Of Life and Death

The last time I wrote about learning opportunities I was scoffing at a silly mistake I made that could have broken a part on our tractor. In all honesty I was making a joke to deflect my embarrassment at being a dope. A dope that forgot to unplug the tractor before she drove it.

What I've come to realize, however, is that being a dope and breaking a tractor part or two is the least of my worries when it comes to the farm. The farm is about more than that. It's about more than a simple tractor part, and it's definitely about more than my silly vanity and pride.

The farm is about life and death. Life and death. It's as simple and basic as that.

The lessons I need to learn and the opportunities that have arisen to provide me with those very lessons have been numerous and varied this spring, as are the emotions that come with the living and dying on this farm. These circumstances have come at a time when I have been feeling impatient with the farm's progress, with the organic conversion, and with the cows who hadn't calved and who also hadn't been very cooperative in my new grazing systems. "I've been at this three years," I kept muttering. "It shouldn't still be this difficult."

Yet three years didn't prepare me for this:

This is our bull and a pregnant cow lying dead in our pasture. They were struck by lightning during a thunderstorm.

Two good cows gone. All of a sudden my grazing difficulties don't seem all that important. Instead, my impatience was transformed into dismay and concern. Our bull was so gentle and easy-going. How could we replace him? And this mother cow was one of our lead cows, not to mention that she was due to calve any day now. Death on the farm. It happens, but who expects to find this scene after a routine thunderstorm?

The cows were extremely distressed, so we moved them to another pasture so we could remove the carcasses. In fact, I think it was stress that put one heifer into labor. Our very first calf of the season was born that night. Ironically, the bull's first offspring was born the day he died:

We named her Storm. And she is a beautiful, spunky little Murray Grey.

Life and death at the hands of a lightning bolt.

The shock wore off after a few days as I busied myself with smaller farmer duties--you know, the ones I like to do because I can manage them. The ones that rookies can't screw up. (And if we do, we can write funny little stories about them.)

But then my favorite heifer was in labor, number 11, and she was in trouble. She had progressed to the point where the calf's hooves were coming out and then stalled. We let her work for 2 hours wondering if we should pull the calf or let her alone. A cow will suspend her labor if stressed, so if you bother her too soon you'll cause problems. And yet if you let her go too long, both she and her calf could die.

As a rookie, I have no experience in making these calls. And the literature says you just have to have a "feel" for it. Great. That's helpful.

Finally we decided to pull it. We corralled her into the chute and called Farmer Scott from down the road. He's a dairy farmer and is absolutely not a rookie. He showed us how to hook the chains around the calf's second foot joint and then how to pull it down and away from her backbone. He and Marcel strained, and I mean strained, for about 10 minutes. They got the calf out and he lived, but barely. And number 11 was OK. Ahhh, life. Sweet, sweet life.

Disaster was averted and a lesson was learned.

Or so I thought. Because today we lost one. A nice large heifer calf died because we didn't pull her soon enough. We acted quicker than last time, but the placental bag hadn't broken. Farmer Scott came to help once more and told us that if the bag isn't broken in time, the mother can't get enough traction to push the calf out and the calf suffocates.

I had seen the intact bag and thought it had meant there was time. Precious time, ticking away for that poor little heifer calf. "It's hard to say," said Farmer Scott. "Sometimes an intact bag means you should leave the mother alone a little longer. You just have to get a feel for it."

There it is again. That "feel" thing. The way I see it, the "feel for it" is a farmer's way of saying you need to be experienced enough to know. And as easy as it may be to learn to drive a tractor or make good hay, this calving thing is throwing me for a loop. A very precarious loop. After two difficult births, it's hard to say if I'm really getting a "feel" for calving or not. The first time we waited longer and had a live calf. The second time we acted and it wasn't soon enough.

I am, however, getting a "feel" for the ups and downs of farming. The joys and sorrows. The celebrations, the frustrations...the life and death of it. I'm just not sure I have enough experience to know how to deal with it.

Wind

Today is another one of those blustery Northern Illinois spring days. High 40's and windier than all get out. Yesterday, we had thunderstorms and wind. The day before, nice warm temperatures accompanied by a stiff wind. Wind, wind, wind.

I hate windy days. Wind makes me angry. When I was in college, I lived a good 15 minute bike-ride away from campus. I relied upon my bike to take me everywhere. Madison, with it's four surrounding lakes, tends to be a windy place. So when I would bike to class, loaded down by a backpack filled with textbooks and notepads, I'd often find myself sparring against a strong headwind. I'd put my head down, and pedal as hard as I could. Just when I'd think my legs and my lungs could take no more, I'd look over at the students walking to class on the sidewalk. It was hard to tell who was moving at a faster pace. My quick Irish temper would ignite and a few choice words would escape my lips. "@#&%@ wind!", I'd mutter.

Today's wind is making me feel isolated and lonely, and I imagine how it must have been for women years ago on the frontier. They say many pioneer women went mad on account of the unceasing winds that whipped across the prairie. For today, at least, I can relate. And just like in the old movies, the latch on our porch door is broken, and so the door violently swings open and hits the porch railing..."Bam!" A second or two later it then slams shut..."Bam!" I half expect a tumbleweed to roll on by.

When I go out and call to the kids, my voice goes unheard. The wind carries it away. My trusty barrette that I rely upon daily to keep my hair out of my face is no match for the unrelenting gusts of air. The ground grain that I carefully poured into the feedbunk for the cattle was whipped into a whirling dustdevil that proceeded to attack me viciously. And I dare not lay down the bedding that I bought for the baby chicks that are to arrive tomorrow.

And so I am imprisoned. Idle. Locked in. All on accounts of this maddening wind.

Bittersweet

I added an old Irish proverb to my heading: He who has water and peat on his own farm has the world his own way.

This proverb speaks a rural language that is endangered in today's urban society. It embodies the deep connection between farmer and farm, and illustrates the pride and sense of hope that comes with owning your own piece of rural land.

Today, our connection to Irish Grove deepens, as my mom, my siblings and I become full owners of this beautiful family land. We are realizing a dream that has been passed down to us through numerous generations of strong, rural Irish men and women, not the least of whom was my father.

Dad lived most of his life on this land, and had a deep and loving relationship with it. His desire to possess this farm for himself was not born out of greed or dominance or potential profit. He wanted to play a part in his family's history as Irish landholders, and to lovingly nuture this farm for future generations. And he wanted this farm so he could ensure that our family had a place to call our own, a place to keep us grounded and united, a place that would instill a humble respect for the land, for hard work, and for our heritage.

Dad wanted to be the connection between the past and the future. He was, and continues to be.

Dad died two years ago today. At first glance it seems ironic that we would close on the farm on the anniversary of his death. At second glance it feels, quite simply, bittersweet.

A Gaelic Blessing, for you, Dad.

May the roads rise to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face;
The rain fall soft upon your fields

And, until we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

We love you, and are so thankful.

Harvest Hangover

Well, we're done. The corn is in the bin, Farmer Mark has taken his combine and gone home, and the phones are quiet.

Phew. What a whirlwind.

For six days, my life was dominated by corn. Yes, corn....the plant that has singlehandedly taken over huge tracts of land around the world and intoxicated farmers with its ability to produce those amazing seed heads, each one boldly holding hundreds of yellow kernels.

Now please don't start lecturing me on the evils of corn. I'm an environmentalist, remember? And a mother. I understand the pitfalls of mono-cropping, the stress corn puts on our soil and water, and the damage high fructose corn syrup does to one's body.

But during the past week, I most admittedly fell under corn's spell. I became enamored with its reproductive genius. I basked in its yellow beauty. I reveled in its smells, its abundance, its ability to dominate every waking moment of my life. I was as giddy as a teenager in love. Giddy!!

And now?? Now that the harvest is finished, and the corn has been neatly tucked away into the corn bin, or sent off by the truckload to intoxicate someone else??

Now I'm feeling the aftermath of my drunken harvest fest. My house is in a shambles. My yard is a mess. We have yet to return the tractors and wagons we borrowed. My head is foggy. I can barely drag myself out of bed. I'm grumpy with my kids and my husband. I have lost my drive, my energy, my passion.

I'm hungover, d*mn it.

And instead of being a responsible adult and admitting my weaknesses, I'm going to blame it all on the corn. That's right, it's corn's fault. She did this to me.

So let this be a lesson to y'all, especially you beginning farmers out there. Corn has an uncanny ability to bewitch, to dominate, to intoxicate. Plant with care.