As a daughter of a Kansas wheat farmer, I have many memories of crop disasters and appreciate the hardships faced by these families.  In those years, we didn’t have crop insurance and if the wheat died, it was a tough year.  I specifically remember years when hard hail took the wheat down at the peak of the growing period.  In my mind is an image of my Dad standing at the edge of an eighty acre field, crying after a total loss.

Well, Kansas weather has made the news this year with unpredictable dryness, wetness, wind, cold, and untimely snow and sleet.  We are experiencing the third year of drought.  Our wheat was happily growing with several inches of good rain and snow, but recently we have had three weeks of freezing temperature.  For those unfamiliar with wheat farming, wheat can be killed if the temperature goes too low at a time when the wheat grain stalk is maturing.

This week, experts hit the road in Kansas to diagnose how severe the crop loss was.  I found the photos and explanations very helpful in understanding their findings. Ag experts were in the fields looking for damage from two problems:  continuing drought as measured by the moisture available in the subsoil and 2) damage to the plant stems from freezing temperatures.

The measures taken seem fairly straight forward, if tedious.  They walk into fields all over the state and take random samples.  They test potential yield by counting the number of wheat stalks per foot and also pulling up plants to determine the depth of the plant roots, indicating soil moisture.

Plant damage from freezing was determined by examining the plant for damage.  I have provided photos to illustrate what happens when a plant freezes.

 
I haven’t heard the report of my own crop yet, but if it was damaged, it would have been from the freeze this week.  My county had abundant rain and the wheat was looking healthy.  Besides hoping for an income from the crop this year, I’d like to feel a little success as a farmer.  As we say here, it sure seems like it’s been a long dry spell for farmers.   

Ah, spring has brought back the farmers market, a little nice weather and has inspired me to cook some of my favorite fresh food recipes.  I picked up some early spinach that inspired a smothered chicken breast on a nest of fresh spinach, topped with a nice guacamole.   

The recipe gives me an opportunity to use some of my frozen chile as well, so this evening while the chicken cooked I whipped it all together and did my taste test.  “Ay Chihuahua!” Talk about an afterburn! I realized this was the chile I had frozen from the draught year – too little water often will produce a chile that is hot as blazes, even when it is a known mild variety.

Well, I saved the meal by adding an extra avocado and an extra tomato and as usual the combination was delicious, BUT, it did remind me as I planted this year to choose a mild variety of chile and to make sure I planted where sufficient water would be available.  I will look forward to the pungent smell of chiles roasting on the grill as I prepare them for freezing.

It is still cold here in Wichita and I haven’t even planted the lettuce. I plan to do that tomorrow after cleaning my beds out but we will have at least three days below freezing this week, so I don’t see a reason to rush it. 

Isn’t that what gardening is all about?  You work with the weather gods and plant when you know it’s right.  Maybe this year when I whip up the guacamole, “ Ay Chihuahua” will be for the surprisingly good taste, not the heat!

Took a little trip to watch the cranes in Nebraska and it gave me an opportunity to talk about game birds with my brother-in-law while in the car.

I like to think I am a reasonable person about hunting in general, becoming mildly obsessive only if I think it foolish or wasteful.  I eat venison, for example, but deer practically knock on the farm house door.  I don’t however, allow bird hunting.  I think it is wasteful and unfair to my endangered birds.

So, on this trip, I brought up the subject of turkey hunting, which this particular week seemed to coincide with the breeding season.  It didn’t seem fair to me to shoot turkey at that time.

So, I asked my brother-in-law, we’ll call him Charles, why would the state allow a hunt during that time.

"Well, he answered, “it’s only the males we’re allowed to shoot.”

I cast my eyes upon him with a look of incredulous doubt.  “I think that’s my point,” I responded.  “They’re MATING.  It’s not right to shoot them.”

He gave me a sheepish grin.  “Ah, you don’t need to worry.  We only shoot them after they have mated.”

"Ahhh,” I nodded with understanding.  “And how do you know if they’ve mated?”

He grinned again.  “Not to worry,” he said, shaking his head negatively.   “If there’s any doubt, we only shoot the old bachelors.”

We keep him in the family only because we've grown so attached to him.

You might expect me to be sitting by the fireside during these recent Kansas snowstorms, but I’m using the time more productively to prepare for one of my favorite volunteer efforts – creating a love of nature in three to five year old children.

As a Kansas master naturalist, I enjoy working in the local gardens and nature centers and as a lifelong educator, I am dedicated to the idea of kids loving nature too.  At Great Plains Nature Center, one of my favorite activities is a weekly group for preschoolers called “Little Nature Lovers.” 

As you might expect, the attention span for this age group is short, so we have found a switch of activity about every 12 minutes works fairly well with parent help.  My group does one fiction and one non-fiction book on a nature topic followed by a simple craft for them to take home.

The selection of the literature is extremely important.  If your public library is like mine, it has thousands of books for children, but I look for books with particular qualities. 

First, for both fiction and nonfiction, I look for books that reflect animals and life forms that are “real” and not personified.  Sometimes I find a quality story that might have an animal talking, but I always point out to the children that “we” know that animals can’t really talk and that it is just a story.  An example of this might be Owl Babies by Martin Waddel, wherein the baby owls do speak, but say what we might imagine any baby saying that was left alone.  The book’s redeeming value is in introducing what owls eat and the hunting practices of owls.  Still another example might be some of the books by Eric Carle, such as The Very Quiet Cricket, where speech is used, but characteristics of crickets can be found in the illustrations.

Second, I look for books that either have excellent and realistic illustrations, or photos. These are becoming much more available with the new national standards emphasizing nonfiction comprehension.  I particularly like the books written by Jim Arnosky because the illustrations are full and beautiful and worthy of discussion as a picture book.  I also like the Lerner “Pull Ahead” books that have photographs and excellent text.  I am developing this week’s lesson on the eastern cottontail rabbit and chose Rabbits & Raindrops by Jim Arnosky and Cottontail Rabbits by Kristi Gallagher.  The latter is a Lerner publication.

Finally, I look for good content that is accurate and appropriate for the preschool age. I like the Lerner publications for this reason as well.  The pictures and text go well together and allow children to respond with their own prior knowledge.  Sometimes I select books with great pictures and select the best of the information to avoid overload.

Many families are joining the effort to introduce their children to nature as well.  If you are interested in pursuing the effort, I would recommend the “Children and Nature Network” for ideas and links.  The website is at www.childrenandnature.org.    

Twelve degrees this morning in my little spot in Kansas.  It is the first true week of winter we’ve had this year, and still very little snow or rain.  The forecast is for warm days and no moisture for the next 14 days.  No wonder people say all Kansas farmers do is talk about the weather!  

This is the time of year the traditional farmer kicks back and waits for the crops to come up.  My family men fed and watered cattle and other stock, took the opportunity to tear down a tractor or two, and in the afternoon, stoked up the wood stove, stretched out in the Lazy Boy and took a bit of a nap.

Not a bad life, this country life.  As for me, I’m trying to get some water and food out for the urban wildlife.  The birds are not as plentiful this year – being smart sort of fellers, they are migrating around looking for more water than the Midwest has to offer.  Nevertheless, we are seeing a few hardy souls.

My household critters and I are just enjoying the days.  The cats help me keep watch for things needing to be done and if a little rain should fall, we’ll be seeing the birds again soon.  In the meantime, I’ll just keep the tradition, light the gas fireplace and read my new seed catalogs.  A girl has to dream.

This morning I opened the garage door and stepped out on a thin layer of snow to fetch the paper.  It was cold at 14 degrees and a gray day as we are socked in by clouds.  I stood quietly for a minute as small snowflakes fell on my head.  I could hear the Canada geese warming up their honkers as they assembled for the morning food run.  A grackle screeched from a nearby tree.  “Ah,” I thought, “a little moment of nature before coffee.”

Urban wildlife was a subject of discussion with my holiday guests this last week, so I thought it interesting that I had two birds identified in the first minute of the day.  Just a few days ago, family members decided they needed exercise, so I shared some of my walking paths with them.  My son, an avid hunter and fisherman, commented on the abundance of bird and animal life.  He also indicated that he didn’t normally see wildlife in his home city neighborhood.

Unfortunately, too often urban wildlife is not seen as it is camouflaged by people hurling through their lives.  Web MD “Health News” reports adults are spending 25% less time in nature this year than in 1987 and the time is declining by 1% yearly.  Research reported by the New York Times indicates Americans take fewer steps daily than any other country in the study – walking only half as much as the next country in the study.  Average distance walked?  Less than a mile. 

While the backyards of our homes do not supply walking distances needed to maintain our needed exercise, they can certainly be a good place to start to observe wildlife.  Watching and feeding birds is a good way to get started and can provide hours of nature education.  Birdwatching can also be the stimulus needed for a bit of gardening or landscaping as one provides a better habitat for food and protection.  With habitat comes wildlife.

In my own neighborhood, I have found that if I spend more time specifically looking for wildlife, I find others are doing the same and are willing to share.  A neighbor half a street down has become a friend “over the fence.” She has the tree that the Mississippi Kites nest in and was able to help me identify the birds that glide the skies.  Another neighbor I came to know on one of my walking trails shared the location of an owls’ nest in a nearby hundred year elm.  Raccoons, rabbits and possums are the subjects of conversations all along my street. 

Just a day ago the family went to a science museum with my grandson.  As we loaded into the car, someone said, “Oh, look, there’s a rabbit in the bushes,” and we all stopped to watch.  “No, there are two rabbits,” my grandson observed, “and a bird.” We waited and watched for five minutes and that led to a discussion of “urban” wildlife.

Even if you live in the largest city, there is wildlife.  It just takes a bit of slowing down and looking for it.  We need to look no further than our own backyard.         

I have been writing for the past two years about the difficulties of dry-land farming in Kansas during an long-term and continuing drought.  This has been the worst drought for the state since 1965. It has, of course, affected our gardens.  Insect invasion – especially grasshoppers - has been a challenge as the hoppers move to the only source of moisture available – gardens.

Our gardens were only an early indication of the stress on the environment.  Pastureland yield was only half of the normal hay harvest and farmers were feeding hay as early as August and September.  Although the wheat crop was adequate with spring rains, milo and soy bean crops were poor.  As farmers planted wheat this fall, lack of rainfall prevented sprouting and that which did sprout has died back from lack of moisture. 

In this second year of drought, we now find that wildlife in the area has suffered.  Game reports indicate drought has resulted in high die-off of the deer population and poor fawning.  Populations of quail and pheasant are low. 

USA Today reported in August that many cities are by necessity preparing for climate change as increased heat and decreased moisture has killed off large ornamental trees and grasses.   Major cities have begun preparation through better planting planning to include native trees and grasses.  Programs have been established to increase composting and water conservation. 

I cannot think of a better time to encourage agricultural and environmental awareness at all levels.  Our children are going to face a different world than we have known.  Climate change is a reality and the effects are real.  We need every single person to help us preserve this precious earth.

As I packed a Christmas box headed for my son’s house this week, I threw in an old bumper sticker I found in the garage.  It said “No farms, no food.”  Never has the message been more important.  We must all do more to learn the best way to protect and nurture our environment – for food and for life itself. 

I know that readers of this blog are already on board, and are educating friends and family.  As I see my own environment struggle, it motivates me to make just a little more effort to spread the message.  Not only is it sad to see environmental abundance decline, it is frightening to think that that slogan is true – “No farms, no food.”

Yesterday, Veteran’s Day, came in windy and cold in Kansas.  As I hurried toward the church door the wind caught me by the legs, scooting me along with my cape as a sail.  Although a bit bitter for a walk I couldn’t resist a few minutes out by the windrow to check on the birds and varmints that can always  be found there.

I have few memories of my childhood or stories that were told by a parent, but the story surrounding the planting of the windbreak trees is all mine.  The farm stands on a rise that just dares a gust to come along, and since many did, the only way to protect the barnyard and cattle was to plant a windrow.  My penny-pinching father went to the agriculture service office and bought some affordable cedar starts, I am sure no larger than a foot tall and in a hundred-bundle.  When they arrived on the bitter March winter day they had to be planted or die.  Since Dad had a job at the aircraft plant, it was left to Mom to dig a hundred holes, plant the trees in frozen ground, and water them in.

I am told I was a fussy baby and had a tendency to be croupy, so my mother nursed me for a few months after birth, thinking it would make me a little healthier.  The day the trees arrived, I was a few months old and am told I had a bad cold and cried constantly.  Any other woman would probably have told the trees to forget it, but Mom was a “get-er-done” gal so she spent the day digging two holes and then returning to the house to check on me.  Dig another two, check on me.  Every dozen holes she would pause to nurse me and try to get me to sleep, which was summarily unsuccessful.  Laughter bubbles up in me every time I think of the situation, although it had to have been a miserable memory for my mother.

The windrow served its purpose for many years and continues to be a luxury I allow myself as owner of that farm.  The barnyard still sits atop a rise and winds still rattle the doors of the barn, so its original value remains.  Over the years, many of the cedars have died and have been replaced by a good variety of smaller trees.  The fifty+ yard row now contains native hackberry, Osage orange, and new cedar starts.  It makes an ideal environment for birds and deer and I frequently see my old owl, hundreds of goldfinch, hummers and bluebirds there.   Today, I see the feathers from turkey, so I know they are close.  Just as I turn to leave, I see a movement and turn to see a deer moving quietly.  I smile and stand frozen and enjoy its shyness.

Many land owners have removed windbreaks and hedge rows as a tradeoff for increased production, but I have resisted that.  In the fifteen years I have owned the farm, there have been two dust seasons where the earth was dry from drought and the wind carried the top soil for miles.  Had my farm not been anchored by the trees, it would have been in another county as well. 

As habitat and as land anchor, my windbreak has value.  What makes it even better is that I know its history.  It only takes a bitterly cold and windy day for the memory to surface.  The rich animal and bird life overlays and adds to the habitat story.  I want to start a hedgerow of miscellaneous shrubs and trees at my town-house this year too.  I may not see the benefits for a few years, but I think it is worth waiting for.  I’d recommend one to anyone.

This week I was reading through my old GRIT magazines one last time before passing them on to a friend.  An article on the Homestead Act of 1863 caught my eye with some interesting statistics.

According to this author, “most of the 33 million schoolchildren today have never set foot on a farm; only two of every 100 Americans now live on a farm, and less than 1% of the 300 million people in our country claim farming as their occupation.”

“For heaven’s sake,” I thought in response. “Why is it that hundreds of families in this area are buying rural lots and building ranchettes?”  I reflected that this and surrounding counties are covered with rural homes. “What, then, are these folks seeking?  Privacy?  Freedom from regulation? More room? Perceived quiet?”  

The reasons are endless, I’m sure.  Many I personally know like animals, especially horses, chickens and dogs.  Others like to garden.  One guy I know likes to drive his tractor and “work.”

Whatever the reason, rural living seems to fit, in some way, each person’s definition of “the good life” – just like our homesteading ancestors.

It seems to me the rural quest revolves around “Work” and what we believe is meaningful work.  Our ancestors knew farming occupations, weather it was growing wine grapes or pigs.  Another generation combined industrial work with continued rural or small town self-sufficient practices.  Even today in France and England, families continue to be largely self-sufficient and in America self-sufficiency has been re-discovered with enthusiasm.  Some view it as economic survival.

The statistics given in the article covering the anniversary of the Homestead Act may well represent modern living that swung too far from the earth.  None of us want our children clueless about what a cow looks or smells like any more than we would want them clueless about whales or bears.  We certainly don’t want our children to think of ducks as animated cartoon or computer characters.

People who are seeking rural lives want meaningful lives, however that is defined.  Others do their best to get themselves and families to parks or zoos.  The difference is that a rural home affords an opportunity to “grow things,” which is a way to practice daily the care and feeding not only of self, but others, be it a bean or a dog.

 I have a great respect for families who have found a way to connect with “growing things” even though they are city bound.  Even if it is a bean plant on the patio or a rabbit in the backyard, there is hope that we could feed ourselves if we had to.

There will never be another time when the government gives land to us to homestead (pity), but perhaps there is hope as we swing back toward self-sufficient living practices, I hope that a few more children will have set feet upon a farm, will experience some aspect of life that recalls that food comes from “growing things,” that our land is one of abundance, and that each of us has a place in the process.

Schleicher, Jerry.  “Birth of America’s Breadbasket,” GRIT, July/August, 2010.

While I utilize many of the Kansas agriculture resources in my urban farming efforts, I also utilize the rich resources of the state of Missouri, a state that uses much money to supports a state-wide conservation plan to preserve and protect land for agricultural use, as well as for hunting, fishing and recreational pursuit.  

A recent Missouri publication contained a theme that has stuck with me – “I Am Conservation.”  This idea seems to strike at the very heart of what we are all trying to do.  Years ago, “conservation” was an idea linked to prevent land from blowing or washing away in the agricultural process.  The much admired Aldo Leopold is credited with changing farming practices, but even today the foundation continues its influence to develop land ethics nationwide.

The “I Am Conservation” theme addresses the conviction that as an individual, I am an actor in the process of protecting and preserving resources.  No longer can we view the responsibility for conservation as belonging to agriculture, for as we stretch to feed the world, we find agriculture has now extended to the provision of food from all sorts of sources.  We farm fish, seaweed, lichens, trees and fungus.  The control of seed and genetic modification is a hot political topic.  Every individual, regardless of rural or urban, young or old, is a steward of this earth.  How can we view it in any other way?

I think the importance of our individual actions is far underrated.  Even if we each would take a step each day to preserve by recycling, growing a vegetable or chicken, or by NOT poisoning our water supply with chemicals, it is still an important action.

My thoughts today lead me to become more involved in some local actions that I think can make an impact.  I can add just one more action, be it to plant a tree or to become involved in city planning.  Our future may well be in the learning of urban agriculture – be it roof-top and community gardens, or the making of compost.

What I do makes a difference.  I believe that.  I AM conservation. 

I am not normally a resistive person, but requests to hunt on my private property are beginning to raise my ire.  Here I am, just a small farm owner with a few acres of grassland and a couple of fields.  I go out on a regular basis and work my heart out managing the land so that volunteer trees don’t overtake the pasture or that I allow the thistle to overtake the meadow.  I leave some good grasses where quail and turkey can live normal and protected lives and hopefully, raise their young.

This summer I must have had at least a dozen requests to fish in my pond.  These requests apparently came from individuals who had not noticed that we were having a drought and there was no water in the runoff ponds.

This fall, I am getting requests from individuals who just became aware that the cost of beef and pork are expected to rise and so they are thinking deer meat might be an affordable alternative.  Never mind that my entire property is posted “No Trespassing, No Hunting, No Fishing.”  I guess these requests spring from the hope that it never hurts to ask.

It is the requests to hunt game birds that make me snarl the most.  I love to watch the turkey trail across the edge of the pasture, ducking in and out of the protective trees, peeping, tweeting and gobbling their way to breakfast.  The quail are so bold as to come to drink from the garden pond and eat the scratch from the bird feeder.  Pheasant are more often heard than seen, but I’ve nurtured a pair for years in the far windrow.  When I see any of my residents I feel it is a successful and blessed day.

To be kind in my response, I recognize that requests often come only out of ignorance to the extensive management it takes to have game of any kind on my farm.  People don’t realize that mowing is planned for post nesting or that a stand of trees was left for intentional shelter.  I’m sure most would think a pile of brush in the field unsightly, but I’ve noticed the birds don’t agree much with that.

I stand firm each time I am asked in my reply.  “No, you cannot hunt on my land.  I don’t allow hunting or fishing of any kind.  You see, I’m saving a little wildlife for my grandchildren to see.”

On August 4, 2012, a Saturday evening, my beloved farmhouse caught fire and burned.  I am still in shock and grieving as though it had been a family member.  There is almost nothing to salvage, as the wind was high and the fire made quick work of the old lumber.  I am digging through it this week and after the inspections are finished, I will need to have it demolished.

People have been loving, kind, and helpful and many others have suffered such a loss – some more serious than this in storms that have taken lives.  All the stories shared with me include the same inexpressible sadness and feeling of loss.  It is just heart wrenching to lose your home to any cause. 

As you might expect, I’m trying to analyze the loss, but I guess I have matured, as I’m sure not questioning why God would allow this to happen or thinking it was all part of the great cosmic plan.  Maybe the Mars landing by Curiosity this morning would fall in that arena, but not this.  It was just one of those accidents that occur in life that hurts like hell and changes a person forever.

I don’t know if I will rebuild, but I will keep the farm.  All the memories are still there with or without a house.  If I should rebuild, the new house will still be loved just as much as this one was. The sun will continue to rise over the pasture, the garden will still be eaten by grasshoppers in bad years, and I’ll complain about the deer thrashing my trees.  New memories will be made and hopefully, my sons will continue to say they own a Kansas farm that has been in the family for five generations.

Like all changes in life, some are difficult.  But they will take place whether we like it or not, so I am determined to get through this and adapt to the necessary changes.  I will treasure my memories, continue to farm, and yes, although I live in the city, I will always have one foot on the farm.

There hasn’t been a lot of news in Kansas other than talk of heat waves, drought, and the presumed consequences of both. It's enough to discourage even the heartiest. 

At my farm, the effect of the grasshopper invasion could be added as well.  A few root vegetables are hanging on and a few distasteful plants in the garden – like horseradish.  Last week the resurrection lilies made an attempt to come up, but the grasshoppers ate the buds at about two inches.

Despite the dismal outlook, I have been trying to keep watering with the hope my old faithfuls will pull through.  A couple of shrubs at the front of the farmhouse had suffered terribly and I decided to put a hose to them one evening.  I was rewarded with six orioles coming to bathe.  Jubilation would describe their attitude.  They were soon joined by two bluebirds, which politely waited their turn by wading in the birdbath for a few minutes.

A fifty year old viburnum at the edge of the yard looked dead, but I hosed it down as well.  Soon I saw one of the wild rabbits had dug a furrow in the moist soil and was enjoying a snooze. As I approached, he gave me the look that said “You wouldn’t dare make me move,” so I moved on, leaving him to enjoy his nap.

My farmer neighbor came by in late afternoon. He had been out carrying water to the livestock tanks.  “Hey, you need a little water?” he asked, gesturing to the big tank on the back of his truck. 

“Oh, dear Lord, you’re there for me today!” I thought as I hugged my neighbor for his generosity.  With a high capacity tank, I was able to give my new trees sixty gallons of water each – and they were still in need.  He may have saved them for me. 

Sometimes we forget that the wildlife suffers with the heat as much as the plants, so I am developing a healthy case of Kansas stubborn about this heat wave.  I just keep dumping as much water on as I can, and I know most of the plants and trees will make a comeback and my wildlife will come out after their month-long hunker down.

I guess you just can’t get an old farmer – or her farm - down.  We are Kansas stubborn.

When it came to food, my father was a pain in the butt.  A Kansas farmer of German descent, he was a big man, did big work, and burned a ton of calories.  At our farm house, we ate meat, potatoes and a vegetable topped off by a good desert – usually a cobbler.  Variety, however, was not his thing.

 We did not eat salads as most know them – strike any image you have of salad.  We had fresh green leaf lettuce doused with a special home dressing or lambs quarters doused with oil and vinegar.  I didn’t see head lettuce until I was in high school.  I was probably in college before I found fresh spinach.  We ate it from a can. In the summer, we simply ate fresh tomatoes, peeled and sliced into great thick slabs. 

I think I carry on his prejudices.  Although I have learned to love zucchini and yellow squash, my squash of choice is “patty pan.”  When I was told this year that we weren’t going to get them at the farmers market, I was gravely disappointed. 

“What are these little yellow and green things?” I asked of the imitations of patty pans.  

Reluctantly, I took them home and found them disgustingly – well, delicious.

Most of my garden was a bust, but I did salvage the beets.  Tonight I had a bowl that somehow became “diced” beets.  What!!! Not in my family.  We only slice them.  Funny, they were delicious.

I think I may get adventurous at the farmer’s market tomorrow morning.  A good friend asked me yesterday if I knew what those funny knobby green things that looked like a big white radish were.  Yep, I think they are kohlrabi.  Haven’t had one for a while and this may be a good week.

When you have a great market, you have good eats.  I hope you’re enjoying the same.

Again this year my garden is a bust – the grasshoppers ate the bark right off the trees so I harvested the root crops and am enjoying one of the best local farmer’s markets in the Midwest.  Since it is prime fresh food season here in Kansas, there is much to choose from.

Last week I was at the farmer’s market just before the 7:00 a.m. opening and I could hardly find a place to park.  By the time I had circulated to my favorite farmers, lines had formed, particularly for tomatoes, and produce was flying off the shelves.

I am convinced that the only reason people don’t buy many of the seasonal vegetables is because they haven’t had a very good experience either with eating some foods, or cooking it.  Sure, we all love home-grown organic tomatoes, but when it comes to squash or perhaps collard greens or beets, most wave a resistive hand and pass it by.  I have to admit those lumps of overcooked zucchini often served at restaurants are unappealing.

Don’t like squash?  Try this recipe that I learned from my New Mexico neighbors years ago – they also taught me how to roast the green chiles which are included in the recipe. This recipe is wonderful and uses the very vegetables that are ripe right now and that are so good for you – some onions, chiles, squash, and corn – and you can throw in some tomatoes if you like.  Besides, the name is fun to say and the kids like to practice their Spanish.

Calabicitas 

3-4 zucchini or yellow squash, sliced or diced

1 large onion, chopped

3 T oil

¼ t garlic salt or 2 cloves of the fresh garlic like I picked this week

1 4 oz. can of green chilies, or fresh if the market has them

3 ears of fresh sweet corn

1 c of grated cheese

You sauté the squash and onion in oil until barely tender.   Add the garlic, chilies, corn and cheese; mix well.  Put in a buttered casserole dish and bake at 400 for 20 minutes, or just add the cheese and cover until it melts.  Some people put bacon bits or a little leftover chicken or meat and make it a meal.

My suggestion to anyone new to local vegetables is to simply ask how to cook things – ask the gal standing next to you or the farmer selling things.  Saturday I walked up to Mary, one of my favorite farmers, and when she saw me she immediately said “Oh, Jo, good to see you.  Do I have a recipe for you!”

Buy a local or vegetable cookbook if you need to, but just keep trying some of the marvelous recipes that incorporate fresh food.  It won’t take long to convert the entire family to organic and/or fresh produce.  Wasn’t it Michael Pollen that summed it up as “Just eat real food?”  The funny thing is, when I tried to verify that quote I found dozens of listings on the quote – there is a Just Eat Real Food UK, a site on Facebook, and videos and websites galore.  So whoever said it, I most certainly agree.  I raise my fork to eating local and eating real.

A modern gal like me knows that to control weight gain, we need to watch the carbs.  Many diets urge “no whites” – that is, watch the intake of potatoes and other high- carb foods.  Since we tend to look at potatoes as a food to be discouraged in excess, it seems strange to associate potatoes with famine, yet millions died of starvation when the potato crops failed in Ireland in the mid-1800s.  On a recent trip to Ireland, I was particularly curious to know about the history of the famine – an event that brought many of our Irish ancestors to America.

I found Ireland to be lush and beautiful, very capable of raising food crops as well as much grass and hay.  In the 1840s, many of the landowners resided in England, often never seeing their land but renting it to farmers.  At the time of the great famine, the grain crops grown were exported to England, Scotland and Wales, along with butter, sheep, pigs and cattle.  The potatoes, cheap and easy to grow in abundance became the staple of the majority of rural Irish. 

Fungus, the cause of the potato crop failure, was a condition that occurred with a wet and warm season.   There had been lessor failures, and when fungus was identified early in the 1846 season, officials predicted a partial loss.  When the fungus devastated the complete crop, the British officials responded with much mixed political adieu, as well as some relief measures and employment programs, for not only was there no potato to eat, there was no work to earn money to buy other food. 

Eventually England began to supply corn to starving families, but Irish farmers couldn’t grind it sufficiently to eat it.  Later England sent pre-ground corn, but it didn’t supply the right nutrients and dysentery was the result.  To make matters worse, the winter was especially hard and harsh, forcing ships off the water that would have fished.  Had fish been available, the peasants would have lacked the money to buy it and if caught personally, could not afford the salt to preserve it.  Author Cecil Smith, in The Great Hunger, describes the 1845-49 famine as unnecessary; the Irish poor died of starvation while food in abundance was exported to other countries.

The peasants sold everything they could to get money for food, including the clothes they wore as rags. In desperation, families fled to the coast looking for work. The few who could get work did, others begged.  Living in makeshift shelters in close quarters, filth brought contamination from lice.  An estimated hundred died every week in the Cork area and the estimate for other southern cities was equally as bad.  During 1847, 400,000 people died and 1,500,000 died during the three year famine. 

The Quakers tried to help and initiated soup kitchens, utilizing the ground corn as the major soup ingredient, but quickly more knowledgeable people told them it was worse than no food at all, for it wasn’t digestible or nutritious.  Soon meat and vegetables were added and some felt the Quaker effort was significant in assisting the starving.  While in Ireland, I visited a site where a “famine pot” had been located.

Of course, we know that thousands emigrated to the United States as a result of the potato famine, but it was important to me to see the country they left and understand why they left it.  My Irish ancestors must have been made of strong stuff and I hope their resilience was passed along to me.  I am truly proud of them.

Seems like there is always an insect attacking the garden and I think mine must send out signals that I use few chemicals.  Last year was a vegetable bust due to drought and if anything did manage to sprout a leaf, the grasshoppers were on that in a minute.  This year our wet and early spring has produced a good garden, but the last two weeks have brought on the grasshoppers in small size and big herds.

The extension office had a flyer that provided some basic information:

“The young grasshoppers (nymphs) resemble small adults without wings.  Nymphs pass throug h 4-5 growth stages (instars) before they reach the adult stage and obtain functional wings. Eggs are deposited in pods in the soil in August, September, and October. Depending on the species, each female may produce up to 25 pods with up to 100 eggs in each. There is usually only one generation produced each year.”  

How, I ask, can a person think organically when the hoppers are chewing the plants off before your very eyes?  I did take on the fight though.  In desperation I applied liquid Sevin around the perimeter of the vegetable garden and on the iris.  The flyers indicated the hoppers like areas that are sparsely vegetated, so the dryer grass around the garden seems to be badly infected.

I also invented a couple of coverings – pretty fancy stuff made out of lace like you'd buy to make a wedding veil.  I have seen hoppers eat the tomato foliage, and then the tomatoes as well and this looked like the start of that degree of invasion. 

I have sprayed twice on the root crop plants and my “lacey covers” seem to be helping.  If anyone has some good ideas that might help, I sure could use them.

It’s funny how we look at our climate in appreciation – or annoyance.  One day we want warm weather, then the next we are too hot.  We want rain, but not THAT much.  Although out of our control, we sure would like to have a thermostat/humidity control to adjust to our desires.

Most annoying to me is the Kansas wind, especially on days like we’re having this week with gusts up to 45 mph.  Working in the garden is equivalent to being in a sand blaster and days of this dries the soil.  I tend to just be irritable in dealing with doors slamming in my face, garden pots flying across the yard and hair that looks like a 1950’s slick-back styling.

I should have much more tolerance for wind.  After all, as the mechanism to move and distribute earth’s heat, it determines the very climate I live in.  It is a tool man has learned to use in sailing ships and hot air balloons.  It provides the ride for pollen, birds and insects.  We can play in it via hang-gliders and with kites.  It assists in maintaining air quality in our cities and we are beginning to take a serious look at using wind in producing power.  And let’s not forget that it takes away the bad odors of feed lots and brings to us the sweet aroma of the blooming lilac bush.   Often I am working in the garden in what seems unbearable heat, yet just a breath of air cools me and reminds me that wind is a blessing.

Other than the severe weather conditions that produce Kansas tornados or dust bowls, I hope to appreciate more the blessings of wind.  The wind chimes provide a soft percussive resonance on the patio as they rock in a breeze this morning.  Just a few evenings ago, I rocked in the porch swing at the farm as I watched the wheat turn, the breeze rustling the adjacent wheat field.

When I left the farm last night, golden wheat swayed in the wind as it ripened and dried in preparation for harvest.   Kelly Hunt’s “Heartland,” a beautiful musical tribute to some of our area’s qualities, expressed her memory of the swaying wheat as “whispering wheat fields dancing their own wild rhythms.”   I think that comes about as close to describing this beauty that is such a part of my love for the land.

This morning as the sun rose, I saw the beautiful clouds the winds have brought to us with a promise of rain.  God has indeed shed his Grace on this land – on my land.  The wind, as it rustles the wind chimes, is just a reminder.

The asparagus is waning and there will be only one more cutting.  In the background, the wheat is headed and beginning to “turn” to a golden hue that shifts in the wind as if a great golden sea.  I believe Kansans learn their colors against these fields.

Mama says, “Look at those fields, Niña.  That is GREEN.”

“See that lettuce coming up, Niña?  That is GREEN.”

And there must be some culminating mastery test for babies that is “See that big John Deere combine coming up the road?  What color is that?”  Her bright child can only answer, “GREEN!”

My own son seemed to be in high gear through those early stages.  Although there were no words, he had eyes that took in the world with such happiness.  He was just super-bright from the beginning.  He spoke his first word when he saw his grandfather drive around the barn on the great self-propelled John Deere combine.  He jumped up and down and chanted, “Bombine!  Bombine! Bombine!.”  Since he was only about 9 months old, I groaned and said, “Katie, bar the door.  The child has taught himself language!”

Many years into adulthood, I saw fields in desert country and friends remarked about their green beauty.  I could only chuckle at their judgment and offer, “Green?  Shoot, you want to see GREEN, come up to Kansas where we shoot a little nitrogen on the ground.  Now THAT’s green!”

These are the weeks of such color and I am in deep appreciation of the earth.  It just makes swinging in the porch swing such a pleasure.  It is a sweet evening as I push slightly with my foot and read a good book.  Kansas evening just closes in about me, the slight breeze whispers.

Last week I ordered a book written by the famous gardener, Ruth Stout, the “mulch queen.”  Although the original was written in 1961, it has now been reprinted and newly released in 2012.   I am enjoying it immensely – sort of a fifty year celebration of the ideas.

Perhaps it is the title that attracts me – Gardening Without Work for the Aging, the Busy & the Indolent.  I use Stout’s ideas extensively in my garden for a number of reasons.  First, my arthritis forces me to find new ways to garden that remove at least a part of the work intensity from the process.  Second, I have very limited well water on my farm, especially if we are in drought.  Third, her recommendations about mulching seem to produce a better garden than gardening without it.  I suppose I really should add that good mulching also produces an attractive and well-tended appearance.

This particular book is a hoot to read if you like to mix good ideas with dry humor.  She loves to offer the odd and obvious questions asked to her as the preface to the point she is trying to make.  Since some of us ask the same questions ourselves, it doesn’t hurt to laugh at ourselves while learning.  As gardeners, it probably isn’t a good idea to take life too seriously.  Of course, I continue to read her later work as well, and it is in my city and farm libraries – The No-Work Garden Book.   Now THAT is my kind of book.

My garden is looking great right now.  I planted most of it on a warm April day that suckered me into the season.  I’ve had some rain to help it along, and yes, it is mulched.  I had forgotten that I can mulch the asparagus though, so I think I’ll do that this weekend.

If you are so inclined, one of her books would make great afternoon reading – right after the afternoon nap, which is a good thing to do with the extra leisure time.

I thought I might share with you that I garden with arthritis, with the hope of encouraging others who contend with the problem.  Perhaps I can glean some new ideas from you to work around it when “Arthur” is there in the morning and I can’t wait to get to the garden. 

How disabling is arthritis?  Well, it just depends on the day.  There are the days when I shuffle around like a hobbled horse, and there are days when I am pain-free and prancing like a race horse.  Either way, though, if you have serious arthritis, one has to be prepared for the worst days.  Those good days just don’t come that often.

Why mess with a garden, under such circumstances?  Because my mind is programmed to tell me I am a normal person, fully mobile.  Each of us has a self-image of health that defines what we do and how others perceive us.  If we believe we are incapable, we become so.  If we believe we “can’t,” then life begins to shrink around us.  But nature is in my bones.  To become an inactive earthling just doesn’t work in my mind.  First, I still need exercise for my body, and second, my heart and soul take wing in the wild.  I simply cannot imagine life without my gardens. I call that my connection factor to the earth.

I prefer to look at the task of gardening with an eye to “what can I do if I modify the task or procedure,” rather than saying I can’t do it at all.  I believe gardening is well worth the effort, because it provides critical exercise, especially in the areas of strength, stamina and balance.  Perhaps I could go to a gym and get a routine for this (who am I kidding?) or I can get it by gardening.  Besides, I am too well aware of the signals of aging like flabby underarms, gasping for breath on the stairs, and the statistics that one in three seniors fall each year – a balance issue for sure.

Thankfully, gardening has changed over the years and better techniques are available.  Some of those offer excellent alternatives for someone like me.  My limitations focus on the use of feet and tasks of balance, and use of the back, all related to a fall which resulted in broken heels and fractured vertebrae.  I am most grateful for the work of Helen and Scott Nearing who wrote so carefully about composting and water conservation and Ruth Stout, the “mulching queen,” each of which clearly tell me that digging a garden is not appropriate.  By converting to a mulching system, I no longer need to worry about using my poor feet on a shovel, and the weed population is very manageable.  To use up all that time I save from not performing such tasks, I read such magazines as Organic Gardening,GRIT, and even Fine Gardening.  One likes to be reinforced with good current information.

The feet, and the necessity of being on them, continue to be my biggest challenge.  Of course, I use my lawn tractor and attached wagon extensively to carry all manner of material.  I also position either benches or large plastic tree pots around the garden to get me off my feet when I’m working in that area.  As it turns out, I like some of those areas so much that I spend considerable “butt time” just enjoying.  I’m sure there is considerable research supporting the link between meditation and strong gardens.

Time and intensity are also modified for me.  Of course the start-up season is the worst, but once I’m past that I slack off and use the coolest parts of the day for about a two-hour stretch of labor.  I have divided the garden into smaller “rooms” or areas and set smaller goals for daily work.  I admit that I also add compost and bark mulch to these areas in the flower garden as I clean and groom in an effort to conserve water and weed-pulling efforts.  I also use a “one wagon” rule during the summer – this is applied when I begin to tire.  Instead of allowing myself to work to the point of exhaustion, I take my garden cart and walk through filling it with weeds or clippings.  When that one wagon is full, I quit.

Of course, I have also changed tools to accommodate my lesser strengths and capabilities.  I acquired a “lady’s shovel,” swear by my Japanese hoes, and have acquired some adapted trowels.  One of my best friends is a good serrated knife to clip roots. 

So there you have the secrets of my arthritis garden.  I suppose the solutions have to meet the needs for the areas of the body affected, but over time I have managed to get a good work-out and a good garden at the same time.  Are there days when I have pain?  Sure – most of them.  But, I choose to have discomfort while I’m doing what I love,  knowing my body is keeping its flexibility and balance, that I am still strong, and my heart and mind are where they need to be – in the garden. 

Pet-wise, I’ve been a cat person for years, but this spring an opportunity presented a ten week old rabbit to me for adoption.  I had the usual apprehensions about mixing a rabbit with a friendly cat, but “Carrot” fit right in and all is going well.

I had childhood experience with rabbits, and I must say the current options for cages are a vast improvement.  The one I selected is easy to clean and is on rollers, so it can be moved to more ideal locations.

Carrot was litter-box trained in a week, and with well-timed feeding I am able to let him free in the house without accident for short times.  Oddly enough, the cat seems to take care of him, attempting to herd him to her desired locations.  He wants to play tag with her, but she can’t seem to catch on to the game. I think a few more days together should bring a rousing game of tag & herd.

They are already friends, and Whiskers-the-cat tries to move the bowl toward him in the cage.  She lies beside him, keeping him company.  A day ago, when I rolled the cage through the French doors onto the patio, Whiskers was quite distressed, knowing he was not supposed to be out there.  I turned to find Carrot on his hind legs, reaching for the cat, and the cat inside the screen on hers, reaching for him.  Hearing her whimper, I saw the situation and rolled my eyes skyward.  “This is pathetic,” I thought.  

Seeing their friendship develop is the highlight of the day.  I do admit that I wonder if the neighbors are calling me the wacky rabbit lady.  They better not be!  They are the ones with the pooper-scoopers behind their large dogs.

I must say, rabbits have quite dignified food processing systems.  They are clean little guys, and this one likes to be held.  I’ll keep you posted on how this all develops.  So far my farm report says rabbits are fine pets.

Last year was the worst for gardening since my return swing to Kansas twenty years ago.  We had excessive heat for weeks and went without rain even longer.  The National Weather Service states the average high temperature for Wichita during June-August was 98.3; the minimal rainfall was ineffective.

Kansans are often criticized for their talk of the weather, but it is a critical part of our lives.  Ever watch 120 acres of soy beans fry in the heat?  Have you watched as your entire crop simply withered and laid its head to the earth to die?  We talk of weather because we depend on it every year of our lives.

I stood in grocery lines as neighbors told me they had no tomatoes.  We had few squash, melons, or even root crops.  We were skunked.

But this spring, we watch as the earth sighs greatly and takes in the rain.  I recall days when I pushed a mower until I thought my body would die for need of a drink.  I remember taking a full glass of tea, draining it with such exquisite pleasure as I gave my cells their needed moisture.  Can you not imagine how our farms and gardens are now soaking in the gallons of rain and doing the same?  Ahhhh, the soil breathes to us, as it takes in the water.

We lost a few plants that couldn’t stand the strain.  My beautiful bleeding heart is being replaced, and a few of my old columbines are no more.  But other plants surged from the earth mightily – larger and stronger than I have ever seen them.  I have lilacs that haven’t bloomed so robustly in years.  The resurrection lilies are nearly three feet tall.  I cut two pounds of asparagus from my meager plot this week.  What is this magic of grace that I am witnessing? 

I wish that country living was as ideal as we see in the magazines – with image of lilac green lanes and sheep grazing on the hillside.  But, the truth is, country means fighting those darned grasshoppers with guinea hens, pulling weeds in the hot days, picking ticks off dogs, and suffering frustration when the wheat truck won’t start and the combines are waiting.  That’s all country.

But country is also that breathless moment when the sun goes down, or that exquisite thundercloud as it builds in the west.  It is picking a tomato that did well, eating a salad from your own garden, having eggs from your own hens, and loving your kids as you send them to a local school.  Life may be so simple that there are days of plenty, days of want.  But most certainly, every day is a day of grace.

Years ago I moved into my city patio home with joy, as I knew the heavy yard work was contracted by the homeowners’ association and my only obligation was to tend the patio flower beds. I love to garden, so I had the patio beds made extra-large, and there was an additional large bed on the approach to the house.

Initially, I built the bones to the front bed with a twisted Japanese pine surrounded by hostas, but I was working with a large area with gradated sun. I have known for some time that most people can’t identify plants, so it was safe to mix some vegetables and herbs into the setting.

I liked the idea of planting Bible plants – that is, plants that would have been used for food or medicine during the times of Christ. Therefore, I included some eggplant, chives, garlic, and various herbs used at the time. Rue, lavender, rosemary and oregano were easy to find and suited to the area.

At the Herb Day farmer’s market I found what I needed. I brought the plants home and nursed them along for a summer. I actually use what I plant, so I didn’t notice that the oregano was creeping into a larger area – actually, the area needed some encroachment. And so we happily co-existed until this spring when I realized that the oregano had overextended its welcome. As I confronted it in battle stance I remembered the gentle warning that “oregano has a tendency to be invasive.” You think? A two-inch whiffy plant now controlled some six square feet of my garden plot.

Well, six hours of back-breaking on-the-knees work has the city-based oregano under control. At the farm, I have my oregano corralled within an enclosed bed and I justify a rather large bed for it to provide forage for pollinating insects. At the city house I need a different balance.

If you are considering this herb, I would suggest you put it into a contained area. It may look like a frail plant, but I can assure you, there is more strength there than you might expect. It is better to begin with a smaller plot than be forced to dig it out later. My aching muscles attest to it.

If heaven has a setting, Lancaster County came close this week as I enjoyed a few warm and beautiful early spring days there.  An international quilt show drew me to the welcoming and friendly city of Lancaster.  The historical downtown area was unique in that it had been well preserved and in continuous use.  I was equally drawn to the small surrounding towns which promised not only another view of quilting, but farming as well.

The local community expresses a high value of farming and fresh food, and many restaurants framed their menu with “farm fresh” or “farm to you” phrasing.  The Lancaster Central Market, a beautiful historical building, was a joy to visit, featuring fresh and organic meat, nuts, produce and herbs.  One of the best lunches that week came from the Turkey’s, Inc. stall.

The rolling hills around Lancaster are home to exquisitely tended farms.  The large white and stone barns would dwarf the flatland farm buildings of Kansas.  Of course the Amish and Mennonite communities are a regional draw for both craft and farming.  During this mid-March week we saw some horse-drawn tilling as fields were prepared for planting and plastic mulch applied.

I was especially impressed with the disciplined horses that pulled the Amish buggies.  I held my breath as a semi-truck pulled alongside a buggy with motor roaring.  The driver was going to make a left hand turn and although the horse danced a bit and frothed at the bit, it was under control.  I was in awe of the skill of both driver and horse as they turned and went their way.

Although Kansas has Amish and Mennonite communities which are equally as creative as entrepreneurs, I was impressed by the sheer number of business connections and the organization of the communities.  Tour buses pulled into the planned commercial areas which provide tremendous outlet for local food and crafts.  Buggy rides and petting zoos give children a taste of the farm experience.  Despite the shopping opportunities, the Amish have retained their privacy off the strip and carry on with daily life.  The 

For the many people who desire a farm or to live the simple life, Amish and Mennonite folks are good examples to emulate.  A people who live in the world, but are not of it, they have found abundance outside of a materialistic way of life – an example of the simple life we are trying to relearn.

As we know, consuming is compelling and hard to resist.  It was a joy to visit these communities of people who are content in their simplicity. 

When I was in the early days of my career, I moved from Kansas to a desert state and thought I would expire from homesickness. Some people thought I was just missing family, which was true, but it was more complex than that. My sickness started in the fall, particularly when I was too far south to see the season turn. It would then peak in March, about the time my nose told me there was a change in the soil temperature and I could not smell Kansas.

I suppose every state has a distinct smell, but the smell of Kansas is one of musty humus. We don’t plow much anymore, but to get the full impact of the smell I’m describing, just stand at the end of a field when a farmer pulls a plow across it and throws the dirt over. The smell is of old plants breaking down and mixing with all manner of bacteria to make more soil – a distinct “stick-your-head-in-a-bag-of-garden-soil” smell.

The weather forecasters say we are having an early season this year, and on this mid-March day the geese are flying overhead going northward. The migration of others has already begun and is ten days ahead of normal. I bet they yearn for the smell of the soil from their home nesting grounds just as I did.

By the time I was able to move home again – and I never was home until I came back to Kansas – the world as I knew it had changed. There wasn’t much family left, there were new neighbors, and people farmed differently, but I knew I was home. The seasons seemed to work with the earth like they were supposed to, and people cared about things like weather because it was a part of a way of life.

When the sky clouds up and moisture begins to fall, any of us can lift our nose in the air and say “Ahhhh, smells like rain.” When a March day begs for me to put my hands in the soil, I say, “Ahhhh, smells like Kansas.” And to me that also smells like home.

I wrote last week of the demise of the elms at the homestead, but farm jobs aren’t completed or dismissed easily.  That was a good day of work, and by evening the trees were down, but there were still a few details to be dealt with – like about a ton of wood laying on the ground and the “final” trim-outs to be done on the standing elms.

There must be a country law of nature that guarantees that darkness and fatigue will overtake any significant task.  As the sun went down on the piles of elm wood, the crew’s climber sat in the truck exhausted while the other crew members threw the last of the limbs on the trailer to take to the chipper.  A good strong breeze pushed the truck and trailer down the lane, a job well done for one day.

Most of us who have lived the farm life have a real sense of gratitude for what we have, so we believe that what we have, we ought to use.  Often it takes a little extra time to make good use of the by-products of a job, but that’s just the way we do it.

I called a neighbor who burns wood in his shop and offered him any portion of the elm wood he would take.  “In the next few days,” he would come and take a look at it.

The next morning the tree crew called to let me know that “in the next few days” they would be back to pick up any remaining wood and finish the trimming.

I, too, gave the project “a few days” break and by mid-week my neighbor had appeared, took not a little but ALL the wood.  The tree crew had finished their jobs and raked the entire yard.  The seventy-five year-old trees had simply disappeared.

Country jobs take a little longer, and our community of workers needs to occasionally stop work, exchange a few stories and rest when we need to.

Today I met with the crew and selected replacement trees, which took a few hours.  We told stories.  We rested when we needed to and in “a few days,” we’ll plant them.

There are three things about an old family farm you hate to lose – the ancestors that established it, the buildings that served them well and gave the farm its character, and the trees planted for protection and shade.

When I conceded this spring that the seventy-five year old elms had to go, it was with near physical pain that I called the tree crew. My inherited practical side then slapped me and told me to “get a grip” when I recalled that my relatives welcomed any improvements that came their way. In fact, they embraced any concept they could afford that increased efficiency and profit and decreased the work effort. Farming is a business, and improvement is survival.

The tree crew arrived with the right equipment and a man they called their “climber.” We agreed to trim out and save two trees and drop the others. The worst of the latter was a wretched old giant that extended one limb far out over the farm house.

Arturo was an amazing climber. He took on the giant while he was still fresh, and with the help of a second helper on the rope, dropped every limb to the ground without damage. In a well-planned execution, he dropped that tree in a little over an hour.

As I surveyed the completed project later in the day, I had no regrets. I will have an opportunity to plant a new generation of trees that are better suited than the elms, and I’ll get to watch them grow.

I woke up this morning to the new spring sounds of birds and frogs. As I surveyed the farm entry, I noted that the old trash buildings are gone and the trees now look well-tended. My ancestors would be proud.