WAR OF THE THISTLE

The battle against thistle is not to be won in a single afternoon.

Several weeks ago, you may remember, our farmers mowed down most of the oat crop in recognition that the thistle had too strong a foothold. This morning, Intern Matt returned to the same field to mow down any new thistle growth, lest the next crop planted there succumb to the same fate.

Pictures here:

Blogging Blunder

I made a mistake yesterday in my description of the lamb’s departure to the auction in Hackensack. It was accurate except they really went to Hackettstown. I don’t know if Johnny Cash has ever been to Hackettstown.

Such a mistake is embarrassing. I haven’t been carrying a notebook during much of my time on the farm—it gets in the way when shoveling manure—and now I’ve reaped the consequences of my cavalierity.

I’m going to go back now and correct the previous post. Since I’m doing some cleanup work, here are some other needed corrections from the past six months of blogging:

-The correct spelling of Intern Ram’s full name is Ramchandra, not Ramachandran, and I assume Ram (pronounced Rom) is a better spelling for his nickname than Rama, which I started using because I knew a guy in high school named Rama.

-A hay needle is much closer to three feet in length than four feet, as I originally estimated.

Okay, so who has noticed some more?

LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER

At Howell Farm, "Hackettstown" means the livestock auction. The word is both descriptive and a euphemism. When one of the farmers here noticed that Molly The Cow is looking quite old these days, he said, “Maybe it’s about time she pays a visit to Hackettstown.”

This morning, Farmer Jeremy loaded ten lambs into a trailer and pulled it away to Hackettstown. I asked him how he decided which lambs to keep at the farm and which to sell. His method is this:

At birth, he tagged all the female lambs who were twins and whose mother was able to deliver without assistance. He figures that, genetically, these lambs are the most likely to grow into fertile ewes.

The rest of the female lambs and all the male lambs will be sold.

The lambs in the trailer seemed quite calm as Jeremy prepared to drive away. They ate their hay quietly. I then walked down to the sheep barn to see how the mothers were holding up. They too, were quiet and eating hay. As far as I could tell, nobody was upset about anything.

As for myself, I know the lambs here lived a romping, free-range life – if only for three months. I’d feel no qualms about biting into a Howell Farm lamb chop. In fact, given the choice. I’d prefer the chop from Howell to chop from anywhere else. I was the first human to see many of these lambs after they were born, and I was one of the last to see them before Jeremy drove away. I know where they’ve been and how they lived. Maybe the only better situation would be if they were also slaughtered right here on the farm. Then I’d also know how they died.

(As a counterpoint to that last thought, I should note that I wouldn’t particularly want to be the guy doing the slaughtering. But I think I could, if it came down to it.)

OLD-TIME BASEBALL

Tomorrow is one of the most important days of the year on the farm – the annual Old-Time Baseball Grudge Match between the interns and staff members.

This year’s contest is especially important because the all-time series stands at a deadlock, 10 wins for each side.

Last week, we played a practice game during lunchtime so that all the newcomers, including myself, could get a hang of the archaic rules. For those keeping score at home, the better team won, 8-3, and your hero of the game went 2-for-2 at the plate with 4 RBIs. Then my loyalty-challenged team captain, Intern Matt, threw me off the team in the final inning. He thought I was costing him too much in monetary fines levied by the referee. I call it good-natured trash talking.

Some of the rules of Old-Time Baseball include:

-No strikeouts or walks. Everybody keeps hitting until they hit.

-One out per inning.

-No force outs. Every runner must be tagged or pegged.

Come out tomorrow to check out the game. Members of the public are welcome to join in. It starts at 1:30 p.m.

FORAGING FOR BERRIES

Back when Intern Tom was still around, we often discussed the merits of farming. On one occasion, he repeated something I’ve heard before, which is “Food always taste better when you grow it yourself.”

I have discovered this to be a myth. (I’ve been snacking from the kitchen garden lately and I have noticed no difference in taste between the three heads of lettuce I planted and the three Tom planted in the next bed over.)

My mother often says, “Food always tastes better when someone else cooks it for you.” This I do believe.

Based on recent experience, however, I now believe foraging to be the most satisfying eating of all. Yesterday, following my close watch this past week, I discovered the very first ripened blackberries of the season. I ate them all in a moment. They were good.

In regards to the blueberries growing in the kitchen garden, they too have been ripening at a rate of only a handful each day. I have made it my practice to harvest a few of the choicest first thing in the morning, lest other diligent blueberriers beat me to them.

Like most things, I suppose, the berry chase often surpasses the enjoyment of berry having.

Consider the recent strawberry harvest. The patch yielded so many strawberries that the other interns and I were able to eat ourselves full and then fill a large pot with the extras. I soon lost all interest in the potted strawberries, and I noticed that they sat uneaten for several days.

OATS NOTES

Oats are the grain that horses like best, at least by reputation. At Howell Farm, the draft horses receive oats before or after a bout of hard labor. They do seem to enjoy them.

Intern Tom planted this year’s crop of oats back in early April, in the long field nearest the farm’s main entrance. He planted oats with hulls, for the animals, and hulless oats, which are more suitable for us humans.

That was a day full of optimism, with predictions of Tom returning months hence to enjoy a bowl of homegrown oatmeal. It appears now that this optimism may have been misplaced. Unfortunately, a double attack of gooey bug larvae (from cereal leaf beetles) and thistle (a prickly weed) have brought about the premature demise of all the animal oats, while leaving the human oats in jeopardy.

Last week, the decision was made to mow down all of the animal oats and salvage the crop for straw. The human oats were spared, as they're in better shape, but remain in danger.

According to Farmer Rob, the human oats are also more valuable, and thus worth more effort to try to save. That effort would include pulling thistle out by hand. As for the leaf-munching larvae, they seemed to prefer the animal oats, which were planted a week after the human variety. In any case, the larvae are now transformed into beetles burrowed into the soil, and no longer a major threat.

I will keep you all updated on the situation. Here’s a picture of a thistly section of the oat field as it appeared this morning:

RE-ENLISTING

I haven’t posted in about 10 days, which wasn’t my intention, but the onset of some excellent summer weather plus a really busy week contributed to the shirking. I’m now back from my vacation. Some updates:

- My big personal news is that I signed on for another 3-month tour of duty at the farm, albeit in a slightly different role. About 60% of my working hours now will be dedicated to blogging, getting the farm’s dormant newsletter -- The Furrow -- going again, and pursuing some other writing projects. The other 40% will be farm work. I like the mix.

- Haying continues. The potatoes are growing. The oats are being challenged by thistle and eaten by bugs. The wheat is past knee high. The lettuce in the kitchen garden has been my dinner a few nights, and the blueberries growing there are almost ready. A patch of strawberries near the old schoolhouse has yielded more strawberries than I care to eat. Walking around the farm fields today I discovered a strip of blackberry bushes I will be watching closely.

- Groups of young campers will be running around the farm the next few weeks as they learn about the animals and play games. The other day they watched as interns Peter, Matt, Ramchandra, and I brought loose hay up into the ox barn using the big claw. I was working the upstairs when a pulley slid out of position on its track. As I conducted several unsuccessful maneuvers to get everything back in order, the kids started heckling me. I like their enthusiasm.

HAY IN THE HEAT

Our bale count yesterday was 661; the temperature held steady at 95 degrees Fahrenheit.

Farmer Jeremy attests that the hottest part of the day is 5 p.m., as by this time the sun has had all afternoon to bake the earth. My own experience had not convinced me that 5 p.m. is in fact the hottest part of the day, but under this premise we started baling at about 1:30, so as to avoid the worst of the heat.

Farmer Jim drove the tractor and baler; Farmer Jeremy ferried wagons; Kyle (a Penn State ag student off for the summer who is the farm's go-to-guy for hard work at 7 feet tall and 300 pounds of muscle) stacked the bales; and I hooked the bales and passed them back to him.

The best thing about working in the heat is that it supercharges your appreciation of the basic. Water never tasted so sweet as yesterday at 3 p.m. The bag of salty potato chips I dumped down my throat at 4:3o was the most nourishing I've met.

After four hours out on the wagon, I was glad when it was over.

In other news, Farmer Gary is on vacation in Tennessee. He reports this about the trip: "This is more fun than baling hay on a hot day."

PHOTOS: PUTTING AWAY HAY THE OLD-FASHIONED WAY

Photo 1: Intern Matt setting the jaws.

Photo 2: The hay on its way up.

Photo 3: Kid power on the rope.

PHOTOS: PUTTING AWAY HAY THE MODERN WAY

Photo 1: Intern Ramchandra dropping bales onto the hay conveyer.

Photo 2: The view from up in the hayloft.

LOADING HAY WITH 'THE MAN KILLER'

"The Man Killer" earned its nickname not because it is a particularly dangerous machine (that distinction belongs to "The Death Tedder"), but because it is known for wearing down hardened farm workers.

Yesterday provided a chance to test my mettle. I spent a good hour up on the wagon, spreading and packing the oceans of hay The Killer tried to bury me with. It was strenuous, tiring work, and in fairness to The Killer I know I didn't receive a full dose of her fury. Farmer Rob, who was driving the oxen who were pulling the wagon, stopped often to let me catch up when the hay came faster than I could sort it.

Based on my limited experience, however, I think that this machine is not as mortality challenging as its name suggests – at least not if you take it in the limited shift I did. In fact, I think stacking hay was the harder work of the two. The day after I stacked for a few hours my hands still burned and my muscles ached. Today, though, I'm feeling pretty good.

Watch the video below to see some of the action: