had to go up to Decatur to replace my cell phone. I hate cell phones, but the reality is they are a most necessary evil, and the most evil necessity, out here when you are trying to run a business. Somebody called the telephone “the most totalitarian instrument of our time.” Cell phones are so much worse. I needed a new one because my co-worker, Bryan, was playing with the dogs and tossed Miss Brown into the swimming hole we built recently. Now, before you start yelling, Bryan has done this a dozen times with the same dog and she loved it. This time, she freaked out and started drowning. So I jumped in, pulled her to safety, and realized I had my obscenely priced and over-featured cell phone in my pocket. I had a blissful 24 hours without being reached out to and touched, but then I did the adult thing and got a replacement. Dang cell phones. At least I got to be the first human being into the new swimming hole!
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