tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7342123357401533322024-02-18T23:35:14.945-08:00Little Flower FarmScandia, MNMr.and Mrs. Farmerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03188979181083669625noreply@blogger.comBlogger341125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-734212335740153332.post-79204155113516107722024-02-18T23:03:00.000-08:002024-02-18T23:34:43.333-08:00Summer 2023<p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQHLXHbZCiRwTljR6XiSEVR6PSn_dVgvQMnLtt9FruTXV69cEMFSQT2fKaBwkjAGHAlINBHESMBfiamuqSI_CFKS0R8MEXay7esO4FZ2Ukt94ATQTfFDdsFOK2mttNMGhudcYXDzbIu-vmPxt18oG3HgmTP7ICrA17XIgBhs_xr_mxqBdWxKte_iJ9_tJN/s4608/DSCF9642.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQHLXHbZCiRwTljR6XiSEVR6PSn_dVgvQMnLtt9FruTXV69cEMFSQT2fKaBwkjAGHAlINBHESMBfiamuqSI_CFKS0R8MEXay7esO4FZ2Ukt94ATQTfFDdsFOK2mttNMGhudcYXDzbIu-vmPxt18oG3HgmTP7ICrA17XIgBhs_xr_mxqBdWxKte_iJ9_tJN/s320/DSCF9642.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little Flower Farm gardens 2023</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi945qU5JWg8cG7Uqo81Duf-8UWCYLCvyjS_8kquOlyFSmw4IGvLE9BFudCf8j1hh9BWoV37fD2f2oRnWcctn7Laiv8wfx6YC3LbW-6pPYU9FBWwOSbP2sfVrDgpYLxWjD3NSkP4g6X6o0QlaRj1Y7UuIw68deYfQbGyv3AGp1i-W-VH-eLuidbFK0y9F0L/s4608/DSCF9631.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi945qU5JWg8cG7Uqo81Duf-8UWCYLCvyjS_8kquOlyFSmw4IGvLE9BFudCf8j1hh9BWoV37fD2f2oRnWcctn7Laiv8wfx6YC3LbW-6pPYU9FBWwOSbP2sfVrDgpYLxWjD3NSkP4g6X6o0QlaRj1Y7UuIw68deYfQbGyv3AGp1i-W-VH-eLuidbFK0y9F0L/s320/DSCF9631.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Queen of Lime zinnia </td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMLO7gSOXiKYdC72ih1ohtX3a7iAhDx0Aaq02wBEhTdLGhjF8i-13j8Gg7k51rjSPhniPd5eA6S4ktcW4A3M07-3-AhJGh4VpY1fHjk86V9T79h3bzljhpfd7_NgjyjcdlfnuYALhi7hbj7nWtLRqf9P57vgSwcH-IBo0boUt_m3qQ8KXCLu_VDRI7xjg6/s4608/DSCF9618%20(1).JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMLO7gSOXiKYdC72ih1ohtX3a7iAhDx0Aaq02wBEhTdLGhjF8i-13j8Gg7k51rjSPhniPd5eA6S4ktcW4A3M07-3-AhJGh4VpY1fHjk86V9T79h3bzljhpfd7_NgjyjcdlfnuYALhi7hbj7nWtLRqf9P57vgSwcH-IBo0boUt_m3qQ8KXCLu_VDRI7xjg6/s320/DSCF9618%20(1).JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">hens out for a summer's stroll</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjar8aZSlZMOvK1unVgHvxroiXV4A0YlBP5xkt4zL4e7CVIjkgM7SGds4UZTdL7Yuk7osgbrYnuNhm19oCZbupm9j4zF1AjZsV8N9GVLN4viylKcvA361ZmmsA9W3hIpYZkWnwY8EuO1nWkXAbbZO9vdbtrv0GYKBo_IyBjl0acyeGeq3Ujpfsf0P6AHCT4/s4608/DSCF9612%20(1).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjar8aZSlZMOvK1unVgHvxroiXV4A0YlBP5xkt4zL4e7CVIjkgM7SGds4UZTdL7Yuk7osgbrYnuNhm19oCZbupm9j4zF1AjZsV8N9GVLN4viylKcvA361ZmmsA9W3hIpYZkWnwY8EuO1nWkXAbbZO9vdbtrv0GYKBo_IyBjl0acyeGeq3Ujpfsf0P6AHCT4/w480-h640/DSCF9612%20(1).JPG" width="480" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5M7X-Pi604SCpmLAb1AB4VhuQSlo1wbuUDWRpVt1Vo3DiJVP27NLt6l41kVH_8N72HMDfhHHzjIlZNveUZoPDxg2lPqOQsnuacjsLtL9AIXVhj1hyaj-EEEwdZBIjX6bFqHWkRIcdNPIVUh-SQmdq8qgZ-uF-FU9Q3ZYxO49qN0CZm-k3QK7K_HNtUZL5/s4608/DSCF9610.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5M7X-Pi604SCpmLAb1AB4VhuQSlo1wbuUDWRpVt1Vo3DiJVP27NLt6l41kVH_8N72HMDfhHHzjIlZNveUZoPDxg2lPqOQsnuacjsLtL9AIXVhj1hyaj-EEEwdZBIjX6bFqHWkRIcdNPIVUh-SQmdq8qgZ-uF-FU9Q3ZYxO49qN0CZm-k3QK7K_HNtUZL5/s320/DSCF9610.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNoKbnmWYdZMQYMgaQPaiyKbu7njALmjQsi775FPpOorgtsabZYVwJmwkKcnysB4Dfhe1_356OC-vUL6iX7QDoDIdGcdVKFB5KO7WtMMFwFWUlny_DWVJx-AOm57UajNfQWqWezET3CLDJGo2wuuut62oJkPsYAXZ0fAlOjLxxwQjNYV2X2FyW7m_EF8zl/s4608/DSCF9591.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNoKbnmWYdZMQYMgaQPaiyKbu7njALmjQsi775FPpOorgtsabZYVwJmwkKcnysB4Dfhe1_356OC-vUL6iX7QDoDIdGcdVKFB5KO7WtMMFwFWUlny_DWVJx-AOm57UajNfQWqWezET3CLDJGo2wuuut62oJkPsYAXZ0fAlOjLxxwQjNYV2X2FyW7m_EF8zl/s320/DSCF9591.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnbaDz23QRcbHZSl9cemZA8vwXXjESqHdIkH4HtqyUWUHbBucYt0N-kYv4LKX-eWrYFDNO01yCmd_RdQKlU2Z8NaOZmNW8yevJFzVuLOq8HIQEqxTReAESD8vEjZIXQU2yZOLEs3SA-mHPSypkg18K38nuSPzIN83P0G4oieK-VjD2Yo71e4Ku6UJ9lPp1/s4608/DSCF9605.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnbaDz23QRcbHZSl9cemZA8vwXXjESqHdIkH4HtqyUWUHbBucYt0N-kYv4LKX-eWrYFDNO01yCmd_RdQKlU2Z8NaOZmNW8yevJFzVuLOq8HIQEqxTReAESD8vEjZIXQU2yZOLEs3SA-mHPSypkg18K38nuSPzIN83P0G4oieK-VjD2Yo71e4Ku6UJ9lPp1/s320/DSCF9605.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">training and pruning tomatoes in the hoop-house</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiflcyBKLw7h5PmLRI0nUf7YrNaA4X_GxnkWv5BB16dezR8r3a_u9-2295kk8WOjt0Sv2eq56gtDEvDTEYvJYiT3bOMFkgddoyHWjFem9ZxQmmWXfjJ3TH-x8nrpdr6niskpZfgivZHe1eDbLOXBRp_iVhSJsT7wtJ-KyxCx2IIy60vNwZWvPC7pEqOTQTf/s4608/DSCF9602.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiflcyBKLw7h5PmLRI0nUf7YrNaA4X_GxnkWv5BB16dezR8r3a_u9-2295kk8WOjt0Sv2eq56gtDEvDTEYvJYiT3bOMFkgddoyHWjFem9ZxQmmWXfjJ3TH-x8nrpdr6niskpZfgivZHe1eDbLOXBRp_iVhSJsT7wtJ-KyxCx2IIy60vNwZWvPC7pEqOTQTf/s320/DSCF9602.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2023 cut flower garden</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVzoJIn_iGRUFCAtijn1OnkZBbRA4I_GNGFPmQwE6pj8HdH1QMi0r6yZcNDHVAuUzB7aNvb2zK1I1P8wbIhsWRftV2MkRAmxSg2mZ3D79An3bEq7d1CVlInzSYgmM_FghUkCHyYa5TsjuT2Iqn0QikAbwfVlmuEmemiXIu5rzFzYbj-rhtqTlP7B-ZctAC/s3264/Wind%20in%20the%20Willows%20Play.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1436" data-original-width="3264" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVzoJIn_iGRUFCAtijn1OnkZBbRA4I_GNGFPmQwE6pj8HdH1QMi0r6yZcNDHVAuUzB7aNvb2zK1I1P8wbIhsWRftV2MkRAmxSg2mZ3D79An3bEq7d1CVlInzSYgmM_FghUkCHyYa5TsjuT2Iqn0QikAbwfVlmuEmemiXIu5rzFzYbj-rhtqTlP7B-ZctAC/w640-h282/Wind%20in%20the%20Willows%20Play.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Wind in the Willows" summer play at the farm</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Mr.and Mrs. Farmerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03188979181083669625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-734212335740153332.post-41551556726779239262022-05-10T17:33:00.005-07:002022-05-10T17:36:05.781-07:00SPRING PLANT SALE!<p><span style="font-size: large;"> Stop in at our farmstand for veggie, herb, and flower packs!</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvuHalIM-W4Q0QDWxBqnWGCv6s7V133hbp1ap26f1vWNAYp8gmvVw_5A6aTUg_FRgnXXIa-2TnrBSadNwKvW0YX15jYFF6tVGGRO5BDdD4cBSR_uU6r9uwDBAHsgQdC7f-AUbwy_AxUfN8scnklp0HHqPhyQT-wtCnnNhNM3Qk6qt-we49_dbG66GySg/s3264/DSCF9065.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvuHalIM-W4Q0QDWxBqnWGCv6s7V133hbp1ap26f1vWNAYp8gmvVw_5A6aTUg_FRgnXXIa-2TnrBSadNwKvW0YX15jYFF6tVGGRO5BDdD4cBSR_uU6r9uwDBAHsgQdC7f-AUbwy_AxUfN8scnklp0HHqPhyQT-wtCnnNhNM3Qk6qt-we49_dbG66GySg/s320/DSCF9065.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>20200 Quinnell Ave. N.<div>Scandia, MN 55073</div><div><br /></div><div>While supplies last!</div><div><br /></div><div>Currently available:</div><div>Veggie Garden 8 and 10 packs</div><div>Salsa Garden Pack</div><div>Onion Sale</div><div>Herb 4 packs</div><div>Snapdragons</div><div>Zinnias</div><div>Rudbeckia<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrEgZ5FUS3HFz4xtVH1_S73RrpgRTMfyYUU2WaD4_INJIdegr5Qeeov1mcfQORDgT5kQaEWrtgsZlTp8TczlzoonrZ_-GMK1gmJDy8DONOb7AMQqlzzItK4qqnH-6u8CQ0oh4fLzyFEeViq95amXHUEOG7im1HrPJoAT4JYGBqsXyf8itK8yBbAP7hYQ/s3264/DSCF9064.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrEgZ5FUS3HFz4xtVH1_S73RrpgRTMfyYUU2WaD4_INJIdegr5Qeeov1mcfQORDgT5kQaEWrtgsZlTp8TczlzoonrZ_-GMK1gmJDy8DONOb7AMQqlzzItK4qqnH-6u8CQ0oh4fLzyFEeViq95amXHUEOG7im1HrPJoAT4JYGBqsXyf8itK8yBbAP7hYQ/s320/DSCF9064.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Just next-door our neighbor <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/B6A6JMtlRDO/">MIRASOL FARM</a> is selling 100% Beeswax candles, Essential Oils, and Skin Care products! Quinnell Ave. is a happening place in the Spring! </div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpufbCzX8V8gXEUNcM3gSmJXcCJ5_8M7lXvp0q8O_adHoBsTuvGymOYm8rRQrYaRuq8PhLxJGTZX1bxwTj1Eo9neJ6i2rVrLJvTkfFZQzCHalxhd4NjjCtYWnBI9pgKbgpx3cnoz5tyOaFEclbjE_PcdOEXMGThHd9iusXGmpEPSkm-nnrRFROfjCsrg/s3264/DSCF9061.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpufbCzX8V8gXEUNcM3gSmJXcCJ5_8M7lXvp0q8O_adHoBsTuvGymOYm8rRQrYaRuq8PhLxJGTZX1bxwTj1Eo9neJ6i2rVrLJvTkfFZQzCHalxhd4NjjCtYWnBI9pgKbgpx3cnoz5tyOaFEclbjE_PcdOEXMGThHd9iusXGmpEPSkm-nnrRFROfjCsrg/s320/DSCF9061.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>In the Greenhouse, May 2022</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p></div>Mr.and Mrs. Farmerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03188979181083669625noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-734212335740153332.post-77357999952298137042022-05-09T19:35:00.005-07:002022-05-09T19:36:57.522-07:00PLANT SALE coming soon!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGFupODUNZUmGpjiR83at8Mqzq-l2VP3i26tiIKcJEUsoaPvPK9NRgneZxVhX1BED8WPYqpBe79s7ZbS8-g2eA89-AMPHX4OpCRRrsRDxcrjmCl0m4br7iBgSpSD6en7vM8iT0v1Z_osmAdNrXsH1J39V-FryNE-Axu7ggWZXqTeKC8PieIACv6kkDKw/s3264/DSCF9056.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGFupODUNZUmGpjiR83at8Mqzq-l2VP3i26tiIKcJEUsoaPvPK9NRgneZxVhX1BED8WPYqpBe79s7ZbS8-g2eA89-AMPHX4OpCRRrsRDxcrjmCl0m4br7iBgSpSD6en7vM8iT0v1Z_osmAdNrXsH1J39V-FryNE-Axu7ggWZXqTeKC8PieIACv6kkDKw/s320/DSCF9056.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">We will be selling veggie packs and herb starts from our farm-stand this weekend. Stay tuned for an early-bird sale info later this week!</span><p></p><p><i><b>Available:</b></i></p><p><span style="color: #38761d;">early market cabbage</span>.........<span style="color: red;">Peppers</span>........<span style="color: #38761d;"><span>lettuces</span>.</span>...</p><p><span style="color: #01ffff;">bunching onions</span>.......<span style="color: #a64d79;">parsley.</span>......<span style="color: #93c47d;">basil</span>.......<span style="color: #ffa400;">tomatoes</span></p><p><span style="color: #bf9000;"> red and yellow onions</span>.........<span style="color: #2b00fe;">.broccoli</span>.....<span style="color: #999999;">cauliflower</span></p><p><span style="color: #6aa84f;"> kale</span>.......<span style="color: #ff00fe;">zinnias</span>......<span style="color: #e69138;">rudbeckia</span>......<span style="color: #741b47;">rhubarb</span></p><p><span style="color: #741b47;"> PLANT. IN. DIRT. BE. HAPPY. TO. BE. ALIVE. AHHHHHHH SPRING!</span></p>Mr.and Mrs. Farmerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03188979181083669625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-734212335740153332.post-38936235207297877342022-04-12T18:25:00.011-07:002022-05-09T19:26:04.136-07:00Goat Cheese Shares available for pick-up in Marine on St. Croix!<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIrJjECT6-aYNARvm4_aThLLM5Xw2kFnySrs1ZLl3oDEJnQnj5q-ozdRilw9VqI8sr211gaBFcu311KjY9MbGeiXjM-OdK-LKL04a-_HGn3So4JZnSHRMPTako73cbIBmmdEIXcbz_P4-TWCmhRKlkw9OQHOsrS2S-tBC9a4bODTp-p46jE_K_3BIuCw/s3264/DSCF8973.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIrJjECT6-aYNARvm4_aThLLM5Xw2kFnySrs1ZLl3oDEJnQnj5q-ozdRilw9VqI8sr211gaBFcu311KjY9MbGeiXjM-OdK-LKL04a-_HGn3So4JZnSHRMPTako73cbIBmmdEIXcbz_P4-TWCmhRKlkw9OQHOsrS2S-tBC9a4bODTp-p46jE_K_3BIuCw/w400-h300/DSCF8973.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Girls, Goats, and Giggles</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Sign up for a local cheese share!<div>$25 for 4 weeks of fresh goat cheese delivered Wednesdays in Marine on St. Croix!</div><div>Support small and beautiful right in your backyard!<br /><br /> <p></p></div>Mr.and Mrs. Farmerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03188979181083669625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-734212335740153332.post-63140666490086602802022-03-15T19:10:00.004-07:002022-03-15T19:10:35.626-07:00Ticket to Ride<p> <span style="font-size: large;">Bordering the Western edge of our farm there’s a line of
track that cuts through the ghost town ruins of old Copas. </span>The snow melts quickest
along the rails, and sticks down the sides of the hilled spine that snakes its
way with crowds of thicket and ephemeral water bogs cheering it along. In
April, a walk along that line rewards the wanderer with view of marsh marigolds
by the plenty. One year there were so many they seemed to give off a glow like
a pot of gold hidden in a tuck and roll of the earth. This is the railway which,
130 years ago, used to send spuds off to the city by the car-load. Now it’s
largely used for hauling rock quarried up in Dresser, WI, and the weekend
tourists riding the historic train from Osceola into the state park. Last year the faster (and louder) rock train
didn’t come by at all, prompting us to wonder if trains were yet another random
pandemic casualty.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzeZUpbJ0yFLIXsbfDH5DuyqW6bA09nD9WGJT3qQ1DwjHdaESzvWHKfjqIiRxeCXcAu-NcZIHeEvnoESObysSgrWJF8DACol6MJTq_ken1Kma8bwTTxdXqcBgI-vtqbkuJFicsMUg46XeHKVz290jzzA2MXQ_MwNL6iTiGLyHXIf68QFnTs6MXm3h9Bg=s1600" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1062" data-original-width="1600" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzeZUpbJ0yFLIXsbfDH5DuyqW6bA09nD9WGJT3qQ1DwjHdaESzvWHKfjqIiRxeCXcAu-NcZIHeEvnoESObysSgrWJF8DACol6MJTq_ken1Kma8bwTTxdXqcBgI-vtqbkuJFicsMUg46XeHKVz290jzzA2MXQ_MwNL6iTiGLyHXIf68QFnTs6MXm3h9Bg=w400-h265" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by Ben de la Cruz, NPR</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">In Kroscienko, Poland there’s a similar all-but abandoned
rusty line of rail skimming through a thickety countryside near the
Southeastern border with Ukraine</span>. The pictures of this particular set of parallel
lines, grimacing with its rotting planks and patches of stubborn snow, like
shaving cream on the face of the hill, are remarkable because they look exactly
like the ones in our backyard-which is to say, they are not remarkable at all.
There the trees are also bare, the recently sawed-off ends of the encroaching
junk saplings by the work crews, marking the abrupt imaginary line where the
wild tangle of overgrown weeds and grass and shrubs were deemed suddenly
unwelcome, after nearly 100 years of having it their own way. Poland is sending
several crews along the line to rebuild it, and bring it back into use to help
with the refugee crisis. <span style="font-size: large;">I wonder how many old things, old ways our tech-savvy
world has abandoned, only to frantically return to them when faced with
something like war. Why not live with it in place, in use, always?<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhXytCGHE9e5reNR07YUuNYNWSwUg0qGtsbESQR4omxyS9Bc_AcvD3idVlquDN9LyVhGkqARLvT0r0Y2DLY9ivWa-1-pQ7Xyu2IhAMCzT-2eUiqRJu6YO0x7fOTQKjkiEL_j7aQLTn7TmCaXEJTIm1boOgdeGfAMJcwxf3PzM_Kqqb4nhD0y2aORgph7A=s3264" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhXytCGHE9e5reNR07YUuNYNWSwUg0qGtsbESQR4omxyS9Bc_AcvD3idVlquDN9LyVhGkqARLvT0r0Y2DLY9ivWa-1-pQ7Xyu2IhAMCzT-2eUiqRJu6YO0x7fOTQKjkiEL_j7aQLTn7TmCaXEJTIm1boOgdeGfAMJcwxf3PzM_Kqqb4nhD0y2aORgph7A=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fran in Winter</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Over the years we’ve met people randomly who recognize our
farm slowly by remembering their first view of it from the back, waving at us
from the train as we planted out the pumpkin crop or harvested cabbages. To
them, it seemed like the train was a magicked thing, which took them back 100
years as soon as they stepped upon it, and it chugged its way across the St.
Croix, through the woods, and suddenly happened upon a clearing where Buttercup
and Fran were grazing and gazing at them placidly with their big Jersey Cow
eyes, and little girls in calico dresses were running barefoot to catch a
glimpse of the engine.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When the train starts running again, and the picnickers wave
from the historic cars and stand at the back for a better view of things, it
will be hard not to think of that sister train in Kroscienko, hauling women and
children away from the shelling and gunfire. <span style="font-size: large;">I hope it too will be a magicked train,
breaking the evil spell that made them into hunted creatures, giving them a
chance to enjoy a better view of things again.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Mr.and Mrs. Farmerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03188979181083669625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-734212335740153332.post-11475585873578780032022-03-14T19:08:00.005-07:002022-03-14T19:11:40.030-07:00Impromptu Arias<p><span style="font-size: large;"> In late February the sunlight grows stronger and the seed of
the new growing season seems to soften a crack and germinate in the hibernating
heart of the farmer.</span> Like a small animal that rolls over in a deep burrow lined
with musty leaves and twigs, stretching itself and blinking with a yawn and a
sigh before it remembers what it is in this old world, and what it is like to
be up and doing, I find myself lining up the seed packets and marking up calendars
with dates to start to Celosia and the Sage…</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgRY2MaSblIe_TIGcZvsdsGrVKhE4I3bGW4kCw101WZEhc9sxAqH84pseKs1GwA950o_zEEg5MpzH2wY1GKcGlBACTGXy5sGn9xwHM9Wm_mFsDPI1hWnok3Oth1z3PQMnkGRvBzGvop0P2Xrt0CN87YPZ2Tu_Kh4tq92W3089PSB3lOgwPl0S3IfXoZ9g=s3020" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2296" data-original-width="3020" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgRY2MaSblIe_TIGcZvsdsGrVKhE4I3bGW4kCw101WZEhc9sxAqH84pseKs1GwA950o_zEEg5MpzH2wY1GKcGlBACTGXy5sGn9xwHM9Wm_mFsDPI1hWnok3Oth1z3PQMnkGRvBzGvop0P2Xrt0CN87YPZ2Tu_Kh4tq92W3089PSB3lOgwPl0S3IfXoZ9g=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I can always tell that spring is on its way when the
children get restless and wild to be outside… the increasing daylight is coaxing
them out like the Pied Piper of Hamlin, and we greet peeks of real (squishy)
dirt revealed in the medians of the gravel driveways around these parts with
almost savage enthusiasm. Bits of green moss and watercress bravely waving in
the streams that vein their way through the watershed district that surrounds
our farm receive rhapsodies of admiration. It’s almost incredible to us now, to
think these little growing things will go un-noticed when their cousins begin
their vigorous vying for our attention and exclamation! <span style="font-size: large;">They are yet another beauty
that only the magic wand of privation grants us the privilege of enjoying.</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the midst of one of those teasing thaws that tickle us
into daydreaming about barefoot afternoons on the beach, plucking cherry tomatoes,
and gathering big bouquets of Queen Lime zinnias, we are suddenly singing our
hearts out: it’s an impromptu aria, conjuring the earth, calling her up off her
winter couch, even as the sun rolls back the heavy white down comforter from
off her shapely shoulders…</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg6GuSCq0eCGAL4SoXKSb317Y0ClDQQhaN1-YNULzNomkxH9_q4ySrIc95F4VFcxaN76oCQDTzEf4wDmG9zRwCj0VSPwJ0DX3qiw1Y9c9-tcHEON7CgyTh0EVvaXq4OEueZei8tREdNeFkRu-6ZPHLisUgN5F6vGxqPc3dwRAChS1nyu-MrRVJpS3D87Q=s3264" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg6GuSCq0eCGAL4SoXKSb317Y0ClDQQhaN1-YNULzNomkxH9_q4ySrIc95F4VFcxaN76oCQDTzEf4wDmG9zRwCj0VSPwJ0DX3qiw1Y9c9-tcHEON7CgyTh0EVvaXq4OEueZei8tREdNeFkRu-6ZPHLisUgN5F6vGxqPc3dwRAChS1nyu-MrRVJpS3D87Q=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s practically pagan, and silly, with no one but the trees
to hear us, and yet it feels as if we were created for no other purpose than
this , to wander a tree-lined path, treading smiling mosses in the median of a
graveled drive, participating with all our anticipating hearts in the thaw, as
if we were given a voice only for this audience-less concert, as if the
desire of the heart to rejoice in the birth of a new year of growth must have
some means of accompanying the finches and chickadees in the canopy above,
throbbing with new sap running, humming with new buds forming, and hence: the stream-of-conscious
opera in the all but forgotten out of the way places that surround our sleeping
fields. I sing like a wild creature, but I find my mind straying to those cultivated
patches of garden that wait for their manuring and their tilling, and the love
of farmer’s hand, clutching dirt covered crumpled-up plans for the rows and
widths of vegetables and flowers and herbs, like a man who remembers how he
loves his homely wife in her kitchen after catching sight of a siren selling
figs in some foreign bazaar ripe with spices and the scent of hookahs, because
of some motion of her arm, reaching up to her basket, very like his rounded
love, reaching for a tea cup swinging on its hook.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One particular day the wind had the whole woods stirring,
and our tame little walk transformed into an adventure as whole limbs crashed
down in our path before us, and twigs were tossed to the forest floor with a
brazen impatience for anything dry and old. My 2-year-old gripped my hand and
said: “Mama! The trees are saying “Wake up! Wake up!” That was the first day we
felt that winter was being blown away, and the spring was being ushered in like
Mary Poppins, all spit and polish, ready to play “tidy up the nursery”.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj-Sik9uHQbSZLIs9SihR1WDqkCvsoUtFX5iFFEewDUJXZKPjwDcd_VGddz3Ac3hCTqo8kIlKKhI7a-acKNvxtvYKiYs4v5LC0c9l6TDu3xFq2t2iatmFhGYORXLtYef9vY8UhQLfTkl5t3lDiPmjsejF5UKHbZiHnZLs0GmVYLxp-GVv9JVOgHycW5Tw=s800" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="506" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj-Sik9uHQbSZLIs9SihR1WDqkCvsoUtFX5iFFEewDUJXZKPjwDcd_VGddz3Ac3hCTqo8kIlKKhI7a-acKNvxtvYKiYs4v5LC0c9l6TDu3xFq2t2iatmFhGYORXLtYef9vY8UhQLfTkl5t3lDiPmjsejF5UKHbZiHnZLs0GmVYLxp-GVv9JVOgHycW5Tw=s320" width="202" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On the 25<sup>th</sup> we will celebrate the feast of The
Annunciation. “The Holy Spirit will overshadow you.” In the Song of Songs, the
love poetry refers to a “wind upon the mountains” and a “wind that will blow
upon my garden”. It is hard not to imagine the Blessed Virgin as that garden,
and the wind as the Holy Spirit. The seed that flowers into the new tree of
life is the Christ Child…every spring, the earth seems itself like another song
of songs in honor of the Queen of Heaven. <span style="font-size: large;">These are the thoughts that cloy as clods
of earth clunk up the muck boots and get tracked through the kitchen and
utility room…</span><o:p></o:p></p>Mr.and Mrs. Farmerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03188979181083669625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-734212335740153332.post-22220584299018078052022-02-20T14:31:00.001-08:002022-02-20T14:31:15.945-08:00Sign up for our 2022 Season!<p><span style="font-size: large;"> Now accepting Sign-Ups for our 2022 Growing Season</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj_tt-QHqHjAEjlSVCKJxX_urS8IIoYNw5ylCUZoCVA1eNAPSLzzJ1P4IMBJx2NcyLry2qUqWzN1b4NJAy9Kv34vamTgSBbyziCzML9tbh3WzFIrBUSF8m_EWZmvii6SVYZLyVwWyNzOQlYy31khrHblgCNKD0N7OUmw6HWXcCuXsbffqhDbGNMwDWTfQ=s4608" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj_tt-QHqHjAEjlSVCKJxX_urS8IIoYNw5ylCUZoCVA1eNAPSLzzJ1P4IMBJx2NcyLry2qUqWzN1b4NJAy9Kv34vamTgSBbyziCzML9tbh3WzFIrBUSF8m_EWZmvii6SVYZLyVwWyNzOQlYy31khrHblgCNKD0N7OUmw6HWXcCuXsbffqhDbGNMwDWTfQ=s320" width="213" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Your check reserves your Little Flower Farm Share!</p><p>Check out the sidebar pages for more info!<br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj4TO6rTmEbjYbd7bU3V2EQw4tifGevXpHQCySBcChhqukifHKzTruKcXkw4ao3S4_wGkT0VNjUm00DG7_jMtRA4A-hCOtAb2ztL6KF4dzoCSFtlOZu4nKB29KJCU1ivSg5L988jmAl6c2fJOus4H1Eawn_QLsXa1RJd-ps4kqu-JSNtnMcUM7HK2tLKw=s4608" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj4TO6rTmEbjYbd7bU3V2EQw4tifGevXpHQCySBcChhqukifHKzTruKcXkw4ao3S4_wGkT0VNjUm00DG7_jMtRA4A-hCOtAb2ztL6KF4dzoCSFtlOZu4nKB29KJCU1ivSg5L988jmAl6c2fJOus4H1Eawn_QLsXa1RJd-ps4kqu-JSNtnMcUM7HK2tLKw=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2021 CSA bouquets ready for delivery<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiMsZvw4UDs87CS7g0R3B0w7l__Y0h5W0oDPIUFm4NQvqr2atRRyEF_tPhAYfJqJABNEju-NJU4fjEwcIZgp5aoT-DVIWtvFms1CaGzXvdbY2UiJy0__dsfpXg5XNYacHa0ep_Jf9ayluLJILthJtbj7rQ2v_Bsp3v89OegPl4IFb7IpbGRvWex-oa3yQ=s4608" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4608" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiMsZvw4UDs87CS7g0R3B0w7l__Y0h5W0oDPIUFm4NQvqr2atRRyEF_tPhAYfJqJABNEju-NJU4fjEwcIZgp5aoT-DVIWtvFms1CaGzXvdbY2UiJy0__dsfpXg5XNYacHa0ep_Jf9ayluLJILthJtbj7rQ2v_Bsp3v89OegPl4IFb7IpbGRvWex-oa3yQ=w640-h426" width="640" /></a></div><p></p>Mr.and Mrs. Farmerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03188979181083669625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-734212335740153332.post-63084186116449926342022-02-20T13:58:00.000-08:002022-02-20T13:58:04.971-08:00Goat Cheese Shares are Back!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg-sIYh3hemgKyilMOvkSx60wZ-Vq9efmmhrNkxqcPls1i7f30Hzy5Kzju8G5gF3cIw_sM-HIiNBVvNXlP7TH4h6AKVJWwFjz6JnCtkWufZACFFDhdXnJ24uKEi7ANj7D1DVMaHNPO9U9gJRgPRLLBzvigQOHvlTmER57f4d5tznRMaE42B5vZNgBsR_g=s3095" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3095" data-original-width="1914" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg-sIYh3hemgKyilMOvkSx60wZ-Vq9efmmhrNkxqcPls1i7f30Hzy5Kzju8G5gF3cIw_sM-HIiNBVvNXlP7TH4h6AKVJWwFjz6JnCtkWufZACFFDhdXnJ24uKEi7ANj7D1DVMaHNPO9U9gJRgPRLLBzvigQOHvlTmER57f4d5tznRMaE42B5vZNgBsR_g=s320" width="198" /></a></div> Back again for the 2022 Season:<p></p><p>GOAT CHEESE SHARES!<br /></p><p>Support our wee herd of Nubians with your $25 investment, and get a dividend of 4 weeks of cheese!</p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUubG-UnJPQGM7ptA70zZu19Xo13WZ9s5CZ47Fhm9h3Bv8i4JH9vx_oNFc4YpIGfK6Iq7eePdeFthynhyI6K58foPoSwrMxKVpDN9NlNbOhya3EcRCaFAqgyzaf05GLK5wLI6Lu3_rCv5PZ4QLJQUnGav9363uRAV6P4G-YUVy_4pt74-7INKm90w6lw=s2970" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2970" data-original-width="2379" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUubG-UnJPQGM7ptA70zZu19Xo13WZ9s5CZ47Fhm9h3Bv8i4JH9vx_oNFc4YpIGfK6Iq7eePdeFthynhyI6K58foPoSwrMxKVpDN9NlNbOhya3EcRCaFAqgyzaf05GLK5wLI6Lu3_rCv5PZ4QLJQUnGav9363uRAV6P4G-YUVy_4pt74-7INKm90w6lw=s320" width="256" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hello Gorgeous! LuLu, ready for her close up</td></tr></tbody></table>Shares will begin late Spring. Stay tuned!<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi9kfvXL_tv3WBm092wtyenSEY8xQLncUlNV6VLqn5NrsxY3njysKQqexVLRA3LmnIORpayEv3JSru8IyUECROCaB6yVmYJ6KsXnsyjWxOwOtnwt3Xg6tjuuxh0IBy9IP19T4QHzGl_RS_na7WRgeXoYuBhMrphkScN2RXHXmEnvhTkOlqLR7iaMsJZ5w=s4608" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi9kfvXL_tv3WBm092wtyenSEY8xQLncUlNV6VLqn5NrsxY3njysKQqexVLRA3LmnIORpayEv3JSru8IyUECROCaB6yVmYJ6KsXnsyjWxOwOtnwt3Xg6tjuuxh0IBy9IP19T4QHzGl_RS_na7WRgeXoYuBhMrphkScN2RXHXmEnvhTkOlqLR7iaMsJZ5w=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Mr.and Mrs. Farmerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03188979181083669625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-734212335740153332.post-28329427418742132782022-02-20T13:46:00.004-08:002022-02-20T14:25:06.963-08:00The Ideal CSA Member<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal">In Winter the “littles” play at garden with the bath mat.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">While the morning shower washes the residue of sleepy dreams
from my stretching, yawning frame, they are busy with combs and brushes
“cultivating” the shaggy strands that stand in for the soil of imaginary fields
awaiting precipitation.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“You’re the rain Mama! Come rain on our garden!” they cry as
I step out and reach for a towel.</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHhFZkmEj157jg1Si-afNrp51Kyt68lu0LCLEYj_33sW7dgyBCTvpp2cIgJAC8h8jCPpTVHk52kcVRMfOE8a2_RejsJBQl00W6OH6jc0ke_vE3ijjVy4z1f3PEdIjfhjRykheXtgb9ifzqq1JVyYDqIq3kjxV0Cv5HHy9_0eD9afCQ16YsD-aWwwnxUA=s4608" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHhFZkmEj157jg1Si-afNrp51Kyt68lu0LCLEYj_33sW7dgyBCTvpp2cIgJAC8h8jCPpTVHk52kcVRMfOE8a2_RejsJBQl00W6OH6jc0ke_vE3ijjVy4z1f3PEdIjfhjRykheXtgb9ifzqq1JVyYDqIq3kjxV0Cv5HHy9_0eD9afCQ16YsD-aWwwnxUA=s320" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harvest Day</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Later, in February, the light begins to strengthen and the
children gaze out the window suddenly disdainful of the recent pleasures of ice
skating and sledding, positively nostalgic for summer.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Remember the green grass we had last year Mama! We had all
the green we wanted in all the world!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like bears coming out of hibernation we put in our seed
orders in January, send out our farm-share ads in February, and now, as March
approaches, I find my mind tracking the goats at the back of all the day to day
thoughts of Algebra, Laundry, Dinner, and the dusting I plan to do sometime in
the near future.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Next week we’ll begin regular barn checks to see if any of
the does are kidding. This time of year can be difficult for young kids,
especially smaller siblings born after a stronger kid has already managed to
get up on its feet nursing. The cold and the competition can prove too steep a
challenge for some of them without some timely assistance. (Or so we tell
ourselves, eager to lend a hand and get back into the intimate game of husbandry,
tired of our woodstoves, and quite evenings, ready to begin again.)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Farm-Share checks are beginning to come in. It feels like
the assembling of old friends.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2OpVF8m3omTSlgGo9qkr_BDkcr-bbPD1KxRn_aYc0ZEnU_8x0-YX74YTL06Kofj0jG0M3GzH1E9PBJYPbWr_ZAWaTnaWoD1Ij7dp9hyy7HRMxOJ4hF4-Ot0l5OQYpkRR_-77aWy-zwtNYgOJVtaf0mMHVHPDi4C1WJZRazawI-oq4PZOIQvI4qAC7oQ=s4608" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2OpVF8m3omTSlgGo9qkr_BDkcr-bbPD1KxRn_aYc0ZEnU_8x0-YX74YTL06Kofj0jG0M3GzH1E9PBJYPbWr_ZAWaTnaWoD1Ij7dp9hyy7HRMxOJ4hF4-Ot0l5OQYpkRR_-77aWy-zwtNYgOJVtaf0mMHVHPDi4C1WJZRazawI-oq4PZOIQvI4qAC7oQ=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Swiss Chard and Summer Cover Crop 2021</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Perhaps the greatest shot in the arm is the sense that there
are a few folks out there who understand how beautiful it can be to take an
interest in a farm, to put food on their table that has been grown and
harvested without exploitation of either the people working on the farm, or the
farm itself. Who are ready and willing for the challenge of eating seasonally,
locally, and giving up some of the almighty luxury of choice.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A few years ago we had a booth at a CSA fair in Minneapolis.
Almost every farmer we met there was anxious about the future of Community
Supported Agriculture. Most of them were taking every opportunity to chat with
each other and ask the dreaded question of how many members they were retaining
each year, and how they had evolved to meet the ever -changing desires of their
members. With very few exceptions most of them had begun to offer “Pick and
Choose” options at their farmer’s market stands each week, for members to come
and fill a box with the veggies they preferred and leave the ones they didn’t.
Many had online marketplaces, and were harvesting individual weekly orders.
Many had diversified their share sizes, offering various sizes to meet the
different needs of families, couples, and individuals. All of them were larger
programs than ours, and I grew dizzy at the logistical nightmares they were
describing: trying to fulfill such a vast array of desires, and chasing down
multiple orders, marketing them multiple ways, and the man-power such daily
efforts required.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjG0SSNqyjKmEtYiZuKIgXBH9y0ndyCZTz0jYKUUENkhMI7KY0Z7FhYZ1gWWWnzMkj3bME30LxXOOMpFvS9XZtzm6-4U-Bfu4q33_tO43mNzTMmbQrQLUZ1714o-N08iM6p0x9fiUo98c7MXdGq_zfsR75cmY8R4k9hiYE_G8uZF3mh1BDM1Ln_PQnhCg=s4608" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjG0SSNqyjKmEtYiZuKIgXBH9y0ndyCZTz0jYKUUENkhMI7KY0Z7FhYZ1gWWWnzMkj3bME30LxXOOMpFvS9XZtzm6-4U-Bfu4q33_tO43mNzTMmbQrQLUZ1714o-N08iM6p0x9fiUo98c7MXdGq_zfsR75cmY8R4k9hiYE_G8uZF3mh1BDM1Ln_PQnhCg=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grazing Goats in the Kale Bed after CSA season</td></tr></tbody></table><br />I told one fellow veggie grower that I could not shake the
feeling that these farms had failed to communicate with their members the
realities involved for the farmers when grocery store styled “choice” was made
paramount. I felt certain that most folks signing up for a farm-share would
understand that eating what was available on the farm each week was part of the
whole point of supporting a local farm, and that asking the small farm to be
both the farmer and “grocer” at the same time, in the pursuit of providing the
same amount of choice experienced at the stores, would be unrealistic, and
downright unsupportive. Those who still valued their choice over the farm and
farmer’s welfare, should be encouraged to go back to the store or farmer’s
market, I argued.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Maybe so,” he replied, “but you’ll lose some folks. These
days we can’t afford to lose anybody. We’re trying to retain as many as we can,
even as they seem to grow bored of the CSA model.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As if to prove his point a woman interrupted us with a
barrage of questions and demands.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She had a long list of things she wanted, things she didn’t,
and wanted a pro-rated share for the weeks she’d be out of town.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Our answers were simple, but not satisfying to her. She left
in a huff, shaking her head.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“See what I mean?” my fellow farmer finished. But I was more
glad that she left, than I was worried that we didn’t have enough to offer.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“You can’t build a farm with members like that” I said.<br /><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Big words, I thought, but you can’t eat ideals!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That’s when the man in the Carhart vest to the right of our
booth stepped over to introduce himself. He didn’t need to. I already knew who he
was. I’d read several articles featuring his farm, a venture he and his
brothers had begun in the Driftless region of Southwest WI on a shoestring.
They were now a 400 member CSA farm and were making organic oils out of their
sunflower crops, developing quite a name for themselves as one of the very few
local producers.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi9aaUCfk-Meu6AkTBX566R2vxlOWr7hgLagDqhidfiV7KFz6k3zYHbI5cyJgn-8Y1Autoeq6nVbxw8Jow5ew0lfoBuO3xBt4SsZk99HiqU_eBiMATtLKJOfJcauiV6fJPUji2YBVpPW0VcQvZ8oMiMZUS0t-6gO_trN8-qBCHv4eikkHL2sGvTdz-i9w=s4608" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi9aaUCfk-Meu6AkTBX566R2vxlOWr7hgLagDqhidfiV7KFz6k3zYHbI5cyJgn-8Y1Autoeq6nVbxw8Jow5ew0lfoBuO3xBt4SsZk99HiqU_eBiMATtLKJOfJcauiV6fJPUji2YBVpPW0VcQvZ8oMiMZUS0t-6gO_trN8-qBCHv4eikkHL2sGvTdz-i9w=s320" width="240" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I miss the days out in the field.” He told me. “We got so
big, I don’t even do the farming anymore. I think you’re right to stay small.
It will keep you remembering why you’re doing it in the first place.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He was wistful, and I was heartened.<br /> <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Since then, we’ve found that there is an ever- growing group
of people out there who are willing to sign themselves up to the adventure of
supporting and eating from a farm. These people understand the “choice” the
grocery store touts is largely mythological. Fewer varieties are available to
the shopper in the store, due to the limited varieties that are conducive to
shipping, and growing on a massive scale.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One choice you will never be given in a large grocery store
is the choice of “fresh”. Our farm harvests the bulk of the vegetables in our
shares hours before delivery, or at the most, a day in advance. There is no
transit time across state lines in a semi-truck, waiting on pallets in the back
of a distribution warehouse cooler.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh8BEdqC6ZLGPYV017eejI4oj-r4jK7xAww2yS9xAsN7QI7ppWc3ON2NzLqTN1zucN01CSd_r3ofEq-tD0xYIXsWQQDdQc9NxrSwGTFU1hZ5uzESOVcn1bfeFGQbkVT4JoKLlMErwJ5yz8mzpulF0_Lwbbhk-8yrrNDcXYf8lf2NxWq734Fw34e_oOBoQ=s4608" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh8BEdqC6ZLGPYV017eejI4oj-r4jK7xAww2yS9xAsN7QI7ppWc3ON2NzLqTN1zucN01CSd_r3ofEq-tD0xYIXsWQQDdQc9NxrSwGTFU1hZ5uzESOVcn1bfeFGQbkVT4JoKLlMErwJ5yz8mzpulF0_Lwbbhk-8yrrNDcXYf8lf2NxWq734Fw34e_oOBoQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Though the CSA model, is in my opinion, not as ideal as the
European markets, which are open every day, largely unregulated, and are part
of the daily habit of people in those walkable, live-able, closer-knit regions,
it remains a vivifying way to connect to the land, eat well, and promote local
stewardship of precious resources.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The ideal CSA member is one who is willing to give up the
tired habit of getting what they want when they want it (at any cost), and is
open to the surprise and responsibility of gift.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In this way, they are very like the farmers who grow their
food.<o:p></o:p></p>Mr.and Mrs. Farmerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03188979181083669625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-734212335740153332.post-62186912200377877662022-02-20T13:37:00.001-08:002022-02-20T13:37:10.774-08:00Beatrix and the Blessed Sacrament<p class="MsoNormal">J.S. Marcus’ Jan.21st article on Beatrix Potter in the Wall
Street journal states that “at the height of her fame, she began to wind down
her career to devote herself to sheep farming in England’s Lake District.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">In reality, she chose to devote herself to her husband and
become Mrs. Heelis. Mrs. Heelis, as Mrs. Heelis, would of course be “a country
woman” and involved in animal husbandry and care of the farm and gardens. Why
should this fact be less accessible to the current readers of newspapers than
the fact that she became a “woman farmer”?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">The article continues and finishes in similar fashion:<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiEtdHWR0SA4TMhQzjCQOeChX7VGGE8q0EDTJlRhoSdGEBHVUuz0rImlk8hjfSzL_SxL0LrKz60j1pP81r_rfltXrdx_7i7ibciKwu4xJoB1oSS1Ufkl-3-cwgpjDKbHYIZC25F3pxamOIEKBGOjUkB0kd_YB7ujJgwMbUF6ThZer2WpYELAE8KS_9LQA=s423" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="423" data-original-width="306" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiEtdHWR0SA4TMhQzjCQOeChX7VGGE8q0EDTJlRhoSdGEBHVUuz0rImlk8hjfSzL_SxL0LrKz60j1pP81r_rfltXrdx_7i7ibciKwu4xJoB1oSS1Ufkl-3-cwgpjDKbHYIZC25F3pxamOIEKBGOjUkB0kd_YB7ujJgwMbUF6ThZer2WpYELAE8KS_9LQA=s320" width="231" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The curmudgeonly Mrs. Heelis with muddy clogs</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">“…but according to a BBC radio documentary about the writer,
she developed a curmudgeonly streak and, eventually a reputation for not liking
children all that much. By the 1920s, Potter, now known as Mrs. Heelis, was
shouting down misbehaving Lake District children…. this final incarnation of
Beatrix Potter is evoked in the (new exhibition at London’s Victoria and Albert
Museum) by a pair of her crude farmer’s clogs.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Oh dear. Married, miffed by miscreants ruining her
shrubberies, AND possessed of muddy f<i>armer’s</i> clogs. How far she managed
to fall from the accolades and fame she earned for pictures of bunnies in
waistcoats and hedgehogs in ruffled aprons!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal">When will the world realize that the measure of a person is
in how small and insignificant, they’ve managed to become in some forgotten
part of the world, and whether they have found someone to love, and love well?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpU8ValXdteDpeEikkdnF6DDZPYY9-OZu4AEwiJu6m06qXWDvnhPG9sPUETW_jrMCC62johElqz0_7eAfKdQJJNM0sCMAgsfWRwqs_3GYbVEgxpJmmQrni7ljcT9wgn0Pwck830jfaHdPkmptOk2rKBY86gIi4K6Pq6i1JInPhsiNJXENlHjKmRgWidw=s228" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="228" data-original-width="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpU8ValXdteDpeEikkdnF6DDZPYY9-OZu4AEwiJu6m06qXWDvnhPG9sPUETW_jrMCC62johElqz0_7eAfKdQJJNM0sCMAgsfWRwqs_3GYbVEgxpJmmQrni7ljcT9wgn0Pwck830jfaHdPkmptOk2rKBY86gIi4K6Pq6i1JInPhsiNJXENlHjKmRgWidw=s16000" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p><br /></p>Mr.and Mrs. Farmerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03188979181083669625noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-734212335740153332.post-74926249982591591082022-02-20T13:16:00.006-08:002022-02-21T12:47:51.062-08:00Of NFTs and Furbelows<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Furbelow<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>1: A pleated or gathered piece of material: ruffle;
specif: a flounce on woman’s clothing. 2: something that suggests a furbelow
esp. in being showy or superfluous</i></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhFtZ-yOOGvxPYaQ0o0PVc6YDUQsTP9hie3m2q5IokLmsvPg0ABFBy4nHT8XeoasvEPDubfeX0uA1j_ySd2OPJEl-ujV0OXT-Dvpgdl8P7743pWjhdQLuAYqcY1kvcezuV-37xgAZnPSaTLIIniaBfrtsfGxyorsl1jZgyeubN46uo5l3lbOxHzYvgUaQ=s1092" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="856" data-original-width="1092" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhFtZ-yOOGvxPYaQ0o0PVc6YDUQsTP9hie3m2q5IokLmsvPg0ABFBy4nHT8XeoasvEPDubfeX0uA1j_ySd2OPJEl-ujV0OXT-Dvpgdl8P7743pWjhdQLuAYqcY1kvcezuV-37xgAZnPSaTLIIniaBfrtsfGxyorsl1jZgyeubN46uo5l3lbOxHzYvgUaQ=w200-h157" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Important Historical illustration of a Furbelow</td></tr></tbody></table><i><br /><o:p></o:p></i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On our farm we embrace technological poverty.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It’s part of our commitment to invest in each other and to
be content to be attentive stewards on our scrap of land.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I still find it an endless source of amusement to hear how
portions of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the rest of the world fare
in the whole- hearted embrace of tech as the new messiah of our lives, which
will make all things new, and make our yokes easy and burdens light.<br /></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjNM8CzPup8UK8CxtBlFB089suv6Xj7u3HXC11QSQMYmw2vMK4Z6gRgyMAE5Z9ZuspbvrVs-q7V_UPxd7fg0yNaSnNtqjymNDHMx-klsPfH7hWTdLydueD2TzEZON7VrAc0PvrZzWxIE7RRhao2Fq2CxH5eVtqXXMa0S82CbgLQ4Pn36HJoWfhpLVFFrA=s4608" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjNM8CzPup8UK8CxtBlFB089suv6Xj7u3HXC11QSQMYmw2vMK4Z6gRgyMAE5Z9ZuspbvrVs-q7V_UPxd7fg0yNaSnNtqjymNDHMx-klsPfH7hWTdLydueD2TzEZON7VrAc0PvrZzWxIE7RRhao2Fq2CxH5eVtqXXMa0S82CbgLQ4Pn36HJoWfhpLVFFrA=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The new L.F.F. Nubian herd sampling Fall kale beds</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">According to Fortune.com, last year a bored teenager named
Jaiden Stipp made a piece of <a href="https://superrare.com/artwork-v2/forever-colored-19780">digital artwork</a>.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He listed it online. It sold for 20 Ethereum. At first his
father was incredulous. Then the $30,000 hit his son’s bank account.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Today he employs a few artists. His mother has quit her job
to work as his manager. His art sales are now valued at over 1 million dollars.
His dad no longer scoffs.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I listened to this story on the radio, trying to grasp what
exactly a NFT was. To no real avail.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A google search at the library revealed crummy electronic
images of dogs with sun glasses, pictures of grinning excited millennials, and
a Ven diagram of the properties of NFTs (indivisible, unique, and provably
scarce.) Sounds like the traditional family, I thought cheekily, as I scrolled
down to find the other things that people who searched for NFTS were also
interested in. One of them caught my eye:<o:p></o:p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg3RbOc1oe0ngwUPpaEECA06c5TQlXMYSPqdxUmQmlGDwu8zfod3zKDaWVq9DyNjTVImNj-52cjYvJ86-JrpPv3Q82qcsba4POyNyEc-DSpUl3M5R7JS9HjulScDN8XnPX7OyqMReFTRNgdS2lUMZs72jMoK4RpZAb8ux0uoDvpBv-nqJ_32z3s4s4q8A=s4608" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg3RbOc1oe0ngwUPpaEECA06c5TQlXMYSPqdxUmQmlGDwu8zfod3zKDaWVq9DyNjTVImNj-52cjYvJ86-JrpPv3Q82qcsba4POyNyEc-DSpUl3M5R7JS9HjulScDN8XnPX7OyqMReFTRNgdS2lUMZs72jMoK4RpZAb8ux0uoDvpBv-nqJ_32z3s4s4q8A=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2021 Hogs on Harvest Day</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">HYDROPONICS.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ah. The ever-present attraction of the almighty machine
which does work for us while we avoid getting our cuffed sweatpants dirty.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">NFT stands for Non-Fungible Tokens. Non exchangeable.
Tokens. That make millions.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The word Fungible takes up its space in the dictionary just
after “funeral” and is closely followed by fungicide and fun house. As I tried
to wrap my mind around what fungibility is and how non fungibility could
possibly result in something agreed upon to have value, and be bought and paid
for with an electronic currency which is then converted into the very fungible
heap-big-pile-o-cash, I found my eyes and mind wandering to the next page of
the dictionary where the equally interesting word “furbelow” resides…and the
story I remember loving as a child: “The Emperor Has No Clothes.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In her book “On Pilgrimage” Dorothy Day tells of a Jewish
law she had heard of, in which, if a Father does not teach his son a trade, the
son’s obligation to take care of his father in old age is waived.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It is chilling to realize that even as we sit our children
down in front of television sets as baby sitters, and give them the hand held
screens of our smartphones to occupy them during any kind of wait in the
Doctor’s office, or dining out during a family dinner, instead of teaching them
the superpowers of patience, industry, and human connection and conversation,
we are building for our generation the future we will inhabit in the nursing
homes of the next generation: completely machine managed, in which medications
are dispensed by robots, families say goodbye to dying loved ones via zoom, and
the tasks which bring people in direct contact with bodies and their bodily
fluids are managed by low-paid over worked vulnerable immigrants and teenagers.
Oh wait. The future is now.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>“Yes, we will have more time with modern conveniences,
but we will not have more love”<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>-Dorothy Day</i></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiLa_pG0bXRsS9AQj4lpW6nDwYGZp16Xri4t8WPuMXcFPyyeVX0mrUWMPoXAeXKNKG3hwwV8g9q3uDIzMBgvnOyqW0bKJ7RKLaM_nX7cU_87rM-Ai345z6oe1ydAZ_dxsl31ImjHsqLeaMPGF2E2Lp8CcQ0jiZBBafAFP56_U2AEdpsOluzYRZA5sAzUA=s388" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="388" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiLa_pG0bXRsS9AQj4lpW6nDwYGZp16Xri4t8WPuMXcFPyyeVX0mrUWMPoXAeXKNKG3hwwV8g9q3uDIzMBgvnOyqW0bKJ7RKLaM_nX7cU_87rM-Ai345z6oe1ydAZ_dxsl31ImjHsqLeaMPGF2E2Lp8CcQ0jiZBBafAFP56_U2AEdpsOluzYRZA5sAzUA=s320" width="247" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dorothy Day with her grandchildren (cjd.org)</td></tr></tbody></table><i><br /><o:p></o:p></i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A fellow I know who works in H.R. and
“knows a lot about farming because of all his connections with farmers through
his work” told me that I wouldn’t believe how high-tech dairy farming has
gotten. He said to me: “It’s amazing! Gone are the old days of the dumb hick
farmer figuring out a ration for his cows. Now they’ve got these computers
hooked up to the feed troughs. They can ascertain all the right vitamins and
minerals for each individual cow, and send the feed needed without the farmer.
Hundreds and Hundreds of cows kept track of like that!”<br /><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I tried to scale the lofty heights of his splendorous awe,
but kept getting hung up on the image of hundreds and hundreds of grain-fed
dairy cows in stanchions on cement-looking out over lagoons of manure pit
slurry.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Would it have been any use to mention that the “dumb hick
farmers of the old days” knew that the cow is a ruminant, and as such, thrives
on grass and not on grain? Funny how “dumb” is really dog whistling for “content
with a financial situation which is now deemed socially unfashionable, foolish,
and unacceptable.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>“Cold and hunger and hard lodging, humble offices and
mean appearance are considered serious evils. All things harsh and austere are
carefully put aside. We shrink from the rude lap of earth and embrace of the
elements, and we build ourselves houses in which the flesh may enjoy its lust
and the eye its pride”<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><u>John Cardinal Henry Newman’s Lenten sermons<o:p></o:p></u></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgbqSVMy1m9lV2J1BXmydq0NaLcJP2DpNStUp8ojchCxR0MBaI-3SSJ5oDBPlu4tDfjzftcjPci19i9rRMxMU9gFJnETjdu5KYMg9h3LyJFgDJ7acCAngVU34ZA0E4GqnuneFtxiuPv5tED6LxbPsQLp4Ob_LOutN5CWrT0AJComcym5maV-CtMqLzXBg=s4608" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgbqSVMy1m9lV2J1BXmydq0NaLcJP2DpNStUp8ojchCxR0MBaI-3SSJ5oDBPlu4tDfjzftcjPci19i9rRMxMU9gFJnETjdu5KYMg9h3LyJFgDJ7acCAngVU34ZA0E4GqnuneFtxiuPv5tED6LxbPsQLp4Ob_LOutN5CWrT0AJComcym5maV-CtMqLzXBg=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Resident Goatherd#2</td></tr></tbody></table>A small farmer’s profit margin these days might be slim. Always
sobering this time of year is the filing of schedule F. But he might manage to
invest his time, money, sweat equity and love into a piece of land and into the
human beings that make up his family. His chest freezer might be filled with
meat and veggies. His pantry stocked with dried apples, pickles, maple syrup,
his counter- top crowded with fresh eggs, his fridge filled with fresh milk. The
arms of his daughters may be strong and sturdy for all the daily chores of
carrying water, mucking out, and pitching hay.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But his bank account will likely not suddenly swell with the
likes of 30K.<br /><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">His constant and quixotic investments in invisible realties
like soil health and family unity and the souls of his children will be scoffed
at.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Perhaps worst of all, and the most unpardonable: he will
have dirt on his furbelows.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2x-3oYV_oO0HiUM5x2WCLqm1imLiKSccScuz2mKIsFowa_oQEgHQSvzP4GRNkLZLUi-FjWG8T-R--FGaKyYFNFyyAiMF-A8tkL49NAOMSp6ySwhzExIMPE08VWCpNYhpgY0Wbk32a6Z20_aC-ROZXyeeuFrT8uHFRKbgB5Odrk5S7VrsW65AWn8yiNg=s4608" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2x-3oYV_oO0HiUM5x2WCLqm1imLiKSccScuz2mKIsFowa_oQEgHQSvzP4GRNkLZLUi-FjWG8T-R--FGaKyYFNFyyAiMF-A8tkL49NAOMSp6ySwhzExIMPE08VWCpNYhpgY0Wbk32a6Z20_aC-ROZXyeeuFrT8uHFRKbgB5Odrk5S7VrsW65AWn8yiNg=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Resident Goatherd #1</td></tr></tbody></table>But one day when he is old and gray, finding it hard to
remember where he stored last year’s tree taps for this year’s sap collecting,
there will be the sound of a drawer scraping open and the lusty shout of
woman’s voice in the kitchen. “I found them!” Busy boots will track mud through
the house as the growing season is birthed and underway. The children that grew
up drawing February Valentines in pencil; pictures of vegetable gardens and
bird feeders, and who danced on their toes in glee at the prospect of filling
flats again with germination mix, those children
with the strong arms will grip our aging elbows and say: <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">“Don’t worry Papa. I know what to do.”</span><o:p></o:p></p><br /><p></p>Mr.and Mrs. Farmerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03188979181083669625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-734212335740153332.post-66525751326602696852021-09-12T15:37:00.003-07:002021-09-12T15:37:50.826-07:00Thank you for a wonderful 2021 Growing Season!<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6KhdfmvxqM9po-M9PhGN4vZoocqv7l8OGscfKYo3-FzbsjUCaW0RAtHMTHTCAS_I0mRvbjkVbGdUrK5xqnx6isoPgE9vjdJ0lbgUKjFp2IAmSdXiYy-t-Jb_kcYbaLkixbQg974qn1cMU/s2048/DSCF8350.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6KhdfmvxqM9po-M9PhGN4vZoocqv7l8OGscfKYo3-FzbsjUCaW0RAtHMTHTCAS_I0mRvbjkVbGdUrK5xqnx6isoPgE9vjdJ0lbgUKjFp2IAmSdXiYy-t-Jb_kcYbaLkixbQg974qn1cMU/s320/DSCF8350.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harvest and Delivery Day on Little Flower Farm</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoQ1wT1qQ5WGHMUXAyvsqds9vthGU6ExsIspqeHOnKzII3DdpX_arQsOSJCvByXjn7yBGeAoQPd8KVpDbgTSw0ByZjSHU7sLnqrUOHnQcYAYExTHsvvqhGiCW0SGty-N2SomHR0VAvG-NC/s2048/DSCF8340.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoQ1wT1qQ5WGHMUXAyvsqds9vthGU6ExsIspqeHOnKzII3DdpX_arQsOSJCvByXjn7yBGeAoQPd8KVpDbgTSw0ByZjSHU7sLnqrUOHnQcYAYExTHsvvqhGiCW0SGty-N2SomHR0VAvG-NC/s320/DSCF8340.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2021 LFF Floral Designer</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-mIAmE3KrdJCa-4AS59AhMOkR_sdv6AiA3s3x_FxElUxGT4-qa0yToS7A-xkrC9UmGiWfPLnO5mnX8O7EFY9R25VBm7vXKbXBpCQASXzsgS8LQszdlohGLXoSPx0FW395IfS0LeUZwCQe/s2048/DSCF8338.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-mIAmE3KrdJCa-4AS59AhMOkR_sdv6AiA3s3x_FxElUxGT4-qa0yToS7A-xkrC9UmGiWfPLnO5mnX8O7EFY9R25VBm7vXKbXBpCQASXzsgS8LQszdlohGLXoSPx0FW395IfS0LeUZwCQe/s320/DSCF8338.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Winter Squash Harvest for Box #16</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM_5WyCmTyukh12hQTxI7ISMfi7voVBeluL_jpp5Tqu6qodZRc05tjyhC0qZPp8LKeYfTBU0utrPoXJdFsG79ETrmmpK2ERGiUV4reW2wYFegtT8hUMTJ_-tQMCvOJ-e553OM7u0T2pFcO/s2048/DSCF8308.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM_5WyCmTyukh12hQTxI7ISMfi7voVBeluL_jpp5Tqu6qodZRc05tjyhC0qZPp8LKeYfTBU0utrPoXJdFsG79ETrmmpK2ERGiUV4reW2wYFegtT8hUMTJ_-tQMCvOJ-e553OM7u0T2pFcO/s320/DSCF8308.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhusgd6B81OsfBrfu6bTK5Qd3xMaLcJHdpbj7F70ivgRIocrl8oxHJB71JzoS6EmY-zHpCePhwVVyOpGi0XjKq6J2W8bkbAV0TVMAa4ANwufaEu3uiqAMo2HsYuFJuSwSZxYj4UJhvRUzyx/s2048/DSCF8290.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhusgd6B81OsfBrfu6bTK5Qd3xMaLcJHdpbj7F70ivgRIocrl8oxHJB71JzoS6EmY-zHpCePhwVVyOpGi0XjKq6J2W8bkbAV0TVMAa4ANwufaEu3uiqAMo2HsYuFJuSwSZxYj4UJhvRUzyx/s320/DSCF8290.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHHhLxZr_fhxmrFwibSSla-Gff5kLfdD7Y9Fw9VQ1D9-EpTmW6zqX4B07iygroVI7N8A1Db4Qhvd5PJXhBEwtkl8UoWXfGm4Nd-bBVzmWhPyh2MAf5p4sUY5SwntXlZ4PBmpXHM6A7tXen/s2048/DSCF8294.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHHhLxZr_fhxmrFwibSSla-Gff5kLfdD7Y9Fw9VQ1D9-EpTmW6zqX4B07iygroVI7N8A1Db4Qhvd5PJXhBEwtkl8UoWXfGm4Nd-bBVzmWhPyh2MAf5p4sUY5SwntXlZ4PBmpXHM6A7tXen/s320/DSCF8294.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Onion Quality Controller</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBkGzVLGaHTkNp_zqUBVXa4WkkJMgTwVp9Ws3qH0rRiO5eL_98SiCsbszHloPATCGzuDogNzgglbxR-2F_r2D2JseUSM8gf2Z2j-QgKvq8d0HacqDX4ijaczoO0_jqalIOl4GBLtVCHr3a/s2048/DSCF8292.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBkGzVLGaHTkNp_zqUBVXa4WkkJMgTwVp9Ws3qH0rRiO5eL_98SiCsbszHloPATCGzuDogNzgglbxR-2F_r2D2JseUSM8gf2Z2j-QgKvq8d0HacqDX4ijaczoO0_jqalIOl4GBLtVCHr3a/s320/DSCF8292.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdA4Pgo06vu9nFv0cusjDPYFKzRK5Zx-8Sa9xRRyHoI6CVs0ZDH2ywyZ25w5lZCY23T7UIWjd7_fceFU1u8RE_8s888lJWynxK72S4UPwOBRYa-M0sM-_EARfKfIiCnP1wq6n-Cv0eMCzg/s2048/DSCF8288.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdA4Pgo06vu9nFv0cusjDPYFKzRK5Zx-8Sa9xRRyHoI6CVs0ZDH2ywyZ25w5lZCY23T7UIWjd7_fceFU1u8RE_8s888lJWynxK72S4UPwOBRYa-M0sM-_EARfKfIiCnP1wq6n-Cv0eMCzg/s320/DSCF8288.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Will, our intern from Los Angeles, CA</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIBQBly7wW883fSEFd2wvAov1a0TGynShMDoKRxfkLNisYfaivcFp72KNaZINDD5oeFpuH7nR-r_3TdgPDffk4TWbxzLSvKQ9sU4U9QGPJ_aVh8k_FRIYBNFKdjGvz8oQNMlhWE4woVP8I/s2048/DSCF8284.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIBQBly7wW883fSEFd2wvAov1a0TGynShMDoKRxfkLNisYfaivcFp72KNaZINDD5oeFpuH7nR-r_3TdgPDffk4TWbxzLSvKQ9sU4U9QGPJ_aVh8k_FRIYBNFKdjGvz8oQNMlhWE4woVP8I/s320/DSCF8284.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrdoJw73hxViSjkWjoRjV3QzxXBSLRdwr9p4Kx9ZPRJsYGcqsVQTeQp7vcZtOpg_Htcigu5D5A48mT-N-0lrR1QgioT-wx17TutTImWuFQTnord81_U8JCrBPHOaP3ka1r7PW2G8N641Gy/s2048/DSCF8091.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrdoJw73hxViSjkWjoRjV3QzxXBSLRdwr9p4Kx9ZPRJsYGcqsVQTeQp7vcZtOpg_Htcigu5D5A48mT-N-0lrR1QgioT-wx17TutTImWuFQTnord81_U8JCrBPHOaP3ka1r7PW2G8N641Gy/s320/DSCF8091.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs7vuHuvG4dDcDxc1BYCVrJ_yzpd9xttPZzO3EnAcxiKV9TthlFTNV32q10wIJR9rgjEdnKx13j_bRfQ0fRJBAbHXU5aOI7XgIQzN9slwGr5oAWxAVeMBqcTBAJyzBsMPh0BhDd1v54OY7/s2048/DSCF8094.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs7vuHuvG4dDcDxc1BYCVrJ_yzpd9xttPZzO3EnAcxiKV9TthlFTNV32q10wIJR9rgjEdnKx13j_bRfQ0fRJBAbHXU5aOI7XgIQzN9slwGr5oAWxAVeMBqcTBAJyzBsMPh0BhDd1v54OY7/s320/DSCF8094.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Having fun with "Tomato Tumors"</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZhDkM7L8UVzGXSL3V1xRPa-wig_FRyTeCV1_E9V_DfoiOOXAG3VK8NTaG9f1rXbGi57sGssmFCQcyQW68c1gnI1EVDlTHuSZTYfYa7KVQfUtljyd0rYdMTLK52cLOfw8QFzUvaVpo8i5D/s2048/DSCF8080.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZhDkM7L8UVzGXSL3V1xRPa-wig_FRyTeCV1_E9V_DfoiOOXAG3VK8NTaG9f1rXbGi57sGssmFCQcyQW68c1gnI1EVDlTHuSZTYfYa7KVQfUtljyd0rYdMTLK52cLOfw8QFzUvaVpo8i5D/s320/DSCF8080.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZeVv-TMjXK5Nh9VE0BWbZm4TNkI5fzCteyYT7hMDydfj43GeapRXvd2NaTr6q07RDyKSxxYZfVV2aAEa-h_-i-DjCojukBeFhuNNbqGvl9Y5ZY_5xrh8Hpk4pPAudC48HdysdJGmkMfDe/s2048/DSCF8084.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZeVv-TMjXK5Nh9VE0BWbZm4TNkI5fzCteyYT7hMDydfj43GeapRXvd2NaTr6q07RDyKSxxYZfVV2aAEa-h_-i-DjCojukBeFhuNNbqGvl9Y5ZY_5xrh8Hpk4pPAudC48HdysdJGmkMfDe/s320/DSCF8084.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7IY7T_Ib613UheensRTDQgqi0j4ExfuGpeg3FFQ1ucqXBmRvd9UToWfgtmObCbG_6tgjIVEffUfnbGPXbg13QWLuiDa9D9wEoY37kmk6qhfEDnRoIXyXYfnipMR7ZqXt2vPOFLhgwiZmd/s2048/DSCF7961.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7IY7T_Ib613UheensRTDQgqi0j4ExfuGpeg3FFQ1ucqXBmRvd9UToWfgtmObCbG_6tgjIVEffUfnbGPXbg13QWLuiDa9D9wEoY37kmk6qhfEDnRoIXyXYfnipMR7ZqXt2vPOFLhgwiZmd/s320/DSCF7961.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim-29zzSs0xhyphenhyphenXblycp3sZydY_X13jIl80dcl6HjTSVcrdjbZuotwNB0h2HUl-PQhuko37_3LpXOrDiylwF3aP5FLe92j1ZK0c4I0jGyOBxsoV8VhwslLww2gjZ6AX4rv-LPqg1kL0PhHP/s2048/DSCF8090.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim-29zzSs0xhyphenhyphenXblycp3sZydY_X13jIl80dcl6HjTSVcrdjbZuotwNB0h2HUl-PQhuko37_3LpXOrDiylwF3aP5FLe92j1ZK0c4I0jGyOBxsoV8VhwslLww2gjZ6AX4rv-LPqg1kL0PhHP/s320/DSCF8090.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Qdc5Jv__1p9w55eGTrbbRMxhBGSbDZIGD0wwSIYcxK90FsPqyLKCUF5dOrOVhYB5_HFdRFvCklqc1ezR98qFtnHgQzyGQ4QOJQNbuNS2tw5Wwm1K0tRpDnZoTjv_OtB-w2aVdSrHQqhg/s2048/DSCF8066.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Qdc5Jv__1p9w55eGTrbbRMxhBGSbDZIGD0wwSIYcxK90FsPqyLKCUF5dOrOVhYB5_HFdRFvCklqc1ezR98qFtnHgQzyGQ4QOJQNbuNS2tw5Wwm1K0tRpDnZoTjv_OtB-w2aVdSrHQqhg/s320/DSCF8066.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE0Ryd2caQGlqwPmDdj_lTxJ48W3GH6jvoN_AG86seQ2MIZt0r-oWLOgIsSU5zE0ZXcHsLea1BOvxv0-eKUWgfLUXkgNslHaYXCXvhbzPlGlOJIh8O11pWH1m5qAIIpgUQjkNp-33Ad5JX/s2048/DSCF7948+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1673" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE0Ryd2caQGlqwPmDdj_lTxJ48W3GH6jvoN_AG86seQ2MIZt0r-oWLOgIsSU5zE0ZXcHsLea1BOvxv0-eKUWgfLUXkgNslHaYXCXvhbzPlGlOJIh8O11pWH1m5qAIIpgUQjkNp-33Ad5JX/s320/DSCF7948+%25282%2529.JPG" width="261" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Melon Crew. Clothes Optional.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjaPx4gymnoNDFGaVIyeF1UNW-9pgjmIm-CLzWqtOVkriBPRDZdQPt9Ci8z9n2ULSygj1rv7bGo5tE_xHLORUiOqcgU3j8_XUj_S7UVA5Lw8o3h4IIaMQ6WzljTAG1g6TTby08GPj6MfXS/s2048/DSCF7783.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjaPx4gymnoNDFGaVIyeF1UNW-9pgjmIm-CLzWqtOVkriBPRDZdQPt9Ci8z9n2ULSygj1rv7bGo5tE_xHLORUiOqcgU3j8_XUj_S7UVA5Lw8o3h4IIaMQ6WzljTAG1g6TTby08GPj6MfXS/s320/DSCF7783.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ZzmNCZesKfRjRfdIta7eXSpVWqtNg2cShrndBxoPTQ9CuYDuKfm_2WCC51OK7pJaWc5eyxLctR7kfmYJ9kV8VFAO5qLYk3qv4nvOwX0nX3qJSqb2spafZMBy2e2IuuGCvKqwoVx3hWI4/s2048/DSCF8007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ZzmNCZesKfRjRfdIta7eXSpVWqtNg2cShrndBxoPTQ9CuYDuKfm_2WCC51OK7pJaWc5eyxLctR7kfmYJ9kV8VFAO5qLYk3qv4nvOwX0nX3qJSqb2spafZMBy2e2IuuGCvKqwoVx3hWI4/s320/DSCF8007.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF_6feJNceYj0nFOWGdRAN_BcWbuYCoKoRZZy8KGNlrvHlhLkU7id5Ipy4K_5IjTyh2C_bNsn0i0ufSxXU26BFUmY9sQKcja_qLn_erc_mV4FfbfQPVjMsvCYzOmrn4R1q2G80erU9hQDX/s2048/DSCF7974.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF_6feJNceYj0nFOWGdRAN_BcWbuYCoKoRZZy8KGNlrvHlhLkU7id5Ipy4K_5IjTyh2C_bNsn0i0ufSxXU26BFUmY9sQKcja_qLn_erc_mV4FfbfQPVjMsvCYzOmrn4R1q2G80erU9hQDX/s320/DSCF7974.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_JE3S4ztX4oPeJGh444u8NvXSogzNTPm-Hwy_4qohEtB4_J-L-6xpSfiV-TAFVyfxZgHvg9K8MfU5MrQu-IVOs1u7orPQXK0-A2ZCI96cPcmO4j0QSRstK8dLBWNKtR_2I-k1uYSn8uPk/s2048/DSCF7704.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_JE3S4ztX4oPeJGh444u8NvXSogzNTPm-Hwy_4qohEtB4_J-L-6xpSfiV-TAFVyfxZgHvg9K8MfU5MrQu-IVOs1u7orPQXK0-A2ZCI96cPcmO4j0QSRstK8dLBWNKtR_2I-k1uYSn8uPk/s320/DSCF7704.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIaIGjkuKjMdXr-lUEs3xlmIcMPHGtIO2E9dPon4x9FMbI_MNJ4ettTcDkZDOeMNiNSKEjqRoLgxu5TkP0PG1dvOd6dDMIvEK_mdFlCGr3ST5LtulFe_pSeqYr7cBCNSt1I__W0q-5QPJY/s2048/DSCF7943.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIaIGjkuKjMdXr-lUEs3xlmIcMPHGtIO2E9dPon4x9FMbI_MNJ4ettTcDkZDOeMNiNSKEjqRoLgxu5TkP0PG1dvOd6dDMIvEK_mdFlCGr3ST5LtulFe_pSeqYr7cBCNSt1I__W0q-5QPJY/s320/DSCF7943.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAyHNQb7Lo_hONxWo5akHtdlD7_n87lrodapQq8hL3b_CpeopY5gsHQ4wF6mYSgxvRkf40dOhr6a3dFHQlRUryzsscYnBGBNDE4VXOx5GZCM5KfcxLiBLsW1P5z27UesPSv6hnXls3n-y6/s2048/DSCF8025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAyHNQb7Lo_hONxWo5akHtdlD7_n87lrodapQq8hL3b_CpeopY5gsHQ4wF6mYSgxvRkf40dOhr6a3dFHQlRUryzsscYnBGBNDE4VXOx5GZCM5KfcxLiBLsW1P5z27UesPSv6hnXls3n-y6/s320/DSCF8025.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Jx65URlzbTRvjgZR9ByTR3kw3zL6UglAQsfW4P9_WCN7dQRhxt2MVN8JAiKMFPtQJxBSjw-m9uDT2IJB-1dkNv2fznhtMMDjOsSo-oad1WhhadtDIDbuX6vQc-6K1wAmIXLmPpsXOeVy/s2048/DSCF8102.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9Jx65URlzbTRvjgZR9ByTR3kw3zL6UglAQsfW4P9_WCN7dQRhxt2MVN8JAiKMFPtQJxBSjw-m9uDT2IJB-1dkNv2fznhtMMDjOsSo-oad1WhhadtDIDbuX6vQc-6K1wAmIXLmPpsXOeVy/w640-h480/DSCF8102.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thanks for a Great 2021 Season Everybody!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <p></p>Mr.and Mrs. Farmerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03188979181083669625noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-734212335740153332.post-3811151946160250392021-09-12T15:17:00.002-07:002021-09-12T15:17:19.099-07:00Why our CSA members didn't get very many Cherry Tomatoes this year<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Tomato Midges. Often elusive and hard to contain. Seldom photographed in action. Till now.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQTmcxjIcigXepivDffuGVI3KsMz_s9wlH70FAlPkHYh4l54lnwXTxbrnvbvcwMGumPzyVpeYQRppm2T1jO7i90w5WBje4eAESYcXGDvuQ1MZ48K7O18MMvKp9yLh14GW-3N4PO1vFM4lf/s2048/DSCF7992.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQTmcxjIcigXepivDffuGVI3KsMz_s9wlH70FAlPkHYh4l54lnwXTxbrnvbvcwMGumPzyVpeYQRppm2T1jO7i90w5WBje4eAESYcXGDvuQ1MZ48K7O18MMvKp9yLh14GW-3N4PO1vFM4lf/w300-h400/DSCF7992.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRb8cAOHQYaKzKHc26eqfooYfltcF_0b26YNkX22QmUNmdyMmZxNQ395S4MUeBvZbdOdfhuh3iMFpwuAp9uliIjHf897sIxQ5ZLqRa7zYKJVSQgDgC4lnLa2e9X-ELBeFvyTEQlfqg3lai/s2048/DSCF7993.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRb8cAOHQYaKzKHc26eqfooYfltcF_0b26YNkX22QmUNmdyMmZxNQ395S4MUeBvZbdOdfhuh3iMFpwuAp9uliIjHf897sIxQ5ZLqRa7zYKJVSQgDgC4lnLa2e9X-ELBeFvyTEQlfqg3lai/s320/DSCF7993.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUtD3hbYm4QlqErTV7_24_-SaofnjA8EW8wk6BVxTqODv01LHVbANlMy7gu5-y3WIwLJ60tzxpFdzx60sFpWA-ShqvHsygCtpIlBnIj29W7_mzF-DKPwAriamvVF3esejUUHtmEHEgsWvH/s2048/DSCF8002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUtD3hbYm4QlqErTV7_24_-SaofnjA8EW8wk6BVxTqODv01LHVbANlMy7gu5-y3WIwLJ60tzxpFdzx60sFpWA-ShqvHsygCtpIlBnIj29W7_mzF-DKPwAriamvVF3esejUUHtmEHEgsWvH/w300-h400/DSCF8002.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk9wm-CMbdt-FA2jqbsjFUl0YynhSaOnJTCzf2WHYCl41TeSVHNsM1B5CK22a_Rt8EXwA3DWf8ELVAT0ch-xxEq2D2TonzNLdAgGJgM8GDNWTAw0e2-mmN62nMsCskIQLxnTfAaWuWPvQe/s2048/DSCF7986.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk9wm-CMbdt-FA2jqbsjFUl0YynhSaOnJTCzf2WHYCl41TeSVHNsM1B5CK22a_Rt8EXwA3DWf8ELVAT0ch-xxEq2D2TonzNLdAgGJgM8GDNWTAw0e2-mmN62nMsCskIQLxnTfAaWuWPvQe/s320/DSCF7986.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>Mr.and Mrs. Farmerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03188979181083669625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-734212335740153332.post-73581921618514080042021-09-12T15:11:00.003-07:002021-09-12T15:11:46.324-07:00Bury me Beneath the Apple Tree<p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYYH6kfrnVeSAkp_SVZC0xa56VxD45jh492BkgPe1la1swFFSiMHUaNce3ahYxHWnIoXxZnqSv1Agxa5fcMPMY_0H6JSYHG3ZnkDVJ-YDQL6JrKY9-aWMuhHjx9l5h71NTIuz5o94OSane/s1600/Queenie+and+the+girls+counting+sheep+on+a+Driftless+region+farm+in+2014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYYH6kfrnVeSAkp_SVZC0xa56VxD45jh492BkgPe1la1swFFSiMHUaNce3ahYxHWnIoXxZnqSv1Agxa5fcMPMY_0H6JSYHG3ZnkDVJ-YDQL6JrKY9-aWMuhHjx9l5h71NTIuz5o94OSane/s320/Queenie+and+the+girls+counting+sheep+on+a+Driftless+region+farm+in+2014.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Queenie and the girls count sheep on a Driftless farm circa 2013</td></tr></tbody></table> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 10pt;">Apple season stirs up memories for us every year.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The best dog that ever lived is buried beneath our old
apple tree-the one with the hollow hiding hole in its trunk. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>7 years ago, we had a team of hot Belgian
mares that needed a job to do. We loaned them to an Amish neighbor with 30
acres of corn to cultivate. While helping the mares settle in the barn at his
farm, our girls became enamored of a thick little Blue Heeler cross.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">She was old, her “motherness” hanging low beneath her
belly and swinging side to side. Though she was too old to keep up with the
other dogs, and though the new pups on the block made her life one of nips and
annoyance, the farmer kept her on because of her faithful loyalty. “She was with
my father in the field the day he died in the accident. I can’t hitch up
without her watching over things.” Seeing how taken the girls were with her, he
lifted the dog into our truck. “She’s yours if you’ll take her. I figure she’ll
have more peace with your girls than with our pups.” That’s how Queenie came to
stay.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHB3dvCd2NMISF_8cEWKgfAgpfoIF7QmbjnzxGhdIFeqp78vHE9_v38B75vd6aoACmhQENxusTOMVcrKKEgjLJOF4Nj1q2Mso1Xi09kbSrvcs8CUD-AOorGIXa39LkAFaJnIZ4zx7o5Dbp/s1600/Haymaking+with+Queenie+and+the+Team.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHB3dvCd2NMISF_8cEWKgfAgpfoIF7QmbjnzxGhdIFeqp78vHE9_v38B75vd6aoACmhQENxusTOMVcrKKEgjLJOF4Nj1q2Mso1Xi09kbSrvcs8CUD-AOorGIXa39LkAFaJnIZ4zx7o5Dbp/s320/Haymaking+with+Queenie+and+the+Team.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Haymaking, summer of 2013</td></tr></tbody></table>Every time Shane hitched up our Norwegian Fjords to
make hay or bring a tank of water down to the lower 20 to the sheep, she’d give
a little bark of bossiness and sit in front of the team mesmerizing them,
daring them to move even one inch while leather and clasps and snaps and pins
were put into service and all was made ready for the chore of the day. When he’d
take the reins in hand, she’d leap up onto the fore-cart to ride shotgun all
afternoon.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When we moved to our current farm, Queenie spent the
winter asleep by the woodstove, sniffling and wheezing while she dreamed and
sighed over her younger days as a dog in the Driftless region of Southwestern
Wisconsin.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">That summer she fell off the fore cart while Shane was
raking hay 2 miles away. She got caught up in the windrow tumbling as Shane
pulled the team up and looked down at her in fear. She was fine, but he had to
deny her the pleasure of accompanying him to the hay field from then on. He
would lock her in the barn and whisper “I know, I know, girl, but it’s for your
own good!” One day she broke out, and ran the 2 miles across HI way 95 to the
hay field she had only visited once by truck. When Shane saw her, he shouted “great
heart cannot be denied!” and lifted her up into his lap as he finished the
season’s hay-making.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-__8rH-YbqFwjwdRnFN5DMP_boYJPRVUacfKWJUaF-aO1dYD9rJspJ3ZV36kfepnzEpAAWXargfgOBXGawrvbRiV59D0cVu1JDQ44UsbaXm1Tyh34cdieTnD1YLO8KHLudOaiS8jl6AaJ/s2048/DSCF8370.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-__8rH-YbqFwjwdRnFN5DMP_boYJPRVUacfKWJUaF-aO1dYD9rJspJ3ZV36kfepnzEpAAWXargfgOBXGawrvbRiV59D0cVu1JDQ44UsbaXm1Tyh34cdieTnD1YLO8KHLudOaiS8jl6AaJ/s320/DSCF8370.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cider Making Day 2021</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">She had all the feel of a great lady with a wealth of
experience unknown to us. One day there was a commotion in the barnyard, and
the girls came running in to tell us they had spotted what they thought was a
Racoon under the woodpile. On our farm the coons are grain thieves and chicken
snatchers, and so this news was met with the pull of a trigger. When Queenie
heard the shot, she rocketed around the corner, out of nowhere, like a bullet,
and dove under the wood-pile snout first. Out she came, backing out with an
impressive display of feigned savagery shaking a woodchuck from side to side as
it thumped, lifeless, against her solid body. It was like watching your great grandmother
leap into the air and karate chop a shop lifter before stabbing him with a knitting
needle. “Whoa Queenie! You have some pretty impressive hidden talents!” we
exclaimed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The day we were told by the vet that she had sepsis and
was actively dying, we took her home top out her down ourselves. As Shane went
in for his .22, Queenie died in my arms. She was too good a dog to make him
waste a bullet on her. We were humbled by the seeming perfection of her life,
the example of her quiet loyalty, the charm of her presence on our farm. Soon
after, Maj, our older mare, passed away of old age. No doubt she felt, with
Queenie her taskmaster gone, she now had permission to do so. It was the end of
an era for us.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When we buried her beneath the apple tree we said, “Every
autumn, when the apples are ripe, when the season draws to a close, we’ll
remember her. Some things are too good to last on this poor earth.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>Mr.and Mrs. Farmerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03188979181083669625noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-734212335740153332.post-59660948811341666192021-09-12T15:04:00.003-07:002021-09-12T15:04:31.900-07:00Harvest Season<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMEYm4qmcE373m2CxPHlZ2SMk6HWgt8LiMqiTCNcjSgqTik1ue4KdgDUPt1A8zZGWSREtj3_qvh0f-OG_5palv-TiQ4uVZ7SUUwddJVSGepCU42xdEFc6gcnAjzTxiZOLHJZr3pbwM-8RV/s2048/DSCF7989.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMEYm4qmcE373m2CxPHlZ2SMk6HWgt8LiMqiTCNcjSgqTik1ue4KdgDUPt1A8zZGWSREtj3_qvh0f-OG_5palv-TiQ4uVZ7SUUwddJVSGepCU42xdEFc6gcnAjzTxiZOLHJZr3pbwM-8RV/s320/DSCF7989.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">When the
pandemic first hit, our local grocery and big box stores ran low on meat. Interestingly,
the local butchers’ shops did not. It got us thinking again of the fragility of
our food chain, and the ridiculousness of our dependence on stores for our meat-even
as our underutilized fields went to burdock and other overgrown weeds. While
folks were stocking up on flour and toilet paper, we headed out to the local dairy
farm to buy a couple of steer calves to fatten.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVDVTzXlrAOoSGR0oMZYJdm950_Dzq8Fy5Cx7FbLT2SXBBxeLfD4MQeLkBgzPOme1OKILItB1Sv903reZQ-xiYm67vIupgyh0qwrgm-noEhUVCEq6AAP5dZmxtR8SpcmLcJm7SeeqnlNFk/s2048/DSCF8237.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVDVTzXlrAOoSGR0oMZYJdm950_Dzq8Fy5Cx7FbLT2SXBBxeLfD4MQeLkBgzPOme1OKILItB1Sv903reZQ-xiYm67vIupgyh0qwrgm-noEhUVCEq6AAP5dZmxtR8SpcmLcJm7SeeqnlNFk/s320/DSCF8237.JPG" width="320" /></a></div></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">At last
harvest day arrived, and with it we received a primer on rural life
partnerships. Watching the custom slaughter team at work, I had the impression
that if companies, law-makers, and heads of state attended such slaughter
appointments (as seminars) like the one that transpired on our farm last week,
they’d find themselves better equipped at their jobs after witnessing such ha
master class in cooperation and team work.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Gerald
arrived with a posse. He’s 63 and has been doing this since he was 10 years old
on his parents’ farm, when his dad called to him and said: “Grab Grandpa’s gun.
You’re doing your first steer today.” Back then they processed 350 hogs each year,
stem to stern. Now he does the same number of hogs per year, and 7,000-9,000
steers when he’s not busy manufacturing the machines that make the 1090 masks
for 3M.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOb-s59FtJBUuK074fbq2sOdQGcWICUUKEV800dtHWxnnj_eBqN2rLD5HXP0w_tqU56UqjW4ZuIdS_ttkU4JEwrFMpArsXsVy7vmPMZ_4H868oGFR_y3XZmMSg8QlANhWOIDM6fz2nJFgF/s2048/DSCF8239.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOb-s59FtJBUuK074fbq2sOdQGcWICUUKEV800dtHWxnnj_eBqN2rLD5HXP0w_tqU56UqjW4ZuIdS_ttkU4JEwrFMpArsXsVy7vmPMZ_4H868oGFR_y3XZmMSg8QlANhWOIDM6fz2nJFgF/s320/DSCF8239.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>He never
misses. Takes careful aim with a .22 to stun them, and then quickly he and his
assistant Jeremiah, a taxidermist by trade, quickly move in to slit their
throats and bleed them out, massaging the blood out a they move aside for Vang
and Vaduun. Vang and Vaduun are a quick moving mother and son team of gleaners.
They follow Gerald in their pick-up. In back are buckets and pots and pans of
all shapes and sizes. They grab a saucepan and catch the steer’s blood before
much of it has had time to bless the earth. Shuttling pots full back and forth
to a bucket, they amass 5-10 gallons of blood to take home for sausage making.
I am glad to see nothing wasted, and am impressed with Vang’s treasure trove of
traditional knowledge. My ignorance is expensive, as I am parting with many
organs for free- a de facto tithe to this Hmong family. “How do you know how to
cook all this?” I ask her, as she sits on an overturned bucket and deftly removes
the tongue. “I have always known how. My mother taught me long time ago.” She
and Vaduun help skin the steers, they remove the spleen, heart, liver,
intestinal lining…all of it goes into a bucket. Vaduun readies Gerald’s tripod.
He and his mother seem to magically make the whole process quicker, smoother.
It is no wonder Gerald invited them along. His fee is the same to us whether it
takes 30 min. or 3 hrs. Each steer takes about 20 minutes.<o:p></o:p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_QqR_2dcoKgaeT2NeKD28G2xSVi7QSj9hMoBhXwdyDYQa3UhSasjV15oIsp3D71bED8T-Nt1LwoEJK-feYBCsrNX4kUv1ntH8MEkiHU5fZ6jzGQ5WDCr3p7ER075Sio35MtMxLZC2FJs3/s2048/DSCF8241.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_QqR_2dcoKgaeT2NeKD28G2xSVi7QSj9hMoBhXwdyDYQa3UhSasjV15oIsp3D71bED8T-Nt1LwoEJK-feYBCsrNX4kUv1ntH8MEkiHU5fZ6jzGQ5WDCr3p7ER075Sio35MtMxLZC2FJs3/s320/DSCF8241.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">Just as
the 1<sup>st</sup> is hooked between the tendons at the hock, and ratcheted up
in the air using the tripod, a 3<sup>rd</sup> truck rolls up with a plastic
sheet in the back. This fellow will load the steers and take them to the
butchers immediately to hang in a cool room for 1-2 weeks. Gerald pauses to
share his recipe for Ox-Tail stew. He presses the tail meat upon us insisting
it is the best part of the animal. Also, the heart, cut pup, pan-fried and combined
in a casserole w/ potatoes and cream of mushroom soup. “Bake it in the oven
until it’s tender.” He groans with gastronomical delight. “We grew up on that
stuff. Nothing better.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKlhjQQkk52HOp__18Lm1r3TLQdkDxWp7KmsOOhLiTsNdbLM7dGLIGk-fduTLYu_cWQE7cdikfTb4iqrBlt6KCpKpWht6gtzVScnqV_OWJTGVE_ILXj-V5r6bfHZqdXQ1coXWsVSX0YFd8/s2048/DSCF8260.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKlhjQQkk52HOp__18Lm1r3TLQdkDxWp7KmsOOhLiTsNdbLM7dGLIGk-fduTLYu_cWQE7cdikfTb4iqrBlt6KCpKpWht6gtzVScnqV_OWJTGVE_ILXj-V5r6bfHZqdXQ1coXWsVSX0YFd8/s320/DSCF8260.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>Vaduun
holds various organs out to me for photographing, tickled by my enthusiasm and promise
to make him famous in a magazine article. Rosie (age 2) had been watching since
the skinning commenced. She is quiet and sober, but not disturbed. I tell her
they are becoming meat. Loss is the sewn-on shadow of living. We won’t just go
forward with the anticipation of hamburgers or the happy memories of seeing
them graze the 2021 summer’s grass. We’ll go forward with the loss of their
good company too. You can’t shirk pain.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDE7GlLqO2RTACe-DBXDQ2G16lc2AdT_taJBJREMbKTgfLDQdd3zfsnccyStD_GKf-Seet8n66Hb6uH7k-h92jMnfKIzfLpWWS4CT9RUI66Iy3IiBER2yMSlGzJm_ze8QuZk_P73GCvCCu/s2048/DSCF8251.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDE7GlLqO2RTACe-DBXDQ2G16lc2AdT_taJBJREMbKTgfLDQdd3zfsnccyStD_GKf-Seet8n66Hb6uH7k-h92jMnfKIzfLpWWS4CT9RUI66Iy3IiBER2yMSlGzJm_ze8QuZk_P73GCvCCu/s320/DSCF8251.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4CZAG7_RK0-MqBIptwK6zBE8wPlTX2PC5xAQ7ShtnD4s2PREonbpv4THDZQUmrls03Gg_9UqZ5js6PuMECckNIie2JngsyoKsXid_ubr7xxUNq58dOqLyU_TA-lOUsq50D_nrV-B8ANcw/s2048/DSCF8246.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4CZAG7_RK0-MqBIptwK6zBE8wPlTX2PC5xAQ7ShtnD4s2PREonbpv4THDZQUmrls03Gg_9UqZ5js6PuMECckNIie2JngsyoKsXid_ubr7xxUNq58dOqLyU_TA-lOUsq50D_nrV-B8ANcw/s320/DSCF8246.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR5CMOlboBbRY5_ZqRaqehCFcFZhSVPYDCqRz_K1zc4pHAovwAANCTHCWKKbWN4W9KJ5sTWNdT9PSpAbYd6eyiBRgH5H5bN2yhInpM0q6PxdBPSs_Pj_5nGb5eqhVl_8qMRjUjWh1qSQAa/s2048/DSCF8244.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR5CMOlboBbRY5_ZqRaqehCFcFZhSVPYDCqRz_K1zc4pHAovwAANCTHCWKKbWN4W9KJ5sTWNdT9PSpAbYd6eyiBRgH5H5bN2yhInpM0q6PxdBPSs_Pj_5nGb5eqhVl_8qMRjUjWh1qSQAa/s320/DSCF8244.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">“Yeah, we
get tailed by PETA people sometimes,” Gerald says to me as I watch Vang
skillfully trim the gall bladder she will be using. “They say they’d like to
see me out of business.” He shakes his head. My shampoo bottle has a PETA
approved label on it. I wonder how we’re helping animals with all our plastic
bottles of shampoo, our carefully packaged artfully designed vegan products
which continue to perpetuate our distance from our food’s origins. Watching
this very skilled Hmong woman I am painfully aware of how wasteful our habits
of consumerism are. It is on display before my very eyes. It seems obvious that
folks raising their own backyard meat, or guys like Gerald doing home
slaughter, which reduces the stress of transport and delays and co-confinement
for the animals, these are not the problem. Pushing food production out of
sight and out of mind for reasons of profit and ease, that’s the problem. The
scene before me is raw, but I find myself eager to participate more in it,
indeed it begins to feel strange that I’ve hired someone else to do this for
me. I think that’s a step towards normal. As the harvest continues our gratitude
and appreciation for these animals grow. I find myself wondering what the PETA
people would say about the Native peoples’ hunting and gathering. It seems to
me suddenly obvious that the poverty our modern world suffers with fractured families
and weak community ties has pushed us away from the traditions that still live
on in communities like Vann and Vaduun’s. The day is a reminder of the wealth
rural living brings.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikTQnHls6oYxRyjpPDOosMt1hanTsedRgmuuM4_yMhySvMMAUJ_0zE_aZddJx_BbSJ8X7EdPUUMMS611eylX0vXV5kqQxiu_BrxWZDDS4OC2gC18ahu93IvZw-Rl_U7Gejv-Bb_0U_0d-S/s2048/DSCF8263.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikTQnHls6oYxRyjpPDOosMt1hanTsedRgmuuM4_yMhySvMMAUJ_0zE_aZddJx_BbSJ8X7EdPUUMMS611eylX0vXV5kqQxiu_BrxWZDDS4OC2gC18ahu93IvZw-Rl_U7Gejv-Bb_0U_0d-S/w480-h640/DSCF8263.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>How is it that
something as gritty and utilitarian as the steer’s slaughter day has my heart
singing with hope? Gerald got $85.00, Jeremiah got the hides, Vang got the
organ meat, Vaduun got famous, and we got a chest freezer filled to the brim
with beef…and this story.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5EP_1nD-ccTvY4ax4UdTDyZVJf_NU01eT-ZBKZojmE0g7DrsLhwWceqs7gjqB-JuLRMn5mJG-vZ59zj-32HeefuOXxtyyR5_VGJ-S84khFVLwmpjfuuCJL4whUVm4yfcjAqOHW-qJ-WQu/s2048/DSCF8264.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5EP_1nD-ccTvY4ax4UdTDyZVJf_NU01eT-ZBKZojmE0g7DrsLhwWceqs7gjqB-JuLRMn5mJG-vZ59zj-32HeefuOXxtyyR5_VGJ-S84khFVLwmpjfuuCJL4whUVm4yfcjAqOHW-qJ-WQu/s320/DSCF8264.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Mr.and Mrs. Farmerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03188979181083669625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-734212335740153332.post-29603940580351709112021-08-18T11:44:00.000-07:002021-08-18T11:44:25.217-07:00Father John and the Giant Zucchini Harvest<div class="separator"><p class="MsoNormal" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /><o:p></o:p></p></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1hmo7wtJDRM6-aqAqbHu_3fK81OBJWLzA0zFe1a8bQ3wIhbHTi1Vw9Aa-HS9a9UlUCXGzNu-rTDaCRaVqssCoJagz9ZQy4Kr4p0YB8rohuiagM4k8OXSDkN7paiqZsIu-n_rbzY0UsP1k/s2048/DSCF7920.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1hmo7wtJDRM6-aqAqbHu_3fK81OBJWLzA0zFe1a8bQ3wIhbHTi1Vw9Aa-HS9a9UlUCXGzNu-rTDaCRaVqssCoJagz9ZQy4Kr4p0YB8rohuiagM4k8OXSDkN7paiqZsIu-n_rbzY0UsP1k/w300-h400/DSCF7920.JPG" width="300" /></a></div> We had an old family friend visiting us and helping with the
harvest this past week on the farm.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Our old college friend John towers over most folks at 6.5
feet. Born and bred in Montana, he is now a newly ordained Dominican priest for
the Western Province. We told the little ones that giants still do exist here
and there, though over time their size has shrunk to under 9 ft in most cases…and
when he arrived, he did not disappoint!<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">We stopped at the County Fairgrounds to pick up our exhibits,
ribbons, and premium checks. Father John trailed behind me helping me carry off
our awards and vases and items, his arms filled with needlework, artwork, a jar
of bread and butter pickles…I soon realized we were attracting some attention.
It’s hard to miss a grinning 6.5 ft Dominican brother in a bright and shining
bond white habit.</span></div></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He told us how one time he was mistaken for a member of the Illuminati.
But the observer called out “Oh wait! No! He can’t be Illuminati! He’s too
happy!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dominicans have O.P. after their name- for “Order of
Preachers”. Their work is to preach- and to diligently study in preparation for
doing so….hence, the absence of a work habit.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtpECHNx0Jt8huctoFlEHYTThRXPIJ_jBvws_9HYo0lz1CJynd19VWUTpdJd59v25pBHjK3N_-EGU5okcd1fSYwh59HujoVHafCrKmKMW028XZxxXpX3dc_bxw1U28cDl37bVbGNlNCtQS/s320/DSCF7910.JPG" width="240" />One day one we had him harvesting zuchinni with us in the
field. Shane and the older girls had been up in the BWCA the week before, and
we missed a day of harvesting the summer squash. In the interim some of them
had expanded to the size of small dogs. “Just go and throw those monstrosities
to the pigs!” I told him. It had rained in the night and the hogs were enjoying
sunbathing in their little mushes of mud and muck. I looked over to see Father
John lobbing squashes to the happy and salivating porcine torpedoes eagerly
awaiting their mid-day feast. Each one landed with a delicious THUD and THWUCK,
hitting the ground with truly impressive power. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Father turned back to us grinning, his duty discharged, but his snow white habit looking as if he was riddled with holes.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Don’t worry! This is why we carry Tide pens!” He assured us.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Farming has a way of changing people. It can transform some
folks in the matter of one afternoon. Still. I’d hate for him to be mistaken
for a Holstein. “There’s no way he’s a Holstein!” they’d shout, “He’s too happy!”<o:p></o:p></p>Mr.and Mrs. Farmerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03188979181083669625noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-734212335740153332.post-15602102667282391732021-08-18T11:35:00.002-07:002021-08-18T11:35:33.808-07:00The Power of Love<p> </p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdoU6A9Is1jynPOPsyE8PWkJ7XuDzS8jvJ7tpQGQ4wQ3sfVDOTA6MmxASFbO4adbzLu8y3o4IRy7QYotVdhUpKI49hDteFqa1iznqiR-YQEh5NOiwiEHWK07r4c_PlESgq0JvDssSh9ZzI/s2048/DSCF7886.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdoU6A9Is1jynPOPsyE8PWkJ7XuDzS8jvJ7tpQGQ4wQ3sfVDOTA6MmxASFbO4adbzLu8y3o4IRy7QYotVdhUpKI49hDteFqa1iznqiR-YQEh5NOiwiEHWK07r4c_PlESgq0JvDssSh9ZzI/s320/DSCF7886.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2021 Onion Harvest </td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"><u></u><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">“ We had a mad friend once, a Jewish worker from the East Side,
who wore a rosary around his neck and came to us reciting the Psalms in Hebrew.
He stayed with us for weeks at a time, for although mad, he had the gentleness
of St. Francis. He helped in our garden on Staten Island, and he liked to walk
around in his bare feet. “I can feel things growing,” he said. “I look at the
little plants, and I draw them up out of the earth with the power of love in my
eyes.””</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dorothy Day,<b><u><i>The Long Loneliness</i></u></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh26X2GD2JKv2Cn2okaSloIBNaRr6mltzf7DkkVxa-wf4UbIyl30gUTB-fEsvMkvsltOG39Np0sZdIna0ptCALNy0uVK_Tt1CH5g4R7_S2UT3gD6e-jUWQjG8ygws739LIeuRZLhlYUc-40/s2048/DSCF7877.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh26X2GD2JKv2Cn2okaSloIBNaRr6mltzf7DkkVxa-wf4UbIyl30gUTB-fEsvMkvsltOG39Np0sZdIna0ptCALNy0uVK_Tt1CH5g4R7_S2UT3gD6e-jUWQjG8ygws739LIeuRZLhlYUc-40/w300-h400/DSCF7877.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Weekly Farm-Share bouquets</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><u></u></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><u><br /></u><o:p></o:p><p></p>Mr.and Mrs. Farmerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03188979181083669625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-734212335740153332.post-10511644401444687942021-08-18T11:28:00.001-07:002021-08-18T11:28:51.654-07:00Haymaking with Wally<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal">In order to keep up with the harvest and keep the plants
healthy and productive, we harvest green beans on Mondays and Fridays and
sometimes in between for our own freezer’s supply and farm-stand surplus
sales.) This past Friday we had spent the morning harvesting zucs and cucs and
beans when the lunch hour arrived and the heat became oppressive. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg84ngsuVs2xg41ZX-4MWjrcc-KbTjwdZqrbDK5_qI2qPxGaKKBkLpcrdsLL_iZfPH1oHMthHv5DHaFU4n2vmmGl60saiI_-RwCmheeQGl3MmjpnyKr4auHLj9ArxpemK9_F6QvXlZ1dJGM/s2048/DSCF7797.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg84ngsuVs2xg41ZX-4MWjrcc-KbTjwdZqrbDK5_qI2qPxGaKKBkLpcrdsLL_iZfPH1oHMthHv5DHaFU4n2vmmGl60saiI_-RwCmheeQGl3MmjpnyKr4auHLj9ArxpemK9_F6QvXlZ1dJGM/w400-h300/DSCF7797.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">We had just
decided on taking a noon siesta when there was a honk from our driveway. Our
neighbor Wally was ready to bale 2</span><sup style="text-align: left;">nd</sup><span style="text-align: left;"> cutting hay. He usually makes
large round bales, but obliges us with small squares if Shane does the stacking
on the wagon as the kick baler sends them back.</span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVKZQKGN04h5PJfZenhxCEHX55FThehsq5OCFeBMqziMOu5j7R8t9Yif7nS0liZ1_RFNUx23u_O4Ihy6_8rI5iTWKOEz3Je4ic22-UdiGOZOvk5lkcZB7mYv09CPM81hhMOXSDSRaRugSh/s2048/DSCF7787.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVKZQKGN04h5PJfZenhxCEHX55FThehsq5OCFeBMqziMOu5j7R8t9Yif7nS0liZ1_RFNUx23u_O4Ihy6_8rI5iTWKOEz3Je4ic22-UdiGOZOvk5lkcZB7mYv09CPM81hhMOXSDSRaRugSh/s320/DSCF7787.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> Haymaking is one of the most
enjoyable chores. Yes it’s hot, sticky, dusty, pieces of grass stuck to your
face, down your shirt….yet I’ve seen men wilted from a morning’s labor in the
field suddenly revive with whip-like joy fresh as daisies when a man with a
tractor shows up and says the hay’s ready.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwcfFVr4hwT4Sv4aGEUoR1TZCLmewEXcFrCqJNDF4yUmpJbdnHwFECaawSrOCFKA9EHaUwTRzQIoLl9cdioAXg9Y5oXlK5-cC4uqFko7Xr5AqIVuScIN95kVIec7GdCNfO8-JmULoYBxCp/s2048/DSCF7843.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwcfFVr4hwT4Sv4aGEUoR1TZCLmewEXcFrCqJNDF4yUmpJbdnHwFECaawSrOCFKA9EHaUwTRzQIoLl9cdioAXg9Y5oXlK5-cC4uqFko7Xr5AqIVuScIN95kVIec7GdCNfO8-JmULoYBxCp/s320/DSCF7843.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">First there’s the pure joy of riding in an open field of grass,
the smell of the curing windrows wafting up as you pass, the baler combing the
rows up into itself, a blue sky above. The unhurried tractor’s pace as it
secures free food from the rolling landscape. Another hay crop in means another
year of meat and milk, thousands of dollars secured from the gracious sun
itself, and at the courtesy of rain and the good Lord above.</p><p class="MsoNormal"> It’s a draught
year, so the field that gave 110 bales last year only yields 61 this year.
Still. We had dry weather to make it in. The red clover in it cured well. It
holds its shape when squeezed and doesn’t shatter into dust. Wally’s done a good
job. But then, he’s had practice!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVRMBM9NmRxUa8UGFQEkcjZy_kVp4rivDFacoAftSpapS3ubCuJmn7i3zn0Sjm1SPO5qnCvAC1GHx8C2o32I3xfSNj7SA9he71EzEzYC2W7YVwangfDQPCpXBiJijL2pmythN6otGbJG9_/s2048/DSCF7806.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVRMBM9NmRxUa8UGFQEkcjZy_kVp4rivDFacoAftSpapS3ubCuJmn7i3zn0Sjm1SPO5qnCvAC1GHx8C2o32I3xfSNj7SA9he71EzEzYC2W7YVwangfDQPCpXBiJijL2pmythN6otGbJG9_/s320/DSCF7806.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> I trudge out to the middle of the field with
the 4 year old and 2 year old who are in awe of the whole process. We’re
carrying a giant jug of cold water for the man in the wagon, stacking bales,
with his shirt over his head Arab-style to keep the sun off his neck. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivY4qksX9Ct1bMsur2RUkfFvBpyaSEvk9PaOAih3csAEiD6GMCzAewB73nAcka2gcGu9d1-BBKKjUT6dcBwN4VzkRRQqVP1PBC_Pi7DLeK24v6L8GKPN66IhLEP7Hr5sMXrPqPS93dBTcX/s2048/DSCF7789.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivY4qksX9Ct1bMsur2RUkfFvBpyaSEvk9PaOAih3csAEiD6GMCzAewB73nAcka2gcGu9d1-BBKKjUT6dcBwN4VzkRRQqVP1PBC_Pi7DLeK24v6L8GKPN66IhLEP7Hr5sMXrPqPS93dBTcX/s320/DSCF7789.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Want some water, Wally?” we ask. He shakes his head no. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“How old are you Wally?” I’m leaning on the giant deeply
treaded tractor wheel. The word comes out long and exaggerated. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Eighty-Threeeeee, so I am.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“And you’re still at it!” I grin with admiration.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We—ll, I figure the
day you stop, you ight as well drive yourself to the mortuary!” He smiles.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s 3:00 in the
afternoon and 96 degrees outside.I take one more look up at the brown and
crinkled face with the stubborn chin and faded ball cap. I am not made of the
same stuff as he, and head back from the shade of the trees on the edge of the
field as he starts up his tractor again, but I know the feeling he described. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEaZpp9I4j-t6GfnGs_65wFaY-cloXLxnE4uvfVfyUFKbakgcROKxKW5Zin3cpSzGawnGhG_I2wzBAY_C_9mwZUaPTDjYcHk8-NzN2VzaedDmxTnzHwWnR3xSrDsY2-L_Xdl-V9YUsKsYK/s2048/DSCF7840.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEaZpp9I4j-t6GfnGs_65wFaY-cloXLxnE4uvfVfyUFKbakgcROKxKW5Zin3cpSzGawnGhG_I2wzBAY_C_9mwZUaPTDjYcHk8-NzN2VzaedDmxTnzHwWnR3xSrDsY2-L_Xdl-V9YUsKsYK/s320/DSCF7840.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Every spring and summer the very smell of the earth thawing pulls me into
planting again. I’ve become aware that the day I don’t mark a new season with
seeding will be the day I die- or might as well do. Though some days this
existence seems like a fight for survival, we all know deep down it’s more like
a dance. We head back to the house for some lemonade before we load our 61
bales into the barn.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn0pG-P1qNhNrEg6kUf4TudFnnektEhXkEiZ_CETexOLd-UKF-dbycdb8f11qBnf3v3s6O1CllhitCzlYUwKicYfEICuXrHnydWHS_e46pLpenu1uq_0keLFKraO2WRf8EofU5NZbgQbVo/s2048/DSCF7853.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn0pG-P1qNhNrEg6kUf4TudFnnektEhXkEiZ_CETexOLd-UKF-dbycdb8f11qBnf3v3s6O1CllhitCzlYUwKicYfEICuXrHnydWHS_e46pLpenu1uq_0keLFKraO2WRf8EofU5NZbgQbVo/s320/DSCF7853.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> Wally is off to help another farmer get his crop in late
into the evening before the midnight thunderstorm arrives. It’s still 96
degrees, he’s still 83 with lung cancer, but the hay is ready to bale, and hay
making is a beautiful thing.<o:p></o:p></p>Mr.and Mrs. Farmerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03188979181083669625noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-734212335740153332.post-26391448034791649572021-07-24T09:57:00.002-07:002021-07-24T09:57:57.767-07:00Breeding Buttercup Back<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfKIcF3qZXWunXAyTh8iBt9A5UcbhAB1jMFzTY214FjihwYKP8uN6vR3xetcJCqFYw6p3_VdWs8rCEUnatoreaC7tIWs06eILdATdlGiDNimDOfCl2ai5Jej_tCiAMCiLyV30JLme86g9V/s2048/DSCF7741.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfKIcF3qZXWunXAyTh8iBt9A5UcbhAB1jMFzTY214FjihwYKP8uN6vR3xetcJCqFYw6p3_VdWs8rCEUnatoreaC7tIWs06eILdATdlGiDNimDOfCl2ai5Jej_tCiAMCiLyV30JLme86g9V/s320/DSCF7741.JPG" width="320" /></a></div> <span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">This past week we had a once-a -year visitor to the farm:
Claire arrived toting two tanks filled with liquid nitrogen and long slender
tubes filled with bull seed for breeding our jersey cow, Buttercup. We had
heard that Claire was 1.) “The Best.” 2.) The only one for miles who is still
handling small herds. 3.) Hard to get a hold of.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">We soon found the first two rumors to be true, but he was
quick to get back to us and schedule a visit because he immediately understood
how important getting her bred back was to a family with one cow. His affection
for cows was apparent right away. He arrived, pulled on his boots, regaled us
with the fascinating wonders of liquid nitrogen (many times colder than dry ice!
Over negative 300 degrees! And we talked “Bull”, eventually choosing a Red Angus
to get a more muscley calf to rear for meat next year.<br /> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyIXapCAZhrcgFMAyh78zR4tbdSUnx3rYBW6Mh0dq_bGccICHYmZPwkf6j0vb7wuIpBBTlbsyxdpIMT2jNmClQcsuerKZBLNYvkX_5UkuT6cykbxESjT8G9271xuTnod0RDOho0k7ciq8V/s2048/DSCF7706.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyIXapCAZhrcgFMAyh78zR4tbdSUnx3rYBW6Mh0dq_bGccICHYmZPwkf6j0vb7wuIpBBTlbsyxdpIMT2jNmClQcsuerKZBLNYvkX_5UkuT6cykbxESjT8G9271xuTnod0RDOho0k7ciq8V/s320/DSCF7706.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">A compact man with a light in his eye, and a steady stream
of causal wit and humor, he rotated one of his strongly built shoulders.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">“I’ve been doing this for 43 years. Used to do 10,000 cows a
year. Now it’s more like 5,000. Not too many smaller herds anymore.”</span><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> He pulled
on his boots.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">“Had to have my shoulder replaced. It wasn’t cheap, but they
did a good job.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">The toddlers watched wide-eyed as he pulled on an elbow
length sleeve and approached Buttercup in her stall. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">“Easy now. It’s alright. You’re a nice one aren’tchya! A
real sweetheart.” He gently rubbed her rump and calmly reached int, pulling out
some nervous droppings- as unfazed as a considerate midwife. We were all
appreciative of his decorum and manner.<br /><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBGHnaBHCOkNzOkRPqp0-gfQaERt4KxRwTWzgNKTapQ5y89Tj-YcUJNLeMT8sbO-tIenC_fSrTZmGDYI90E4oFYgbnBz1NZ7mwC77Drg99dHY0L8aMDLc54DG-j8mgxMEa9ukv_fZ9eZus/s2048/DSCF7731.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBGHnaBHCOkNzOkRPqp0-gfQaERt4KxRwTWzgNKTapQ5y89Tj-YcUJNLeMT8sbO-tIenC_fSrTZmGDYI90E4oFYgbnBz1NZ7mwC77Drg99dHY0L8aMDLc54DG-j8mgxMEa9ukv_fZ9eZus/w200-h133/DSCF7731.JPG" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">He had the tube tucked into his shirt, sticking out at his
neck, to warm it. As he took it out to insert it, he said: “My wife doesn’t
like cows or farmers of my car. I love cows. Have done all my life. </span><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">My cows, my
farmers, my car, that’s all I have in this world!”</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4x6PTGQqIF0OONLzX0iNlojP_QpajF7AdgkYeKjH9m33EQjIK0d2n1ETnGMZiW5qsQURawsAfS5daV0wu3sYygi6Obqv13CTFihFFG9hW12T30-zvdk_YeVeQGWLkaH6YrVpA4GxiUegA/s2048/DSCF7730.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4x6PTGQqIF0OONLzX0iNlojP_QpajF7AdgkYeKjH9m33EQjIK0d2n1ETnGMZiW5qsQURawsAfS5daV0wu3sYygi6Obqv13CTFihFFG9hW12T30-zvdk_YeVeQGWLkaH6YrVpA4GxiUegA/s320/DSCF7730.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">“So long as she loves you, I suppose you’re okay!” I
replied, making a mental note to send some green beans home with him for the
Mrs.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">“There we go, girl, all done!” He gave her an affectionate
pat before we led her back out to pasture.<br /><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjipXpFaD_6_0Px9bTD-OvpdAalQWSYcrQ18po74nVN0xKI9USjEJql87U2azkxQPqckDdFUHqFdr-YXOanu2aCCKZuGnnxFpOuMGZqPReujYa8iG5o1lsODUpondQrIeTo7qz7s8Yud7Rc/s2048/DSCF7777.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjipXpFaD_6_0Px9bTD-OvpdAalQWSYcrQ18po74nVN0xKI9USjEJql87U2azkxQPqckDdFUHqFdr-YXOanu2aCCKZuGnnxFpOuMGZqPReujYa8iG5o1lsODUpondQrIeTo7qz7s8Yud7Rc/w640-h426/DSCF7777.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw3ALVqJZfoOi6l07I-rzcpCA_-G0kcV0Vz-yEIn_5twRb2SPqFmsbH6oUEldKh7lya8KqS6HPc-xJhtJQhvCnS4WPaqa8z774e6Oh4bnuc6Y89amMd2VM7z_MGvQ3QbETrQKB8VQac8nt/s2048/DSCF7764.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw3ALVqJZfoOi6l07I-rzcpCA_-G0kcV0Vz-yEIn_5twRb2SPqFmsbH6oUEldKh7lya8KqS6HPc-xJhtJQhvCnS4WPaqa8z774e6Oh4bnuc6Y89amMd2VM7z_MGvQ3QbETrQKB8VQac8nt/s320/DSCF7764.JPG" /></a></div><br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">“Sometimes when you breed a Jersey to Red Angus you get
stripes!” he told us, as he hosed down his boots. The toddlers gasped and
grinned at each other. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Later we found out that they thought Buttercup was going to
turn Zebra because the “stripe man” had been here.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTDJLP2QUPgxkMbU4SK3TjL37eM6y4VNkceLw43v664ZoT8LIn13Wi_23Yx5AgzKqGSjZ1BoHbW2XDyzq05HlzlgeW0_BBr_lEvhQgMlkQQ9OzVIjDw-ZxzkmGyeiVcoyLgQrSBcvCpU72/s2048/DSCF7708.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTDJLP2QUPgxkMbU4SK3TjL37eM6y4VNkceLw43v664ZoT8LIn13Wi_23Yx5AgzKqGSjZ1BoHbW2XDyzq05HlzlgeW0_BBr_lEvhQgMlkQQ9OzVIjDw-ZxzkmGyeiVcoyLgQrSBcvCpU72/w640-h426/DSCF7708.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div><o:p></o:p><p></p>Mr.and Mrs. Farmerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03188979181083669625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-734212335740153332.post-50811672215143942422021-07-06T19:01:00.002-07:002021-07-06T19:02:30.158-07:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsQMDJE8golzpFHceYoS-mM2RPuts3vTxC6Z7hm43oeXKqFdYLsTE0ezrW1i-eVFLnxlTgBHhSMGoW4gbjJ8jWnyjgr-aAboexw3jswbA_MzU3KCC6mJy6SlDbzapFgvOg-TpDtYUnyfmh/s2048/DSCF7690.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsQMDJE8golzpFHceYoS-mM2RPuts3vTxC6Z7hm43oeXKqFdYLsTE0ezrW1i-eVFLnxlTgBHhSMGoW4gbjJ8jWnyjgr-aAboexw3jswbA_MzU3KCC6mJy6SlDbzapFgvOg-TpDtYUnyfmh/s320/DSCF7690.JPG" /></a></div><b><i>“I cringe when I read modern reports of how much children
cost. <span style="font-size: medium;">A culture that creates a negative value on children has to be the least
creative culture on earth. </span>Children have always been valued as a treasure and a
blessing.”</i></b><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> -Joel Salatin, self- described Christian Libertarian Environmentalist Capitalist Lunatic Farmer<br /></p>Mr.and Mrs. Farmerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03188979181083669625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-734212335740153332.post-49958884697484058642021-07-06T18:50:00.001-07:002021-07-06T18:52:43.025-07:00Revolution<p><span style="font-family: times;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5tYim1yA5Dkw8xlcxWgspQHbTiFdDZB7WoGPldUSNdZhd5quPco6Uxo6WAx2r8tP_jQSYb4VQDvL3JDO3ZBJZrLOfTXHFJA_hIlWFoPpG1u3gkTpXS1QSU1D2ILsaRBhX1Fl_IPwjZZTK/s2048/DSCF7677.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5tYim1yA5Dkw8xlcxWgspQHbTiFdDZB7WoGPldUSNdZhd5quPco6Uxo6WAx2r8tP_jQSYb4VQDvL3JDO3ZBJZrLOfTXHFJA_hIlWFoPpG1u3gkTpXS1QSU1D2ILsaRBhX1Fl_IPwjZZTK/s320/DSCF7677.JPG" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /><span style="background-color: white;"> "<span style="color: #101010; font-size: 20pt;">The day is coming when a single carrot, freshly observed, will set off a revolution."</span></span></span><p></p><p class="bq_fq_a" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 700; margin: 0px 0px 5px;"><span style="background-color: white;"> -painter <a class="qa_370182 oncl_a" href="https://www.brainyquote.com/authors/paul-cezanne-quotes" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #0000aa; text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="font-family: times;">Paul Cezanne</span></a></span></p><p class="bq_fq_a" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 700; margin: 0px 0px 5px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p class="bq_fq_a" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 700; margin: 0px 0px 5px;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p><p class="bq_fq_a" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 700; margin: 0px 0px 5px;"><i style="background-color: white;">"Mama! I can smell the carrots!"</i></p><p class="bq_fq_a" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 700; margin: 0px 0px 5px;"><i style="background-color: white;">We were harvesting in the rain, I was muddy and sopping and plunging a pitchfork into the earth as she pulled them out by the handful. Her enthusiasm brought me to my senses.</i></p><p class="bq_fq_a" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 700; margin: 0px 0px 5px;"><i style="background-color: white;">Suddenly I realized that some revolutions happen quietly...in the midst of a crowd of two.</i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTEJpAvGwrLec99DHF6JrUFiQBItaMPimjcASNPLOc60iHK_ZYsBpuR-xMoZ9P5dJoGDndt2jGlFKothmCox4F2bgTZsuGBhV6rsU5yNfoIBNv_lT0Q2uM3enCBYSOdFt_Gxf3YA7-Kmw3/s2048/DSCF7671.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTEJpAvGwrLec99DHF6JrUFiQBItaMPimjcASNPLOc60iHK_ZYsBpuR-xMoZ9P5dJoGDndt2jGlFKothmCox4F2bgTZsuGBhV6rsU5yNfoIBNv_lT0Q2uM3enCBYSOdFt_Gxf3YA7-Kmw3/s320/DSCF7671.JPG" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-V9Q50qNOUaCnFigKXV0DS5TKImN-jjW-5g_y_NNCVJx_0OEjNyCzuWnCQYS3rZNhs_tLUMO6nO46ObqdMC3Y_VOPjSJ7FbaWzrvMQM8heY62kAMG77Y1d8fKbjqC2w-blUqh7olET8Bk/s2048/DSCF7672.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-V9Q50qNOUaCnFigKXV0DS5TKImN-jjW-5g_y_NNCVJx_0OEjNyCzuWnCQYS3rZNhs_tLUMO6nO46ObqdMC3Y_VOPjSJ7FbaWzrvMQM8heY62kAMG77Y1d8fKbjqC2w-blUqh7olET8Bk/w640-h426/DSCF7672.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="bq_fq_a" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 700; margin: 0px 0px 5px;"><br /></p><p class="bq_fq_a" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 700; margin: 0px 0px 5px;"><br /></p>Mr.and Mrs. Farmerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03188979181083669625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-734212335740153332.post-4911721911617737472021-06-30T19:55:00.010-07:002021-07-01T18:26:41.647-07:00June Harvest Scenes <p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijYQexMQ_4BWoFzkTQ_PpQtH7xpakw8SePRCaxegQ-7U_H-n0-sCwGAK-HqgHjMWJyuRtYamr5wrykQccSiHWXei-UU5pC0pxisbRBde0aulRVxYuuBxIOMMw3SwoxIPYPzFtG6_m7vwmr/s2048/DSCF7623.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijYQexMQ_4BWoFzkTQ_PpQtH7xpakw8SePRCaxegQ-7U_H-n0-sCwGAK-HqgHjMWJyuRtYamr5wrykQccSiHWXei-UU5pC0pxisbRBde0aulRVxYuuBxIOMMw3SwoxIPYPzFtG6_m7vwmr/s320/DSCF7623.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">purple plum radishes on harvest day</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1_SqSGrVIXnLr7D4vaddAm6PBbTYQdxdGWnnDSeQESLV09ynD9fkBtxZQ2WIAchTf75Jhaf33aBYOwQ7Q0bLCbYnq6poPOzcV8JIFbOPgTd77nJesWj97A2NBRYuxG_ygTeDASTyClPUN/s2048/DSCF7626.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1_SqSGrVIXnLr7D4vaddAm6PBbTYQdxdGWnnDSeQESLV09ynD9fkBtxZQ2WIAchTf75Jhaf33aBYOwQ7Q0bLCbYnq6poPOzcV8JIFbOPgTd77nJesWj97A2NBRYuxG_ygTeDASTyClPUN/s320/DSCF7626.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">bringing home the broccoli</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg82BiF6r51Jsk3gSwJCttdsnR4gyrSOr7Deqso1ei_5FBpdMwUAWOw_9iRz4N9JPxCvFO-h75coFCDXQycTNTqIrZekwgvCtW71730OOKPP8Xk5Kl4xMYdezpOiJ7UzAUa9hfphDcHheUA/s2048/DSCF7646.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg82BiF6r51Jsk3gSwJCttdsnR4gyrSOr7Deqso1ei_5FBpdMwUAWOw_9iRz4N9JPxCvFO-h75coFCDXQycTNTqIrZekwgvCtW71730OOKPP8Xk5Kl4xMYdezpOiJ7UzAUa9hfphDcHheUA/s320/DSCF7646.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx_LKNL1GQ3a-5v98gfO5MKfEsiSzYt8YO79FQH3e4hp8duc4L5rTwn8qM44jocF8hMOU0y7n_kw8mwslf1iE2MTCXkhEkBfpyM-NpEXYZcY1w4AR3wHQOFnX-U33DrzQLV8qgB0zbyq11/s2048/DSCF7628.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx_LKNL1GQ3a-5v98gfO5MKfEsiSzYt8YO79FQH3e4hp8duc4L5rTwn8qM44jocF8hMOU0y7n_kw8mwslf1iE2MTCXkhEkBfpyM-NpEXYZcY1w4AR3wHQOFnX-U33DrzQLV8qgB0zbyq11/s320/DSCF7628.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeOCfHlHz4EPYxhVjoip99-WUMRn22dFak53HtBzJUntorz-8vBQd32xEGOf6oESmh4XLAarT9E5qLmsldornwYWrsG-1aOrvNChYk7I1depIOXM5gCYgAsBIDuQ6eXJJYjbZjPfdXgJyf/s2048/DSCF7650.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeOCfHlHz4EPYxhVjoip99-WUMRn22dFak53HtBzJUntorz-8vBQd32xEGOf6oESmh4XLAarT9E5qLmsldornwYWrsG-1aOrvNChYk7I1depIOXM5gCYgAsBIDuQ6eXJJYjbZjPfdXgJyf/s320/DSCF7650.JPG" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> <p></p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdD0ZacwSrHQ6L05X-fxJMRqPde01ZTUicflkmFxc3XknKGuTFs2u6I8vs81nh-xEnY8zvNOyxE3uV84l3ezIihnpCDEb_q__YhzUpGNKKl3_31kbyr2TPBt8_wZoIThzPolTcarYHjgki/s2048/DSCF7649.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdD0ZacwSrHQ6L05X-fxJMRqPde01ZTUicflkmFxc3XknKGuTFs2u6I8vs81nh-xEnY8zvNOyxE3uV84l3ezIihnpCDEb_q__YhzUpGNKKl3_31kbyr2TPBt8_wZoIThzPolTcarYHjgki/s320/DSCF7649.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Week 5 Farm-Share</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXeslXNSeneB_0s-NEQG9vfu0UQfJPBCN7NTlQXMr9SLEAEvEYLBLORCvbT0r4yISSFToPsRgU3N8AixW9oYI_IoxUu9JrYcWUIBmAdMBprBV08NqCU-bNLHwvlKbMSwtq3G_TQJ9aKO_t/s2048/DSCF7605.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXeslXNSeneB_0s-NEQG9vfu0UQfJPBCN7NTlQXMr9SLEAEvEYLBLORCvbT0r4yISSFToPsRgU3N8AixW9oYI_IoxUu9JrYcWUIBmAdMBprBV08NqCU-bNLHwvlKbMSwtq3G_TQJ9aKO_t/s320/DSCF7605.JPG" /></a></div><br />Mr.and Mrs. Farmerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03188979181083669625noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-734212335740153332.post-36854617674750723512021-06-30T19:37:00.007-07:002021-07-05T08:00:55.204-07:00Then and Now<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYtBNOX2g-jhUU3RoT7OIjLKDaeVY8vrdlZwFR2F88XvygQwEMhfvUTeR8hozHtxMLywN9CJF-mFm0DXhg_GHFbKtvJCkthmhn8IgEcvStnXwlXZpPwk58EdmWb2hqP_sHZobruC3cj0jz/s1600/Hillpoint+2013.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYtBNOX2g-jhUU3RoT7OIjLKDaeVY8vrdlZwFR2F88XvygQwEMhfvUTeR8hozHtxMLywN9CJF-mFm0DXhg_GHFbKtvJCkthmhn8IgEcvStnXwlXZpPwk58EdmWb2hqP_sHZobruC3cj0jz/s320/Hillpoint+2013.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little Flower Farm in Hillpoint, 2013</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>It doesn't matter where you've farmed or for how long. Just the tousle with a piece of land makes for an intimacy that stays with you- bone deep.</i></span> We were visiting the Driftless Region during a whirl-wind day-long road trip last Friday. We were town for the wedding of two of our Amish friends. Took the opportunity to look in on the old farm. The 20 acres of pasture was plowed under for soybeans. The lilacs and wild raspberry bushes were bulldozed for a more streamlined street-side appearance. The house, batted about by 8 years of Hillpoint wind needs refinishing, the barn a new coat of paint. But the old cemetery is still there. Folks still bring flags and flowers to decorate the graves. The view still knocks the stuff out you, and the feeling of the land there is unmistakably familiar, like the bread-doughy outstreched arms of a smiling Grandmother.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVIDUUYnuRgzepHIv5JGI5IcAQ7gpGp6Nua53ci1BnVcVuFfxgOe72b_Eu06Biaupw9s9b57e3mR_ESo7g-CTszpyMG0QIldm4Ua0ACgDqubqIRcyqY11SARqj_XrIe9jl9F5g5E90ZOJY/s2048/DSCF7655.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVIDUUYnuRgzepHIv5JGI5IcAQ7gpGp6Nua53ci1BnVcVuFfxgOe72b_Eu06Biaupw9s9b57e3mR_ESo7g-CTszpyMG0QIldm4Ua0ACgDqubqIRcyqY11SARqj_XrIe9jl9F5g5E90ZOJY/s320/DSCF7655.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The expanded Little Flower Farm crew in Hillpoint 2021</td></tr></tbody></table>My Grandma used to spend her summers at her grandparents' farm in Arcadia, WI, just 2 hours Northwest of our old farm in Hillpoint. The way she spoke of that place, and of the hills surrounding the old farmhouse, the front porch, the dairy barn...gave me the impression that heaven for her, was that little piece of land in Arcadia. She said something once that has always stuck with me:<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6bKvMBjuJU4lmIDZMKIXlD7vkpkwyjXR1S7mCQbXsc14-hy8oAp6WVFmiW-uvTibikl9k4G8zH46dyXXHZ8Wts5QVORE0-qcZuC_LqSrG0xq73aFmb99RrHsp_TH0zWe7NclEzfx1ebMp/s2048/DSCF7661.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6bKvMBjuJU4lmIDZMKIXlD7vkpkwyjXR1S7mCQbXsc14-hy8oAp6WVFmiW-uvTibikl9k4G8zH46dyXXHZ8Wts5QVORE0-qcZuC_LqSrG0xq73aFmb99RrHsp_TH0zWe7NclEzfx1ebMp/s320/DSCF7661.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jane (Erickson) Vessel with Uncle<br /> on the Arcadia farm</td></tr></tbody></table>"We never thought we were anything special." She said it with a simplicity that bespoke both humility and the certainty that those people, that place, that time, were in reality, immensely special and eternally important. The farm was "home" to her in a way that her other homes had not been. It had given her a sense of having once belonged to special place..<i>.It doesn't matter where you've farmed or for how long. Just the tousle with a piece of land makes for an intimacy that stays with you- bone deep.</i>.. One of her last wishes on this earth was to come see our farm. I like to think she has a better view of it now, than she would have from her wheelchair.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">5 minutes from our old farm, there is a chapel that sits in the middle of a small cemetery overlooking the hills and valleys. It is dedicated to Our Lady of the Fields. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge8Ps7gqeXoW4VwruH4XwZSu8v4Mcia-Y3lBZgx43Fw0sOzGyR17rZ3EcoAHrfoY4oA-s6UnWzR8KerjuEWTt8LsUHlSnlfFgjfALR3sbi73Mw44Fti4jvpgqKV4n8foEFvk3qCiv-HD2K/s400/our+lady+of+the+fields+chapel.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge8Ps7gqeXoW4VwruH4XwZSu8v4Mcia-Y3lBZgx43Fw0sOzGyR17rZ3EcoAHrfoY4oA-s6UnWzR8KerjuEWTt8LsUHlSnlfFgjfALR3sbi73Mw44Fti4jvpgqKV4n8foEFvk3qCiv-HD2K/s320/our+lady+of+the+fields+chapel.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><p></p><p style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>O Blessed Lady of the Fields, who loved the land of thy native Galilee, who watched the Tiller of the Earth and Shepherd of the Flock go out and return from Nazareth, who lived with and loved the rural folk of the village, look down graciously upon the fields and pastures of this, thy adopted land. Make our homes sanctuaries of Christ as was thy home. Make our fields fertile and abundant in the harvest. Help us understand more fully the dignity of our toil and the merit it requires when offered through thee to Thy Divine Son, Jesus Christ, Who with the Father and the Holy Spirit, lives and reigns forever and ever. Amen</i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; text-align: start;"></p><span class="body10" style="font-family: times; font-size: 16px; text-align: start;"><i>Prayer Source: <span class="body10">National Catholic Rural Life Conference, 1920-1960</span></i></span><br /><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p>Mr.and Mrs. Farmerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03188979181083669625noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-734212335740153332.post-38859380354639448952021-06-30T18:58:00.001-07:002021-06-30T20:15:40.657-07:00The Way to Go<p><span style="font-size: large;"><i> A Thirteenth Century Farmer Makes His Will</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">“At that time wills had to be written in Latin, and Reginald
Labbe (d. 1293) could neither write nor read, much less speak the Latin tongue.
So to the parish clerk he betook himself.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>The Clerk:</b> How much money have you to leave?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJDS1cHpQY9-jjUNMW4scK4lZC2F2n8_dG41pnXs9G4C9Z6LeS7iCTogkItaBgl3lEtb6osxtUdCqJJsx1BW0XLZVcwIhipDMwMyQFfbBCoasaIcxdM4gh02-p0AFyfDtlwzA14XGshI5L/s2048/DSCF7640.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJDS1cHpQY9-jjUNMW4scK4lZC2F2n8_dG41pnXs9G4C9Z6LeS7iCTogkItaBgl3lEtb6osxtUdCqJJsx1BW0XLZVcwIhipDMwMyQFfbBCoasaIcxdM4gh02-p0AFyfDtlwzA14XGshI5L/s320/DSCF7640.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>LABBE:</b> Not one penny. I have a cow and a calf, two sheep,
three lambs, as many hens, a bushel and half of wheat, a seam and a half of
fodder, a seam of barley, another of mixed grain, and one halfpenny-worth of
salt. Besides these, I own, in clothes, a tabard, a tunic, and a hood; my
household goods are a rug, a bolster, two sheets, a brass dish, and a trivet.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>The Clerk:</b> You’re well off. How do you wish to leave these
things? And pray remember that, as you have no money, some of them must be sold
to defray expenses.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>LABBE:</b> What do you reckon they’re worth?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>The Clerk:</b> Thirty-three shillings and eightpence all told.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>LABBE:</b> And what will the expenses come to?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>The Clerk</b>: A penny to dig your grave and two-pence to toll
the bell. Then there will be eightpence to prove this will, and six shillings
for bread-and-cheese for your mourners. And, say, another crown for fees of
other sorts.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt2dexM03yxq6_J7kgv4vzramB8NZnDmtTqYHWamz7YCH76fqvrLus6tDy1eYAftUUhA3LFUnUEmP9D1HQy9kFq2FYLhTpSJwPLNHUqs75cfKZOIrH7uAMsCcWVcSAFRDj7AORd0sWU-CM/s2048/DSCF7595.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt2dexM03yxq6_J7kgv4vzramB8NZnDmtTqYHWamz7YCH76fqvrLus6tDy1eYAftUUhA3LFUnUEmP9D1HQy9kFq2FYLhTpSJwPLNHUqs75cfKZOIrH7uAMsCcWVcSAFRDj7AORd0sWU-CM/s320/DSCF7595.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>LABBE: </b>Those figures are beyond me. But when all is paid, I
should like to make these bequests. A sheep to the church in Newton, and
another to the altar-and-fabric fund at Oakwood. To my wife, Ida, or rather, to
Ida my widow, one-half of my cow, and to Thomas Fitz-Norreys a quarter of my
calf.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>The Clerk:</b> Is that all?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Reginald LABBE:</b> I can’t think of anything more.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>The Clerk:</b> That will be sixpence for the making of the will,
and three-pence more for the writing of it out.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Reginald:</b> I can’t pay you now, but I will when I’m dead. The
sheep are worth tenpence apiece-take one for your trouble.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>The Clerk:</b> That will do very well.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Clerk then wrote it all down, and Reginald Labbe went
home with peace in his mind, and a Latin will in his pocket.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Eleanor Farjeon’s <u>“The New Book of Days”</u></i><o:p></o:p></p>Mr.and Mrs. Farmerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03188979181083669625noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-734212335740153332.post-20017552375731658952021-06-22T20:03:00.000-07:002021-06-22T20:03:19.334-07:00Four Fine Fields<p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBIuUXjSJv7rz09tn86DCnFA6Q4pIfhqqEoG-Y4nDwNvJRn2HwZaV9_9spw7mPQjgW8I9rreE_enaNJ3mhxKGficm-GtWjKNuGowSlmBWtENAQCO1msvqRSVxqvz3cFe6wopuCK6PJ4AQW/s2048/DSCF7487.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBIuUXjSJv7rz09tn86DCnFA6Q4pIfhqqEoG-Y4nDwNvJRn2HwZaV9_9spw7mPQjgW8I9rreE_enaNJ3mhxKGficm-GtWjKNuGowSlmBWtENAQCO1msvqRSVxqvz3cFe6wopuCK6PJ4AQW/s320/DSCF7487.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harvest and Delivery Day</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhACC-G4cWQ1uhVkObNAN24_EjN_EdVTITX4TwQekDmN3SuuJ3jIW0-ZaEJZFJPe1wA9xWVdvjEW25YrE6nMeBTGstpSW7uFSsVc-gfBd2SIXUIBYqzRkWwmvKVrYZ_eRO7lQVjqGL1q8Cl/s2048/DSCF7492.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhACC-G4cWQ1uhVkObNAN24_EjN_EdVTITX4TwQekDmN3SuuJ3jIW0-ZaEJZFJPe1wA9xWVdvjEW25YrE6nMeBTGstpSW7uFSsVc-gfBd2SIXUIBYqzRkWwmvKVrYZ_eRO7lQVjqGL1q8Cl/s320/DSCF7492.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Greens Processing Crew in training</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixtGG2wf4VhD47CwMOXEeQS_YdhftmQEFVT1PcNT7gVJEthPdquKA9umHcv8tkqkRr0-tgsOKR_xmAoFpgsMI8ezC-LMyobU6EQ-4HW7j8NQWAGGuIqZGKSRNk7W_T76djbbtovmHwLUIL/s2048/DSCF7538.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixtGG2wf4VhD47CwMOXEeQS_YdhftmQEFVT1PcNT7gVJEthPdquKA9umHcv8tkqkRr0-tgsOKR_xmAoFpgsMI8ezC-LMyobU6EQ-4HW7j8NQWAGGuIqZGKSRNk7W_T76djbbtovmHwLUIL/s320/DSCF7538.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bringing Buttercup in</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyqp7zFS7HmyywV5hY94AWxxB4bW3uwm9gUr5kJ9hXm_G58j4LP3DdFUM09EgPQwyFBkax16TZ66OpNI4nzkAq56H_m99M3PhND1xcZ7365RiWUkPyD2jjkzaKA6XZL8HUJeQQ0KhiFqjh/s2048/DSCF7531.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyqp7zFS7HmyywV5hY94AWxxB4bW3uwm9gUr5kJ9hXm_G58j4LP3DdFUM09EgPQwyFBkax16TZ66OpNI4nzkAq56H_m99M3PhND1xcZ7365RiWUkPyD2jjkzaKA6XZL8HUJeQQ0KhiFqjh/s320/DSCF7531.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little Flower Farm Cheerleaders and Clean-up Crew</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: large;">By the end of June the farm comes into it's own.</span><div>It becomes a patchwork quilt, a little piece of embroidery which we needle at each day, keeping busy with work which doesn't require us to lie, cheat, or steal.</div><div>(this is something which keeps us in good gratitude when heat waves, money troubles, or insects and their nibbling teeth press upon us most indecorously. )<br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn4riktSkW7K-2-gEogMmglBkybx9pvBX_nQunfTP-XYHI_oTMfp6zpLj7O9BspwQ5a35yd-_LpAskYU0YbdwcfdkEZAaPSGH8vYAxXZ6j8p_vp9Q2iY1kvncx6a9nnrrdGWqexZ5TYKjJ/s2048/DSCF7513.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn4riktSkW7K-2-gEogMmglBkybx9pvBX_nQunfTP-XYHI_oTMfp6zpLj7O9BspwQ5a35yd-_LpAskYU0YbdwcfdkEZAaPSGH8vYAxXZ6j8p_vp9Q2iY1kvncx6a9nnrrdGWqexZ5TYKjJ/s320/DSCF7513.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the Brassica patch</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtxUhj5Ghb3d_8DCnYY8cy-3h0ODkAdplYOcs-_au1GSXiBtmt3q51cnLPRiogEWjDik0b18TwIHX00La6Gq59JsdJ5zNyL4exIEuDX_vAc-SvCP2B-LlI1Brda4T5Wifw3_l7isJDpt7x/s2048/DSCF7508.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtxUhj5Ghb3d_8DCnYY8cy-3h0ODkAdplYOcs-_au1GSXiBtmt3q51cnLPRiogEWjDik0b18TwIHX00La6Gq59JsdJ5zNyL4exIEuDX_vAc-SvCP2B-LlI1Brda4T5Wifw3_l7isJDpt7x/w400-h266/DSCF7508.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Potato Field</td></tr></tbody></table> The cabbages always surprise us- which is saying something for a matronly vegetable whose plumpness and spread is hard to miss...but just as we notice them starting to whirl their leaves into a centering vortex, the butterflies hatch and we are momentarily distracted, only to turn around at the last minute on harvest day to find they have headed up- business like- while we were tracking gossamer wings and imagining partaking in the diaphanous miracle of flight...off we trundle to kitchen with dirty feet to cook up our dinner with the cabbage beneath our arm. You can almost hear it murmur as you slice into it and toss flecks of its fresh leaves into the olive oil. "Enough daydreaming! You must eat, you know! This'll put some meat on yer bones! Ready you for the day in the field tomorrow! We scoop up spoonfuls of the stuff and eat it over rice. With each bite we become more like the hardier stuff that brassicas are made of, like children, who despite their protestations will inevitably resemble their mothers!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjFYQ4MFnvPVHZASO9AFMttgq049H6QlCrx8xlj1ptCZvv6Ku4GNGyoD5oxPTpVbtoGSRxaFM55ENJ0su5W88AB-iO5UHGACsoi3UzI2y7sPwBrwCjRbbVss29ueLSsu0toASqAaqupfYl/s2048/DSCF7499.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjFYQ4MFnvPVHZASO9AFMttgq049H6QlCrx8xlj1ptCZvv6Ku4GNGyoD5oxPTpVbtoGSRxaFM55ENJ0su5W88AB-iO5UHGACsoi3UzI2y7sPwBrwCjRbbVss29ueLSsu0toASqAaqupfYl/w640-h426/DSCF7499.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bird's Eye view of the 4 fields of Little Flower Farm</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHzQhRL-6VRGUeOjdeZRFcxV-z6pBWQr8TGb1O0kIgU__v-WJOE1yfF40l2a-5TK56sPeo8KBkmkDsXKzeo96iY0ji2QNbDTWr_va4bISb0oggFbSVzZJQw-00coC4AkaURe1YidF_k7Dy/s2048/DSCF7495.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHzQhRL-6VRGUeOjdeZRFcxV-z6pBWQr8TGb1O0kIgU__v-WJOE1yfF40l2a-5TK56sPeo8KBkmkDsXKzeo96iY0ji2QNbDTWr_va4bISb0oggFbSVzZJQw-00coC4AkaURe1YidF_k7Dy/w200-h133/DSCF7495.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harmony Buttercrunch Lettuce</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Four Fields comprise our farm- at least the veggie growing parts of it. If you sing while you weed you can finish several rows before you even realize you've already finished the beets.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 22px; white-space: pre-line;">"What did I have, said the fine old woman
What did I have, this proud old woman did say
I had four green fields, each one was a jewel
But strangers came and tried to take them from me
I had fine strong sons, who fought to save my jewels
They fought and they died, and that was my grief said she
Long time ago, said the fine old woman
Long time ago, this proud old woman did say
There was war and death, plundering and pillage
My children starved, by mountain, valley and sea
And their wailing cries, they shook the very heavens
My four green fields ran red with their blood, said she
What have I now, said the fine old woman
What have I now, this proud old woman did say
I have four green fields, one of them's in bondage
In stranger's hands, that tried to take it from me
But my sons had sons, as brave as were their fathers
My fourth green field will bloom once again said she"</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; white-space: pre-line;"><i>Irish Ballad "Four Fine Fields"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2TWih69O2q4d2V2v4fbKseNVOYa5pHVQrDGKKBR52YTbFBDn6o1Q7UKyg5gfU1GJtwDUWLxyX14Hy-BwqNl7wmARUEVvCCACfi93NYoqMNMJpqjWqyec7bK_G7yy7I3h3WMtefgxHTAUS/s2048/DSCF7500.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2TWih69O2q4d2V2v4fbKseNVOYa5pHVQrDGKKBR52YTbFBDn6o1Q7UKyg5gfU1GJtwDUWLxyX14Hy-BwqNl7wmARUEVvCCACfi93NYoqMNMJpqjWqyec7bK_G7yy7I3h3WMtefgxHTAUS/w400-h266/DSCF7500.JPG" width="400" /></a></div></i></span></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><br /> <p></p></div>Mr.and Mrs. Farmerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03188979181083669625noreply@blogger.com0