This is an essay from one of our CSA members (and dear friends), Trilety Wade.
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Squash is on the vine and I just recently hit the required 10 hours of work at Black Sheep Farms.  Honestly, my intention was to have reached this goal by June or July, with mornings spent in dew decorated fields and afternoons under the frugal shade of a wide brimmed hat.  But is the end of August and I have just now completed the 10th hour.  Fortunately, Brian and Kelly won’t throw me off the farm if I try and rack up some more hours this fall – or so I’ve been told.  And I do plan on continuing because my membership in the CSA is also a commitment to a sustainable style of farming and the farmers (also friends) who hold onto the land with the grip of roots and clay.

I’ve met a few members and missed a few members and thought I’d share my experience during my wee 10 hours on the farm.

May found me kneeling along a felled log with fungus-inoculated dowels and mallets in hand as Brian and Alvaro (?) drilled hollows into the drying crust of wood.  Comet (Brian and Kelly’s youngest) and I would follow the guys, and with a swift swing of the rubber mallet we would fill the holes with a spore-soaked dowel.  This was quite the hand-eye coordination task for us both.  And after (300?) holes and before a nap, Comet made a new friend in Triltree – as he likes to call me.  We then capped the holes with wax and. . . . now we wait.  With the chicken coop shading our work I realized farming is an exercise in waiting and hoping.  We wait and hope for the mushrooms to sprout next spring.

Early June and it was a girls’ day at the farm and in the greenhouse.  Kelly, Kristin, Nicole and I transplanted/repotted seedling tomatoes into larger containers and prepped them for planting in the earth.  We made soil from perlite, compost, and vermiculite while we talked about the burdens and joys of love and children and work and farming.  The greenhouse, with its narrow pathways, packed us, and our coordinated movements together like warm eggs in a carton. 

One of the next times I was out was on a Scheduled Work Party day; a day when Kelly had identified collective tasks that could be worked on by a group of members.  In one of the few humid days in July, Kelly and I worked alone and together digging and drying garlic and staking up liberated limbs of tomatoes.  Kelly’s optimism and positive attitude made any of my sporadic cynicism fall like rotten fruit to the earth in which we worked.  We sweat and laughed and talked about the surprises of marriage and the taste of heirlooms. 

And then came August.  My volunteer experience of August opened my eyes to the realities and challenges of working the ground.  We spent the afternoon between blighted tomatoes and tiny potatoes.  The blight, that comes on the air, rotted the many tomatoes that Kelly had hoped would bring heft and color to our weekly boxes.  It’s a shock when something is destroyed and you could do little to nothing to prevent it.  We moved from the tomatoes to the potatoes.  From the barn, Kelly dragged an implement she earlier referred to as the Potato Fork. Of course I figured it would be just that – a fork of sorts – a pitchfork type tool.  And then she pulls out a tool that is almost taller than me with blades like you’d see on some piece of yellow machinery.  Kelly and Ali made light work of this effective tool while I. . . well I did many fewer turns of that fork and the soil beneath.  Potato harvesting is a treasure hunt for buried nightshade treasure, but as with most treasure hunts sometimes the booty isn’t so big.  The fingerlings we were pulling were small, some the size of peanuts.  And while on my hands and knees and looking at the dark but empty soil I asked, “So you probably won’t plant these fingerlings again huh?”  And Kelly, in her most matter-of-fact-mother-farmer tone said, “Of course we’ll plant them.  They taste great and they could be bigger next year.  We lost all our tomatoes and we’ll plant those again next year too.”  Lesson learned.  We did dig up some great big onions and carrots that day. . . so maybe it’s a wash?  Or maybe it’s farming.

I remember during the first gathering when Kelly & Brian explained the 10 hour volunteer requirement.  That didn’t seem like much at the time.  And yet, cumulatively, all our hours are equal to the work of horses and ploughs and multitudes of hardened hands.  Just four of us members together make up an entire week of work.  But the hours or days or weeks of work we put into Black Sheep Farms will bring an entirely different outcome from our regular jobs, it will bring food to our tables and the tables of new and old friends, it will bring stability and sustainability to Kelly and Brian, it will bring fertility to the soil and diversity to the seed, it will bring laughter to the leaves, and it will bring a sense of fulfillment of living and working and breathing one’s own ethic.

This week, we lost nearly every tomato plant on Black Sheep Farms to late season blight.

Although we grow many types of vegetables and flowers, tomatoes are the stars. The magical combination of acids, sugars, colors and summer creates a legacy that makes us ache during their seasonal absence. In December, we dream of their luscious flavors as we circle old favorites and hopeful contenders in the catalogs. In February and March, we plant each tiny seed and watch as they create tiny sprouts. We transplant them to bigger containers and watch the weather reports, wondering when we can expect the last frost in May. We bring them outdoors during the day to harden their bodies and spirits and protect them at night in the safe, temperate greenhouse. We plant them near a strong trellis so they have the chance to grow up, literally. As they stray and sprawl on the ground, we tie them to the wire trellis so they can reach for the sun.

And, most years, we delight in the fruit that each tomato plant bears. We haul away overflowing boxes. We sell them to strangers and friends, knowing the joy that each person will have as they bite, slice, stew or sauce. We brew the tomatoes into a flavor-filled concoction that we freeze and enjoy as the winter winds howl.

Except this year. Late season blight is a merciless killer, and it is unstoppable. Blight is a fungal disease, and it is augmented by the cool, damp weather we have experienced this summer. Instead of the hot, humid but dry weather we expected, the summer has been rainy and temperate. Had we known, we would have planted cool-weather crops like spinach, chard, even lettuce. But there is no way to predict the weather, no matter what the television forecasters would have you believe.

So this year, we are practically without tomatoes. We planted fourteen varieties, from Golden Currant cherry to Crnkovic Yugoslavian, from Nebraska Wedding to Black Krim. Almost all dead. And as much as we suffer personally, it pains us to turn up short for the members of our CSA. We have invested so much of ourselves in this relationship, and it hurts to realize that the gifts we had planned to give have disappeared. At the start of the CSA, we explained that we all share in the successes and the shortcomings of the season. If we have an abundant year, we all benefit. If the year is difficult, we all have less than expected.

The reality is much more difficult than the theory. Struggling with the unexpected death of our tomatoes has been hard on us, but we’ve had so much support from friends who have shared kind words or brought us tomatoes of their own. It turns out that the community that we have fostered together has been the true gift of summer. We are grateful for each of you.

-Brian

On Black Sheep Farms, we have a resident woodchuck. We had heard tale of the monstrous rodent and even caught a glimpse of it last year. But nothing was to prepare us for the encounter we had on Thursday evening.

As I was getting water for our poultry, I heard Lexie sound an alert similar to her “intruder” bark. As I went to investigate, I was shocked to see that she had cornered a woodchuck near the grapevines in our orchard. The beast was standing its ground and making chattering noises with its terrible teeth.

I called for Kelly and the boys, then turned to the house to collect them and our camera. Surely, this encounter must be documented, I thought. As I moved away, Lexie became distracted, and the woodchuck took the opportunity to flee. It bounded further into the orchard and attempted to leap into a nearby apple tree. I thought that the ‘chuck would retake a defensive posture near the tree by the time of my return.

As my family exited the house and approached the orchard, brimming with excitement and wonder, we did not find the creature on the ground. A series of unearthly squawks and toothsome chatter led us to the woodchuck’s safe harbor: six feet above ground in an apple tree. Here is proof that what I say is true:

We discovered that woodchucks are versitile creatures, akin in spirit, if not size, to the mighty squirrel.

-Brian

I’ve heard a lot of discussion around Food Inc., and I’ve read a lot of the reviews. One thing I’ve not done is see the movie. Surprised? Anyone who knows me understands that I take my food seriously. So why have I not rushed out to my theater?

Part of the reason is that we are farming. It’s not convenient to take time off during the busiest season of the year to watch a movie. I work a full-time off-farm job, and Kelly runs Black Sheep Farms. I spend evenings and weekends helping with farm tasks. Add three kids, and time gets short.

Sure, I’ll watch it on DVD. But I don’t expect to learn a lot from it. Why?

I already know the issues. Heck, I’m a chemical-free farmer. I should know. I have studied Monsanto and their extensive programs. I know that they own or supply many organic seed companies. I have read most of Joel Salatin’s books. My next-door neighbor at the farmers market has even had Joel stay at his farm a couple of times.

I think that it’s fantastic that Food Inc. is making a splash in mainstream America. People should know why ground beef from a small farmer costs $6/lb instead of $1.77 at the grocery store. As a nation, we should be aware how Monsanto has infiltrated the federal government in order to promote their own agenda. Education is wonderful.

But education is wonderful only if it continues. Do this for me: go to a farmers market and ask some farmers how they farm. What are they doing in relation to the issues that are important to you? It’s just like studying a political candidate… just more important.

At Black Sheep Farms, we have made a commitment to make sure that we don’t buy any seed from Monsanto’s seed companies (Seminis, this means you). We go a step further and research the companies that we buy from to make sure they don’t buy from Monsanto/Seminis. We don’t want any of our money to go to companies that support genetic modification or agrichemicals. We are opposed to chemical sprays, artificial additives and tinkering with Mother Nature.

So, please don’t stop at watching Food Inc. Start a discussion with your farmers. Start a discussion with your friends. Buy some food when it’s ripe and delicious. Swear off corn syrup. Do anything that makes you feel like you’re making progress. But, just take the next step.