Learning Curves - A Reflection

This morning we didn't just breakfast - we Dined. Sumptuously. What did we have? you might ask. A spread of gargantuan proportions? A fancy feast such as one would get at a seven-star resort? Some complicated dish that took me hours to prepare? No. We had bacon, eggs and toast. Simple fare for sure. But the bacon was home raised from the time it was a baby piglet, farm-butchered at 200 pounds, and home cut, cured and smoked. The eggs were from our more-or-less free ranging hens. The bread I baked myself last night from my current favorite recipe using some organic flour and home-grown and home-dried herbs. The flavors in this simple meal were deep and complex. I am convinced that this is because each element had the kind of life it was supposed to lead.

The pig ran or basked in the sunshine, wallowed in the mud, rooted in the garden, was fed good food and was petted daily. She had two friends for company, and they got on very well. She had a good, happy life until the very last split second. Even then, she was doing what she loved most - eating. I was very fond of her, and I look forward to getting more piglets next year.

The hens have a large grassy enclosure in the back yard. That is where their coops are and where they are fed and watered. But they are frequently out of it because their wings are as nature intended, and they can fly the fence. They hunt bugs, scratch for worms and seeds, wander around the three field areas - two have found where my garden is, but right now they are not doing any damage, so I will let them be. They, too, have a pretty good life and all I ask is an egg now and then, perhaps a clutch of chicks once in a while. The ducks have their own enclosure with a small pool, though they can actually leave the run they are in and go swim in the creek when they want to - which is most days.

If you had told me thirty years ago that I would be sitting here today writing of butchering and other rural activities I would have laughed in your face and called you crazy. Twenty years ago I would have given you an amused smile and ten years ago I would have told you "I could NEVER do all that". Yet, here I am. My whole life has been a journey that led me inexorably back to my childhood desire to own a small farm.

At that time, of course, I had no idea of how hard the life could be or how unforgiving Mother Nature is. I never thought about getting up in the freezing dawn to go feed animals. Or staying all night in a cold barn to ensure a safe birthing. Or weeding under a blazing sun. Or losing a whole summer's work to a freak storm. It seemed idyllic, always sunshine and sweet animals and bountiful crops in the garden. My uncle Len, who had pigs and chickens and a huge market garden always seemed to have everything under control and worked at what seemed a leisurely pace. My uncle Jim had a small Jersey dairy herd and also seemed to work slowly and deliberately. He moved his few cows down a picturesque narrow lane between their pasture and the milking parlor twice a day. "Cush, cush" kept them moving nicely. (Strangely enough, this doesn't work on Texas Longhorns, but that's another story) He milked by hand and when I was there he would give me large cups of delicious creamy milk still warm from the udder.

Now I know that the pace of work is also a measure of care. Nothing escaped the eagle eyes of these two gentlemen. What I thought of as easy indolence was, in fact, them taking the time to check each individual animal, to ensure that they were in top health, so they could intervene early if they were not. When I started out with livestock I lost a few due to my ignorance. I did not recognise the early signs that could have been treated. My delays cost the animals their lives. I did not appreciate Len's gardening skills until I tried my own hand and failed miserably at producing a fraction of what he did. I am getting better, but how I wish that he were still with us so that I could ask him all the questions I need answered.

Each year I try to improve upon the last. My animal skills are getting quite a bit better. So much so that I can provide us with enough home grown meat year round that I never have to buy it from the grocery store. I have learned to stand, quiet and still, and observe them several times a day. Now I have an idea of how they look and behave when they are healthy, I can recognise if they are even a little "off". I wish I could say the same for my gardening skills. I still have a brown thumb. But I am trying to develop my well-hidden talents in that area. I am pretty good at growing lettuces and baby greens. I can grow radishes. I usually get decent tomato, cucumber and squash crops. Those amongst you who are the gardening whiz-kids will be curling your lips right about now or politely suppressing a guffaw. But to me, every ripe fruit or vegetable I get to the table is a small accomplishment, a small baby-step further than I was. It is my hope that one day I will be able to grow enough to have rows and rows of home canned goods that will get me proudly through the winter.