A View From Here: Resettling Big Stone County Minnesota

That which you manifest is before you.

My wonderful sister-in-law gave me a book to read "The Art of Racing in the Rain." If you're having a rough week, this book is enough to make you want to slit your wrists- (ok- a bit melodramatic). Thwarted dreams told through the eyes of a dying dog, wife dies, losing custody of young daughter, arrested for sexual assault, and, of course, the dog dies.

The one take home message that doesn't make you want to gouge your eyes out is "that which you manifest is before you. Simply put- your race car goes where your eyes go."

So it seems that Mike and the kids manifested a pair of dogs. Mike has been talking about getting a hunting dog and Alma said we could butcher her ducks if we got her a puppy (kinda gruesome bargaining wouldn't you say?). By now you know that we live alone on the prairie. So last Sunday Mike and the kids were driving home from Artichoke Baptist Church and saw a dog on a nearby unoccupied farmstead. When Mike got out of the car, a momma and her pup came out of the grass--weak, tired, hungry-- alone.

I was in the garden when the minivan exploded with screaming kids and dogs. Mike and I reminded them that the dogs were probably from a "neighbor's" house and started calling around. We put an ad on the radio as well. But it looks like we now have two golden labs.

That which you manifest is before you.

So now the naming begins. I think the momma should be Joy-- in hope that Joy will get along with Happy. The boy puppy is another story. I say he should have a character name- like Courage, Honor, Reliable, Honesty... At breakfast this morning Mike, exasperated, asks "How do you think it will sound if I'm yelling "INTEGRITY!" while out hunting?" Which led to a chorus of us all practicing yelling "INTEGRITY" at the tops of our lungs while eating our blueberry buckwheat pancakes. I don't know- I think it sounds like a great thing to yell out. Try it. "INTEGRITY!"

That which you manifest is before you.

I read books like "The Not so Big Life" "The Artist's Way" etc... about how to achieve a calm, contented life of directed and leisurely purpose. And I can't help but think that it is all a crock-- I mean, give that book to the mom in Haiti who is feeding dirt to her child to stave off the ache of hunger. It's all a narcissistic dream of a pampered western world. Keep in mind that most Americans live better, more comfortable lives than the wealthiest nobility a few hundred years ago.

One of my elders tells me of her neighbor, a farm wife, who died too young- in her 40's. She always suspected that the poor woman worked herself to death on that hard scrabble farm with a half dozen kids. Poor thing probably welcomed the big rest.

That which you manifest is before you... When I was in grad school I peacefully mulled over my future. My mind's eye had me on a farm, growing spices and herbs, the theme songs was "I always cook with honey, 'cuz it sweetens up the nights..." There was calm and candlelight and a handsome man adoring me. And maybe I'm partway there- a farm and adored. But like Denny, the main character in The Art of Racing in the Rain, I have to go through some trials before I can take that deep breathe and relax into that future I manifest for myself.

Or maybe I should just get back to work.

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New hand pump on the farm

We had to deal with an abandoned well on the farm-- our choices were to fill it with cement or put it back into use. So we decided to put it into use by installing a hand pump. It's by the barn on the cement slab where a windmill stood 100 years ago. Jury is out on whether this was a good decision - financially. It just seemed worth a little more to make the well functional than to pay to have it filled with cement...

I drove home from my job in St. Paul last night. It was a nice drive- the closer to home, the more lovely the landscape. I listened to loud eclectitc music- sunroof open. As I was about to turn off the last paved road onto the gravel road to our farm, I noticed a black lump in the road. I pulled over and helped get a large old turtle over to the wetland on the south side of the road (which cuts the wetland in half). As I turned down our dirt road there were deer- regular white tail and a mile later I swear I saw a mule deer. A skunk ambled across the road. Early in the week we saw a fox.

There were also geese flying to the south in V formations. But I try not to look and I plug my ears "lalalalalala" to block out the honking. I am NOT ready for another winter. It is simply too early for the geese to fly south. I hope that is not an omen for early winter.

It's funny how I just have to turn off the black top to take in all this wildlife. How the turtle marks my turn in the road and the landscape comes alive for me after nearly 200 miles of driving. Nice to be home.

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One of the 2009 class of broilers

Mike and the kids caught the 75 free-range broiler chickens we've been raising this summer, put them in the chicken crates he made, and took them to Ashby Minnesota to be butchered. The one in the picture skipped the trip to Ashby.

We've learned a lot about raising chickens and it shows! I hope you can see how yellow this bird is- a striking difference from last year's chicken.

This year we didn't use the portable chicken coop- moving it daily around the farmyard. We just let the chickens run wild. They were smarter, more interesting, less concentrated manure, and ate more diverse food. They showed instincts- like diving under a car or propane tank when a hawk flew over. We even lost fewer birds this year. And I think they are tastier... They were "finished off" on crab apples. The chickens just hung out eating apples all day long the last couple weeks.

We made old-fashioned fried chicken (dipped in eggs- then into our hand ground Big Stone County wheat) and it tasted divine as part of a traditional August farmhouse dinner- slice tomatoes and cucumbers, sweet corn, fried chicken, and cilantro tossed rice (okay- not traditional). Everything but the salt, pepper and rice was grown on our farm. Topped the meal off with some Black Current Wine (for me and Leona) and a Summit Pale Ale for Mike.

Enjoying the fruits of summer's labor...

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When you click on and play this video, think instead of miles of prairie, wetlands, green corn and beans, and acres yellow wheat being harvested by farmers as we drive miles without any interuptions at all.

I drove the kids 70 miles round trip to the Benson Public Swimming Pool. We were there when it opened and the last to leave. Infrastructure? let me tell you about infrastructure. This is a great small town pool- four different swimming areas, slides, wading areas, and full of kids. Staffed by teachers on summer break and high school kids. It's like a flashback to my own childhood in Dodge Center.

If we had stayed in St. Paul my kids would be going to the Jewish Community Center day camp and playing in one of these elaborate pools five days a week. But instead this day is the event of the summer- one whole day at the pool, complete with a trip to the DQ where Lake was so tired his head almost dropped into his twist cone.

Before we moved from the city to the farm I went to talk to my pediatrician and the director of the day care at the JCC and asked their opinions. Should I take my kids out of this "enriching" environment and move them to a farm? They both said that if they could take every kid out of daycare and put them on a farm with their parents- that's what they would do.

So instead of a daily dose of fancy pool (we do have a pool in the backyard) they get an occastional treat of big pool fun. That's probably ok in instilling a sense of savoring and appreciating the good things in life.

It is certainly true for me. I left there remembering that the world would be short one giant joy if we couldn't enjoy our fleeting summer on the high prairie with a day at the municiple pool.

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Kids in front of our garden

This is season two of our farming adventure. We're learning a lot, making some of the same mistakes, and vowing not to repeat them next year. Well-- next year will be another adventure on its own with setting up 92 acres of managed grazing.

But this organic food production is enough to kill you. Spring is all fresh and lovely with well tilled fields -- no weeds. But by the end of July the weeds are threatening everything we've planted. We know... we know... cover crops, mulches, landscape fabric, all kinds of options. But we've got a couple acres of sweet corn, popcorn, and flint corn alone. And I've been "walking the bean" to try to keep our organic black turtle beans (1+acre) weed free enough to combine come fall.

I bought some marigolds, flower seeds, and purely ornamental plants this spring. Needless to say... they were not prioritized above weeding my strawberry bed, gourmet lettuce patch, and my potato field. Between work, family and farm.... there is just no time for ornamentals.

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Natural Resource Conservation Service Grazing Plan for our Farm
(EQIP = Environmental Quality Improvement Program)

Mike and I signed on the dotted line for the conservation plans for our farm- 172 acres total into grazing and organic agriculture beginning between now and 2011. We'll start by creating 92 acres of rotational grazing for beef cattle in 2010. This part scares me the most-- lots of fences, new well, many water lines and watering stations, big beefy animals that could step on little kids....

Across the driveway (not shown) we've enrolled 80 acres into the brand spanking new USDA Organic transition program. **Proud moment- we ranked 2nd in the entire State of Minnesota for this program** Mike is more intimidated by this organic 80 acres. In my mind, we could make this work just by force of will -- weeding by hand every day of the growing season if need be. Harvest with scythes, whatever... We actually calculated out the kids ages to figure out if they would be of good weeding ages in 2011 (7, 7 and 11).

So between the two of us we are confident we can make it work on the north and south side of the driveway (or conversely scared it won't work on the north or south side of the driveway).

In all honesty, part of my motivation for doing this (which my husband of nearly 15 years won't know until he reads this blog entry) is that we as a civilization have to-- HAVE TO-- learn (or remember) how to farm using sunlight as the major food source (grazing cattle) and making due with resources lower on the petroleum food chain (organic). Because in an uncertain future there will still be sunlight and some poop to keep this farm going.

So I am comfortable taking the risk of moving from conventional row crops (corn and soybeans) which we know can make the farm payments to experimenting with sunlight and crafty labor and inputs. When I say "Lord help us" that is not just a figure of speech.

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Photo credit: James Neeley

I just returned home to western Minnesota after a couple days in the SE Minnesota blufflands. Minnesota is unique in being the home to the intersection of three differnt biomes/ecosystems (prairie grasslands, coniferous forest, and deciduous forest) and when you travel between them you can see, feel, smell the difference.

So I'm suffering from ecosystem envy-- or probably garden envy! My sisters garden is a sight to behold. For example, last spring I planted 75 feet of strawberries which are soldiering on ankle high against the winds, cold, and dry spells producing hard little berries. At the same time my sister Kelley (and husband Jason- a dairy farmer) planted five plants and have knee high strawberries bursting with big berries and threatening to take over the rest of her garden, which by the way is spectacular.

Like I said in my last entry- the part of the prairie we live in is glorious savahna grasslands- but it is definitely a harsher climate. Violent winds, lower rainfall, longer winters (we are 250 miles North and West of my sister and mom). And not the easiest place to grow a garden. Our tomato plants were sand blasted by crazy winds blowing soil, my herbs just bake in the hot sun. My apple trees froze and thawed on their southern sides causing the bark to turn black and they too soldier on...

It also seems, from driving around, that the people and barns are holding up a bit better in SE Minnesota. Our barns, all around, are greying and collapsing. Empty farmhouses hanging on with thin hopes of being homes again. The barns in SE appear to holding up, painted if still empty of animals.

I tell my kids over and over that the key to happiness is to want exactly what you already have. To relish and delight in what is, not what could be. But dang, Kelley's strawberry pie tasted good!

**p.s. when I was little, a Dr. Neeley in Hayfield, MN sewed up my leg on a Sunday morning after an accident on Grandma's farm. This photo credit is a Neeley with lots of SE farm pictures. Anyone know if it's the same family?

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Grasp the Nettle= means to face up to or take on a problem that has been ignored or deferred

At first light on Sunday morning I'm sitting in a patch of frosty nettles watching Jens running across the backyard to find me. He's in his footy pajamas with bright blue puddle-jumper boots and wearing a huge red sweatshirt that hangs a foot beyond his hands and down to his knees. He has just turned five and is up early to ride the bike he got for his birthday the night before. In the chill of the morning he rides and I run up and down the driveway.

That is the image of my life I want imprinted in my mind forever...

The reason I was sitting in the nettles on Sunday morning is that Audrey (Moonstone Farms) introduced me (and Alma) to a new world of local foods on Saturday. I joined a group of folks to take her class "Grasp the Nettle" on eating native foods that grow all around us. This was another of those eye and world-opening experiences. We walked her farm and grove picking and eating all kinds of spring greens.

Then we prepared those greens into one of the finest meals I've ever had...
Nettle pasta with basil pesto (out of this world delicious!)
Steamed, buttered nettles with wine vinegar
Spezzati- spring onions, dandelion greens, Virginia Waterleaf and eggs
Ham and dandelion greens
Dandelion flower fritters
Burdock root sauted and mixed with wild rice and hazelnuts
Apple leather and dried elderberries

All that food grows around our farmstead without having to plant, weed, or water it. And it's free for the taking.

So we had nettles and eggs for breakfast and I even harvested enough to freeze some for next winter. Here's Jens eating the nettles- the thumb is pointed up, but his face says something different.

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Child in from sledding on a mid-winters night

Yesterday the kids came running, yelling "Grass! We found green grass!" We have a calf hutch on the north-east corner of the house as a play fort for the kids. Inside the hutch was green grass- all three kids jumped inside to enjoy the greenhouse effect that grew the grass. MIke and I stacked wood while they played nearby. Mike guesstimates that we stacked about 6-8 weeks of mid-winter heating.

Last January the days were so short that in order to get in any decent amount of sledding, a kid had to put on a head lamp to play into the night (which would start around 4:30 in the afternoon). One particularly cold, snowy, long evening of darkness, Earnest came back in from sledding in the dark with his brother and sister. His headlamp shining like his eyes-- he cut through the darkness of winter both inside and outside of the house.

The sun is setting decidedly north of our west pointing driveway, there is green grass to be found if you want to crawl inside a calf hutch, and right now the full moon is shimmering on the lake west of our grain bins (wait- that's suppose to be our field). Point is... "Even a blind man can tell when he's walking in the sun." I think it is safe to say spring is here.

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photo credit: Alma (this is one among dozens of staged horse photos I found on the camera)

The sun is rising slightly north of due west. That means we are really starting the time of year where the sun’s intensity warms the earth. A pink blaze comes through my kid pawed dining room windows and with the sunlight at this angle I can see all the fingerprints, lip and kiss marks.

What a wonderful Saturday. It was cold enough to slow the flooding of Fargo—but that sun angle made the south facing porch sunny and warm. I watched the soil on our farm giving off steam and make ground fog clouds. And then about 6 pm waves and waves of 10 of thousands of snow geese made their way from south to north across our farm. The sun was low enough in the west that it shown on their white undersides—they look like clouds of white sparkles filling the sky. I was at a loss for words. Stunning/magical/breathtaking.

The kids and I moved the table and chairs out of the kitchen to make room for a dance party. Alma is at the age where we are listening to both Disney tunes and Jonas Brothers. We danced until our sides ached. The weekend also included grinding wheat, making our first batch of hard cheese- some Monteray Jack, and a plush toy parade around the farm.

Late Saturday night I realized that I had forgotten to put in the chickens (Mike was out of town for a Blues Fest). So I walked into the dark night (yard light off) and through the dark barn to our chicken coop. Happy was too afraid to go in the dark barn- and I don’t blame her. My flashlight was about out of batteries. Having locked the chickens in the coop, I all but run back past the empty cow stalls towards the door. I stand on the concrete slab outside the barn door- the house lights a couple hundred yards away, the sound of geese honking in the dark all around me, a half moon in the sky. I hear a large metallic clunk from inside the steel barn ceiling and am propelled towards the house.

As it turns out, in putting the chickens to bed in the dark, I locked a skunk in the coop with them. None of the chickens were killed, luckily. But what a shock to find a skunk in the corner of the coop the next morning.

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Our son "Earnest" holding the Boxelder Syrup we made

Yesterday the boys and I went to Big Stone State Park for our first adventures in collecting Box Elder sap for syrup. It was chilly and rainy, but Joanne (ranger extraordinaire) took us out to see the trees she had tapped, showed us how to tap a tree, and let us collect 3.5 gallons of syrup. At home we boiled the 3.5 gallons down to one golden, delicously sweet and buttery cup of Boxelder Syrup. Compared to Maple Syrup, the Boxelder is milder- almost marshmellowy. I hope I can do this every year from now on.

Do you have any suggestions for very special dessert on which to use this syrup?

The Big Stone Bounty isn't only this amazingly delicious syrup, it's the generousity of time, talent, and spirt that led Joanne to make this possible for us.

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Geese rising from our south field just before sunrise 3/19/09

I'll try to find a photo later, but in the mean time you'll just have to picture this. Last week we had one day where the high was -11 degrees with a -50 windchill. Yesterday it approached 70 degrees. That feels like 120 degrees warmer. So we decided to eat some seasonal foods on the front porch (Girl Scout Cookies) and watch the kids play in the gushing streams and rippling waterfalls all around our farmstead. There were 10,000's of geese all around-- honking loudly in every direction. We saw the first ducks migrating through today and some seagulls as well. The sun is now setting nearly due west down the driveway.

The kids played until their feet were nearly frostbit from the 32 degree water and came thumping up to the house crying (at least the little ones) with numb feet.

What a difference a 100 degrees warmer and 10,000 geese can make to a winter weary soul. Mike said that as much as he hates the cold, he wouldn't give up the feeling you get when the seasons change. I think he means that pure joy of the first day of spring.

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Photo Credit: Kelley Reber 3/14/09 see that little patch of grass?

Has this winter seemed as long to you? There've been a lot of snow days, blizzards, sick kids, sick parents, and below zero days. The howling winter winds kept me awake some nights.

But last Sunday we saw the first flock of geese flying over the farm. That could only be greeted with jumping up and down with whoops of joy. The boys, in their snowpants, were in the mudpit beneath the tree swing surrounded by snow. What a welcomed sight-- almost hard to believe that spring will really come.

Today Kelley and I went for a walk and saw flocks of geese in all directions. We soaked up some vitamin D in the glaring sun. As it happened, we were at the point of the driveway when the pond on the north side burst through the culvert on the south side with gallons of water burbling up through the 4 foot deep snow drift and the water started cutting its path through the snow into the field. It was pretty cool to be right there when that happened.

It's heartening to see signs of spring, but I hold back my enthusiasm remembering the 23 inches of snow last April. Also, there are all kinds of pressing farming decision to be made and so I view spring a little differently-- will all that water work it's way out of the south field? Can we get in early enough to plant wheat? Should we fence in the 35 acres around the farmsted first or the south 90? Think I'll get a cup of coffee.

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This morning I stopped and listened to a silence in the world that I have never heard before. It was about 10-15 degrees, windless, a light fog hung all around the edges of the world.

The silence was startling in its completeness. No birds, cars, planes, people, machines, or wind. It was complete, total, and utter silence. There was not a single sound except my own heartbeat.

The only sign of life this morning was death.

I found a dead mole in the middle of the road. His whiskers still full of the ice crystals he made with his last breathes. He was curled in a comfortable ball- his fur lovely and rich in the early morning sun. What was he doing out there?

Mike came in the other night astounded that it was so quiet he had heard the 6 pm whistle blow in Clinton- 10+ miles away. Imagine standing in Highland Park, St. Paul and being able to hear a noise made in Edina.

Imagine being so surprised by a quiet world, having lived in it for 40 years. After a bit I hollered “I am here!� My voice echoed back- but I’m not sure off of what on this prairie

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Ice on (yet) un-named pond on our road

I dreamt the other night that I was in the barn with Jens and Alma. It was warm and I had lost one boot. Jens was barefooted. It was getting very dark and I decide to run back to the house with the one boot and with Jens in my arms - feet wrapped. I ran throught the snow and then fell through the crust and up to my chest. I could see the yellow glow of the house lights close- but out of reach. Alma and Jens crawled across the crust and I tried to "swim" my way out of the snow.

Monday I walked into the ditch to get on the pond. I walked on the crust until I fell in up to my waist- the dream returning to me in the pre-dawn morning. I walked around the ice taking in the frozen animal tracks, the drifts of snow like isthmuses across the blue grey ice, the patterns of cracks. Again yesterday I waded through snow onto the pond, thinking I was taking a completely different path and surprised to find I was walking the same steps. By day 3 it has become a looked for path of comfort. I smiled at myself the critter- a path making critter. There was an element of instinct- I'd found a safe path and sought that path.

What lies ahead of us is uncharted and we need a new path. It's going to require some trail blazing. There will anxiety, even fear. But somehow, sometime that new path will bring comfort.

Sunrise on the pond

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One of our children playing outside BEFORE his eye froze shut

You might ask yourself what kind of parent would:
1) let their children play outside when it is -30 degrees (not counting windchill)
2) let they play outside long enough that their eyes froze shut.

I'm that parent. We were on Day 4 of of blizzard/life threatening cold that had cancelled school for 2 days and an additional two days where the buses couldn't get within 2.5 miles of our farm to pick up our kids. Hence, the outdoors kids. I never had 4 contiguous snow days in my life!

What's more, our power went out yesterday morning. Among the crisis this caused was our well line froze UNDER the barn floor and the potential for our central boiler (wood boiler) in our backyard to geyser scaling water into the -37 degree air (it didn't) .

Through all this I was single minded, completely focused, obsessively working to.... MAKE COFFEE. In a crisis I must first have my coffee. After rigging up a bunch of candles under a pan I realized that I no actual plan for cooking anything without power. With an electric stove I'm, politely, out-of-luck.

I will tell you this. In the Cities there are layers upon layers of conveniences that make severe weather a theoretical issue. Bad weather is, in large part, not even an inconvenience. Out here on the prairie- a single family- it is another matter. The elements are right against you, a raw and exposed feeling. There is a but a thin wall between my family's well being and the cold and blizzard. When I drive into the Cities- I can feel the layers of soothing complexity and comforts abounding. But my eyes see things differently than others -- I see those underpinnings as a fragile balance with tenuous supports.

In the mean time, the water came back yesterday afternoon. Kids are none the worse for the exposure to life threatening cold. I should have included the photo Alma took of me with my elbow on the table, head resting in my palm, bottle of chokeberry wine in hand.

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I raced out of the house as fast as I could, ran through snow drifts, fell face first, but still couldn't catch the remarkable sight of a strong Northwest wind sweeping across the farm stirring up the cold icy/snow crystals in front of the setting sun.

As subtle as this landscape can appear, one can observe huge changes over seconds-- setting sun, rising sun, wind whipped snow, the sound of my own feet dislodging ice crystals that clatter across the hardened snow drifts (sound a lot like ocean waves retreating with pebbles).

Continue reading "The Norwester" »

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Vigeland Obelisk, Norway. Sculptor Gustav Vigeland. "Meant to represent man’s desire to become closer with the spiritual and divine. It portrays a feeling of togetherness as the human figures embrace one another as they are carried toward salvation."

The school bus arrives now before the sun is up— so I spend the first part of my run in the early steel grey dawn. When I got to the pond/slough down the road I stopped—not just paused, but stopped. The first thin skim of ice floated on the still water a few feet from shore. As I stood there a half-dozen muskrats jumped into the pond from right at my feet- maybe 3 feet away. Some of them did big belly flops- making a loud splash.

The sun was still below the horizon, but the sunrise was 360 degrees around me N-S-E-W. As I stood there the ice turned bright pink- right where I was standing. I felt, for the first time in my life, that I was at the end of the rainbow. Then one of those muskrats popped his nose up through the thin ice. Over my shoulder, in the squat, dark, dense little forest (it is very ominous looking and I suspected last year that a big cat- like a cougar- lived there) I saw a huge bird land in the tree about 30 feet from me. I thought to myself- I think that’s an owl. Who-who-whooooo comes from the tree.

I’m taking a new way home now- going cross county across the prairie. Some hunters ran their trucks over the fence to save walking a few feet to the slough. I try not to get crabby about those lazy asses and imagine instead that the tire tracks are some ancient trail. And who knows—maybe they are. At any rate- they make the walk easier through the waist/chest high grass. As I look to the north I see a shining neon pink obelisk some miles away. This tall sliver of light pokes up from the prairie and reflects the rising sun looking even more brilliant even than the sun itself. It’s some kind of monument, maybe to farming, or progress, or a failed past, or an uncertain yet hopeful future.

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Orion- the hunter

When I wake up maddeningly early and look out my dining room window I can see Orion-- at rest. Usually you see Orion upright-- his belt and blade at his waist and feet beneath him. In the middle of the night, however, Orion rests on the tops of trees lining the east side of our property. He lies there on his side-- relaxing on his elbow-- not hunting for the time being. I've a kind of repoir with this early morning constellation-- "you just rest there-- I'll get the coffee going."

I woke up in St. Paul this morning and walked out into the "darkeness" of the City. I looked straight up and was surprised to see my early morning companion Orion above my head. Upright and at work already-- another day another Horsehead Nebula. I didn't know or remember that I could see Orion in the City.

A bit later in my St. Paul campus office I reached into my jeans pocket and was surprised to find a handful of soybeans.

What I want to say is how this split life brings a reality to both. I can now see the stars in the City because I have come to know them, personally, at home on the prairie. I can now work in the Agronomy Deptartment with soybeans from my own field in my pocket. In some ways it is all the more richer because of the contrast.

But man I'm missing my kids.

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If there were a soundtrack to this post- it's this song. This U-tube video was composed as a gift and I'm borrowing it for the music.

photo credit Bryce Ritcher, UW Madison

The other morning there was ground fog-- heavy and wet-- but we could look straight up and see blue sky. I walked Alma to the bus and went for a run. There is a place not far from here that feels holy-- I stop running and walk down to the prairie. I get to the end of the path where it fans out into a grassy turn-around for hunters. It looked like someone dropped a tissue on a stem of bluestem grass. I walked up closer and see it's a huge, dew-covered spiderweb. I get on my hands and knees to look at the beautiful dewdrops, the intricate patterns and marvel at how this spider flew/hopped from stem to stem creating a 3 foot circle between a number of stems.

As I knelt there, I looked up towards the prairie as the pink sun was coming over the horizon, shining through the fog and this is what I saw.

The entire praire was filled with dewy spider webs -- every foot for as far as I could see. It looked as if thousands of shimmering lace hankies had been spread over the entire tall prairie grasses. At first I couldn't even understand what I was seeing. The angle of the sun and the dew had illuminated the entire prairie so I could, for the first time, see that every stem of grass was part of these intricate webs. The combination of dew, fog, and sun revealed a prairie world I didn't even know was there.

Each day since, I look for those webs and can't see them-- even up close.
Minnesota songwriter, Peter Mayer captues my thoughts:

This morning outside I stood
And saw a little red-winged bird
Shining like a burning bush
Singing like a scripture verse
It made me want to bow my head
and I remember when church let out
how things have changed since then,
everything is holy now.

Continue reading "Prairie Revealed (Everything is Holy Now)" »

Posted by Kathryn Draeger at 6:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

Our farm is filled with frogs and toads. When I walk out around the garden, I actually have to watch my step to keep from stepping on them. Do you remember Rana pipiens? Remember catching frogs in the pasture?

The scientist (or child) in me keeps chasing down and catching the frogs. I'm "surveying" them to see if we have any of the famed Minnesota deformed frogs. Back in the day we had school kids catching frogs to report deformities. The research was eliminated in 2001, but it continues on my farm.

So far. So good. Nothing but healthy looking happy frogs. Brown, green, and red ones. Lots of toads too. I find it a comfort to live among so many frogs and toads. It means that something is right with this land.

Tell me- do you have frogs where you are? Are you having a good year for frogs?

Posted by Kathryn Draeger at 7:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

I was stopped on mainstreet Ortonville the other day and someone asked me "what exactly did you end up doing with those eggs of yours?"

It has been one year since we moved here.
One years since we put in the order for those chickens.
I thought that I should revist some past posts and give some updates

~I've found a market for our eggs (Chicken Confidential) selling them to colleagues and friends at some of the meetings I attend in the Cities for $2.50/doz. My artist neighbor, Liz, is also a regular customer and it is nice to have a reason to visit with her on a regular basis.

~Artist Mark Mustful moved to Big Stone County despite the 15 inches of snow the day of his visit last April. It occurs to me that this lovely pottery has an integral connection to local foods as we will need stunning and inspiring butter crocks, bread bowls, grain keepers, and pitchers. James Kunstler says in his book "A World Made by Hand" that as our world became simpler we could no longer fail to incorporate beauty into the fabric of our everyday lives.

~The flash flood through our farm permanently destroyed about 30 acres of soybeans. We moved the bees to higher ground and they seem to be doing well. I opened the hives last week to check on them. The bottom box held dark amber honey, the upper box was pure, clear honey-like thick water. I stuck my hive tool into the honey comb, lifted my veil and tasted the wonderful sweetness of our farm's and the prairie's pollen and flowers.

~ We spent a month at the Ortonville Farmers market (Saturday mornings 8:30 to noon in front of the Columbian Hotel). Since this was our first year we are learning as we go. We've run out of vegetables except for tomatoes and our squash are not quite ripe. We'll spend a few more Saturdays there this year-- maybe selling coffee along with our veggies.

Here's a close up of less than 10 minutes of harvest time. That translates into 10 hours of processing to sauces and canning. This is exactly how I want to spend my Labor Day.

Posted by Kathryn Draeger at 7:06 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

One of the sights at the Big Stone County Museum

There are a group of folks coming together to Create a Value Added Community in Big Stone County. Through these gatherings I’m getting to know inspiring people, finding new treasures in the area (last nights people brought photos of a 1800's Rendezvous gathering, a kayaking stream, and a cormorant rookery), and working to make the Big Stone area a sustainable community for us (to quote Don Sherman).

We met last night at the Big Stone County Museum. This is a place of wonder and part of my awe was a brief conversation I had with Earl Komis, museum tour guide. Earl, nearly 90, was recently featured in Twin Cities Business Magazine in the 8 to 5 at 85 article. I learned just a snippet of Mr. Komis’ story.

In Minnesota, United States of America, around 1934 Earl Komis and some of his 11 siblings drew straws to see who would leave their farm. There was not enough food for the family. At 14 years old Earl drew the short straws and had to leave with just one loaf of bread. He walked 82 miles, sleeping in culverts and hungry. Along the way, a kind woman in Milan, Minnesota saw this hungry youngster and gave him a meal of grits. This act of kindness still catches in Earl’s throat 74 years later. Earl found a farmer needing help with 17 cows and was paid room and board for 2 years.

I asked Earl what he thought the future held in store for us—not just in Big Stone County but in our country. Earl, who lived through some of the hardest days our country has seen, said “The futures gonna be tougher than we’ve ever seen.�

I’m bringing Alma to this museum on Friday (when the boys are down for their nap). I hope I can nab Earl as my museum guide and maybe even have a cup of coffee with him. Earl is part of the richness and blessings of living in a county with one of the highest percentage of people over 65 in the nation.

Posted by Kathryn Draeger at 5:34 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

photo courtesy of Amy Stewart- worm author

I found my first earthworm on the farm yesterday. I pulled up a giant pigweed and saw the first worm in a clod of dirt. I was surprised to see it-- my surprise made me stop in my tracks. Worms have been completely missing from the soil- garden. In fact, I don't even recall seeing them skirming on the driveway after the rain.

I was struck with the sudden realization that our farm is absent of worms. And I hadn't even notice their absence until I pulled that first one out-- a 1 inch pinkish/blue worm. I ran across the field back to the house with the clod and the worm to take a picture for you all to see. Between the porch and the camera there was some kid emergency-- they got cold in the swimming pool and needed hot cocoa even though it is 84 degrees in the house, no breeze, and humid. By the time I got back to my clod of dirt the worm was missing. But it had been there- really.

It's good news that the worms are returning to our east field. It means the soil is coming back to life after all the anhydrous ammonia and pesticides.

Posted by Kathryn Draeger at 5:03 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

On their back were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.

Posted by Kathryn Draeger at 11:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

I had last Friday off from "work" and so was able to wash 8 big loads of laundry and hang them to dry on the line. It was hot and my laundry made the air even muggier. The wind whipped through our clothes and blankets and up into the sky-- forming that thunderhead at the end of the line.

I've become somewhat addicted to the on-line weather radar from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Adminstration. So much for just ~being~ with the weather. I want to know what storm fronts are forming across the Dakotas and heading my way. So as my laundry dried the radar showed moisture rising from my township in Big Stone County. The pattern over our farm formed a tiny smiley face :) of wet air rising. Standing in the yard, I could follow the wind straight down my lines of laundry, up into the sky to that thunderhead, and on towards the good people of Clontarf, Benson, and Willmar.

Glad no one was hurt in Willmar as that 8 mile path of tornado crossed the prairie. Sorry about your homes and buildings. I'll try to be more careful with my laundry in the future.

Posted by Kathryn Draeger at 5:13 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

You might spread this strawberry jam on your toast and eat it without hardly registering the complex flavors of the organic berries picked in a drizzling June rain, the air chilly on the edge of cold, and the mingling of grief and comfort. These berries were cooked into jam straight from the garden on a grey June day.

Last Saturday started with the kids and I leaving the farm set for an adventure (well at least I was and the kids had no choice). We drove due south trying to find a road crossing the 20 mile long Marsh Lake and Preserve. We drove into the preserve where the Minimum Maintenance: Travel at Your Own Risk road gave way to a grass track- “hang on kids!� I yelled as I floored the minivan through some mud spots. It occurs to me that I don’t have my cell phone. The egrets and herons rise up looking like Pterodactyls in a world before time. When I can’t drive any further I get out of the van, climb the rise that’s blocking our way, and see miles of marshy land and lake. Time to turn around. I’m so glad I’m not a pioneer trying to cross this wet land with oxen and wagon. We drive around Marsh Lake on the county highways and make our way to Brad and Kristi’s Coyote Grange to U-pick organic strawberries.

While the kids ran wild, Kristi and I picked berries side by side. She’s a connoisseur of berries like a sommelier is a connoisseur of wine. She brought me different varieties to taste- I liked each one better than the last. Kristi and I have a common bond—we’ve both lost a sweet little lovey— our darling daughters Nora and Milly Rose. Over the berry picking, pausing once in a while to look into each other’s eyes, we talked about our love, loss, trauma, and continuing passages to… what (?). The feelings of grief and comfort passed through our fingers and into these berries. Our combined five children play around us—dripping with strawberry juice as they eat their weight in berries. Alma is hanging close by to hear the retelling of losing her sister (she was only 3.5 when Milly died).

Hungry, we left Coyote Grange and headed to Appleton for lunch. At the café on mainstreet we met a woman without a home-- camping in the city park and visiting her boyfriend in the prison. She’d found a job in town, but couldn’t see how she would get a roof over her head. She’d come in the cafe from the cold drizzle and could only afford a cup of coffee. “I’m not much for eating anyway…� We bought her some lunch and were back on our way. Halfway home we pulled into the Drywood Church’s gravel parking lot and all took a ½ hour nap. It was gloriously refreshing.

So maybe if you’re lucky enough to get some of this jam (we picked 11 gallons of strawberries so don’t be surprised if you do) you’ll now taste all the loveliness and heartache of a day in and around Big Stone County.

Posted by Kathryn Draeger at 11:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

Tonight the clouds actually roiled into thunderheads before my eyes. The setting sun lit the clouds to the southeast brilliant pink. This picture doesn't capture how bright pink that cloud became- I had to put down the camera and do chicken chores as Mike ran down to the lake to help his dad. We have 60 broilers (raised for eatin') that have about 10 days of life left. As I moved the portable hutch I could see that the one with the gimpy leg was down-- too weak to move. I brought her over some water- tried to get her to drink. I could see she was dying. If I had the mettle I would have put her down. I don't.

So I petted her back and blessed her. Go in peace little one. Lord let this little guy pass in peace.
She'll be dead by morning.

Sometimes the contrast between City and farm is so great it make my heart ache.

Earler today I was having what would have been a 3 martini lunch (if not for the drive) with a very cool executive friend of mine. We sat at the window of a most comfortable, elegant restaurant enjoying good food and conversation.

I went down to the barn to care for the layers. As I walked back under roiling pink clouds, in the lush green of a late, wet June there was a song playing in head. As long as I can remember I've often had a tune in my mind. If I actually listen to that tune it usually has some meaning-- a subconcious connection to what I'm thinking, seeing, doing (as profound as the Wham hit "wake me up before you go go" when a kid gets me up 'cuz they have to go pee at night).

The song in my head was For the Beauty of the Earth (Folliot Pierpoint, 1864).

For the beauty of the earth
For the glory of the skies,
For the love which from our birth
Over and around us lies.

Lord of all, to Thee we raise,
This our hymn of grateful praise.

For the beauty of each hour,
Of the day and of the night,
Hill and vale, and tree and flower,
Sun and moon, and stars of light.

(To read the full version click "continue reading")

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Posted by Kathryn Draeger at 9:49 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

I scoffed at the idea of a flash flood in Big Stone County-- those sloughs and pothole ponds don't look threatening. Well-- we had a flash flood on the farm today. Hurrying to move cars and tractors as the driveway turned into a water fall. We have well over 100 acres under water.

Mike and I made a desparate attempt to move my bee hives. The pink spots are my hives sitting on the cement bridge that crossed the grass waterway. We moved the hives to higher ground. They were already filling with water and I hope they will survive. We lost a couple chickens.

Part of why this flooding is so dramatic is that our farm is at the bottom of a subwatershed that has been increasingly ditched and drained. The neighbor informed me last week that the county is putting a bigger culvert between our lands-- meaning water will flow even more rapidly onto our land... Looks like I'm finally living some of the watershed work I did in years past.
Whiskey is for drinking.
Water is for fighten' over.
Or else we just give into the landscape and the drainage and make that north 100 a wetland.

Posted by Kathryn Draeger at 4:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

On Sunday I was outside before the sunrise. As I stood looking to the pinkening sky to the east, a fog rose from the prairie grass just 100 yards from me-- its genesis right before my eyes. A deer walked into that fog. Birds were singing all around. I remembered a lesson from my high school band teacher, Mr. Paulisch, playing a symphony and telling us to train our ears to hear one instrument at a time. I trained my ears and pulled out different bird songs one at a time. A small, nondescript sparrow landed a few feet from me and startled me with the most lovely calls-- unexpected from such a drab, brown bird.

Three jets made their way east over the prairie-- maybe looking down on "fly over" country. Then the sun rose like a neon pink laser-- a pin point piercing over the praire. The world exploded in color-- the white silo turned pink and casting a 1/2 mile shadow across the field.

Later, at church I was surprised to read in the bulletin that I was the day's lector-- reading scripture about our responsibilities to our children. Muffins and coffee afterwards with the good people of Trinity. I walked with the kids to Bonnie's grocery on main street-- collecting an entourage of little kids along the way and the cell phone number of a local stone mason. After gettting our groceries we went over to the Clinton Depot playground. Our three kids the nucleaus for what became a gathering of 16 kids--a couple of whom went back to Bonnies for ballons. The waterballons were flying-- the ground around the water pump covered with multi-colored scraps of ballons. Lovely kid confetti.

When we came home, I made a batch of homemade mozzarella cheese, picked some basil from the garden, took a loaf of freshly baked crusty bread out of the oven and watched Star Trek TNG with my kids.

It was the best birthday of my entire life.

I had been asked to consider running for the open Minnesota District 20A House of Representative's seat.
I decide not to run.
I would hold still.
At least for now.

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On my way to the Cities I ritualistically stop after turning out of my driveway (usually around 3:30 - 4am), turn off the lights, and look at my farm on the prairie. I see the halo of the yardlight, the silhoutte of the farm house.

This morning there was no trace of my farm. It completely disappeared.

Agralite, our electric coop, owns and maintains the yard light on the condition it comes on automatically dusk to dawn-- there's no switch. I'd been stomping around because "what's the use of living on a farm way in the country if you can't see the stars for the yardlight." So we bought the yard light from Agralite ($50) and put a switch on the light pole which is about 100 feet from the house. It is switched off. It's nice to step outside in the early morning dark and see the stars. This morning, however, I left the house at 3:30 am and couldn't find my car 20 feet from the house.

When I stopped at the end of the driveway and turned off my car lights it was downright scary. Pitch black with no reference point of home-- no yellow glow from the farm yard-- no silhoutte of a house. I rolled down the windows thinking I could see better. Nothing but complete and still darkness. I rolled up my window and drove the 2.5 miles to the blacktop road.

That's when I realized that I didn't just put out the light for my family-- but I put out the light on another farmstead in Big Stone County. I used to see the light of our farm from that blacktop road. Now I saw an even larger expanse of black prairie-- depopulated--dark. A couple of our neighbors put out their farmlights lately (saving $10-$15 in electric per month). A couple months ago I actually missed the turn to the farm because the farm on the corner turned out their light which was my landmark at night.

Do you remember-- does anyone remember-- the nightime rural Minnesota landscape 30 years ago? As a child, sitting in the back of my mom and dad's Delta '88 cruisin' between Hayfield and Dodge Center, WCCO on the radio, driving home from grandma's -- my head against the glass looking at the series of barns with their lights on at 6 pm. All of them milking cows.

It's darker now on the prairie. This morning I saw one barn with lights on in 200 miles of driving -- one red barn with what I'll guess is one old farmer who just loves (or doesn't know how to stop) dairying. So I've turned the light off on my farm. One less light on the prairie.

Posted by Kathryn Draeger at 7:29 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

Photo credit: Kelley Reber
Idea credit: Maggi Adamek

The buds burst yesterday. The first hints of green trees dotted around. I had this wonderful moment sitting on a 5-gallon bucket on the porch putting beeswax foundations into the frames for my beehives. Mike and Lake walked down the lawn and Jens ran to catch up- his determined little arms pumping in the air. They walked across the makeshift bridge over the intermittent stream that is full of spring water-- laughing, playing, on their way to the chickens.

It's planting time and our garden is going in-- we're (which means Mike) planting a big variety including brussel sprouts, parsnips (to Mike's objection), 5 kinds of edible dry beans (black turtles to great northerns), herbs, 3 varieties of potatoes, watermelon... Leona is gathering herbs for a tea garden. The bees will be arriving here in hours. I'm gaining an intimate sense of place-- the moisture in the soil, the way it works, the temperature of the soil (someone actually ASKED me the soil temp yesterday and I could say "it's only about 42 degrees"). This is the part of being a soil scientist that I hadn't experienced in class or text books. Good classes too. When I took Soil Morphology from Terry Cooper a whole new world opened up to me-- the beauty and awe of a soil profile.

One of the senses of place is taste. The French call it Terroir-- a taste of a place. This is the subtle taste that comes from a place-- why different regions in France have wines that taste differently because of the soil, the slant of the sunlight, the microclimate. Perhaps why a Colorado peach is so peculiarly good. I've been told that there is no place on earth where the vegetables taste as good as those grown in the Red River Valley-- and that maybe they are especially nutritious.

We are learning the taste of this place. Our chickens, eggs, the water. When we moved here I kept using the Britta water filter pitcher that my mother in law left us. Now we drink straight from the tap (and yes the waters been tested and is good). The water has a distinct flavor-- even strong sometimes of iron. But not consistently. I think I detect the taste of that water in the chicken meat-- really.

Over the years we Americans have lost that sense of terroir --a taste of place-- as the food industry succeeded in delivering the same consistent taste bite after bite, visit after visit. I think that people have actually become afraid of tasting something different—reticent to have variation and distinction. So now our family will find out the taste of Big Stone County—of a clay loam soil in the prairie pothole region. The taste of the water, the fruits of the soil, the pollen and nectar of the crops and prairie, the sunlight, and the moonlight.

Continue reading "Terroir-- the Taste of Place" »

Posted by Kathryn Draeger at 4:43 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

This raw, early spring morning I got my kids on the bus and started running south. The sun is already well over the horizon at 7:20am. The plowed under corn field to the west of our house has become a pond. Three pair of giant Tundra Swans have taken up residence in the temporary lake for the past two days. They are startling in their size; 36 inches long, 80 inch wingspan.

I run on about a mile and then have to stop. Over night the wind shifted from the south to the northwest. When I drove home last night the ice was on the north of the slough and has now blown to the south. It isn’t an ice sheet anymore—it is about 5 acres of 2-5 inch ice crystals all bunched together. The wind blows the ice crystals together and they are jangling each other in the undulating water. I can’t run—the sound of my wind breaker, my own heavy breathing drowning out the sound of the ice, the ducks, the wind blowing through the dry prairie grass.

Enough high impact aerobic exercise. I just squat down in the grass and watch as the sun rises higher and hits the acres of ice crystals—patience rewarded with delight. I walk further down the road (forgetting to look in the scary brush forest where I suspect the Big Cat lives) and see a waddling critter making its way across the plowed field towards the slough. I sit down to hold Happy and we watch the muskrat cross a dirt driveway a few feet away from us. Happy would have preferred to eat the muskrat (which leads to a heated argument with Mike when I get home about how Happy learns to distinguish between rats we want her to kill and muskrats that I’ll smack her if she kills).

I get home and open a package that came in the mail. It’s book of poetry, Red Bird, by Mary Oliver. I open it to this page.

The Orchard
(click on Continue reading to see the poem)

Continue reading "Abandoned Exercise for Pleasure, Leisure, and Wonder" »

Posted by Kathryn Draeger at 1:31 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

Friday night:
Home from work in the Cities—kids home from school. Sitting on the porch with a Doppelbock, binoculars, and the Guide to the Birds of North America. The Red Wing Blackbirds descended on our farm like a noisy black cloud. Ducks are entering the mix of migrating waterfowl. Kids and dog romping in the sun.

Saturday morning: Send the kids out to play. Jens comes in sobbing that Happy is hurt. Sure ‘nuf. Sometime over the night Happy had an encounter with a wild animal and got her face slashed open. I’ve been suspecting that we have a Big Cat (like a cougar) around here—but Happy probably wouldn’t have lived through that encounter. Maybe a badger or something. She looks awful—her poor snout like sliced meat. We doctor her and love her up—she’s not racing around like her usual self.

Then the kids and I head down to play with our chickens. I’m so pleased to see a whole row of chickens sitting in their nesting box to lay eggs—better than finding the eggs on the coup floor. I’m feeding them some organic flax when Alma screams “Banana is dead!� Sure ‘nuf. There’s Banana crumpled up on the edge of the coup. We suspect murder. Now since we have 38 (now 37) “mixed heavies� we can tell them apart- brown, red, black, black/white, white chickens- most with names. I gather all the kids and run back to the house. Jens and Alma fighting over who gets to break the news to Dad about poor Banana.

Mike deadpans,
“Whadya do with it?�
“Do with it? I gathered our children and raced to the house.�
Mike stares at me, “you left a dead chicken?�
I wasn’t going to pick it up. I didn’t have gloves and, frankly, NO—I’m not handling the dead livestock.

Mike uses some old fashioned word like “I’m incensed you didn’t take care of the dead chicken.� [NOTE: the kids and I refer to her as Banana and to Mike it’s “that dead chicken�] By his way of thinking, I should be behaving as the farmer I hope to claim to be.

But by my calculations, as long as a woman has a living, functioning husband he can:

1) Sharpen all the kitchen knives- always
2) Handle all dead livestock

Back to my porch—this time a cup of coffee and the Co-op newsletter. They boys magically learned to peddle over the winter. They’re racing down the dirt/gravel driveway on their tricycles to low point between garage and ‘machine shed’ where they get mired in the mud. Alma red faced from racing up and down our ½ mile driveway. “Time me!� She’s at 6 minutes per round trip. My poor hurt dog stretched out beside me—tail wagging, smelling like a skunk. We had a baby skunk on the porch—cute little thing I hear. Happy “scared� it off- now she and parts of our house smell of skunk.

Point is… this is a wild place. A farm in nature. There aren’t many of these around. But right here on the southern edge of Malta township we have very few people (we’re the only ones in a four square mile area) and a fair amount of prairie pothole habitat. We have lots of deer, pheasants, mice, skunks, rabbits, possum (don’t get me started on the possum—ecological refugees invading other critters habitat niche), coyotes, waterfowl, a big cat (I suspect). Life, death, disfigurement. It’s all here—all in one day’s livin’.

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The snow geese arrived last weekend-- in the 10's of thousands. They came at first in flocks with the Canadian geese-- a few white geese along with the greys. So much for "birds of a feather..." Now there are sheets of the white geese with black wing tips across the sky and the land. Their calls so loud you don't even need to open the windows to hear them-- although it may be saying something about our windows as well.

Alma made up a song "...There's no better place to live than in the prairie where the birds are wild..."

As the school bus made its way across the prairie (I can see the bus from about 4 miles away) the flocks fly up around it like silvery clouds-- circling overhead and all around-- floating off like clouds towards the horizon. I hear that climate change has benefited the snow geese-- individual flocks numbering up into the 80,000 range. Me, I'm just in awe-- jaw dropping awe of these dramatically beautiful creatures. There sheer numbers part of the awesome beauty.

Posted by Kathryn Draeger at 8:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

There are gravestones made of wheat and here there are farmsteads marked with granite headstones. Tombstones to remember the once vital landscape.

This is the farmstead at the end of our section.

The Hansons erected this monument to their beloved. To a life well lived. I invite you to come visit this marker yourself. It shows a beautiful farmstead that I imagine with chickens, pigs, cows, small grains, a pasture, flowers, gardens, children. The windmill tower still stands. It is the most beautiful farm site-- right on a shallow lake. They probably saw waterfowl in the hundreds of thousands. I image they were happy, well fed, comfortable much of the time.

Was it a blip in time to have this American landscape populated with small farms? With self reliant, hard working folk? Is that all gone forever? Nothing remaining but old groves where barns and houses once stood. An occasional granite marker where the farmsteads and churches once stood.

I know a thing or two about grief-- and this is grief. One day last year I sat on the St. Paul campus in a group of faculty and rural community members. The metro faculty talking about how to confront all the encroaching growth and development. After 1/2 hour one of the rural people said "you talk about growth-- but we are just trying to stave off the grief at all the loss." The loss of our farms, farmers, children, neighbors. This county--Big Stone-- has lost 50% of its people in the last 30 years.

I'm not staving off grief. I never have. But we're certainly not ready to give up that dream of having more farms and farmers all around us. Did you hear MPR this morning? There are people who want to come back.-- to farm for a living.

I can show them some really nice farm sites....

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Pre-sunrise 3/20/08-- the dark cloud on horizon is waterfowl in the distance

Dark clouds of geese rise on the horizon, darkening the sky. Waterfowl are migrating through Big Stone County in the 10's of thousands. Here on the farm there is a 360 degree surround sound-- a symphony of cries, calls, honking. Their encouragement, connection, community. Just before they take off en masse they start a din of honking. They fly in V's within V's within V's. It stops me in my tracks to see the sky so full-- they fly right over my head.

As I put Jens and Lake down to bed last night-- pulling down the shade to the yard light and the snow storm-- I said outloud, half thinking to myself "oh those poor geese." (we are buried in about 10 inches of fresh new snow). Lake says "don't worry mom- they have warm fur."

But I right now in the midst of this blizzard, I don't hear the geese muffled under the snow. Only an occasional isolated honk. I tried to go out for a walk by myself in the dark blizzard this morning. But those dang boys were up at 5:50 a.m. and caught me standing in the entry with my boots and coat on. So I had to suit them up to join me. The snow too deep for their 3-year-old legs. We followed a fresh set of tracks that looped around the yard along the tall grass. I think it was a mouse-- such small prints that didn't sink into the fluffy snow. The boys got cold and so I sent them in. Then I walked far enough away from the yard light to get into the dark out on the prairie and laid in the deep quiet snow-- pelting my face-- so silent-- dark--peaceful. It's in those moments I know I'm where I belong.

minutes later-- sunrise with a flock overhead-- not retouched

Continue reading "360 degree symphony" »

Posted by Kathryn Draeger at 7:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Photo credit Dan Bush

I couldn't see what I see right now from our house in St. Paul. The nearly full moon is setting about 40 degrees above the horizon. I've noticed that the trajectory of the moon changes-- where it rises and falls on the horizon. In September the full moon set at the end of the driveway as I put my kids on the bus. This morning's haunting moon setting into our dark NW grove with flimsy subzero clouds racing in front of it. In November the hunters moon rose to the NE over our bonfire.

There is a pattern here that I wasn't privy to before living on the wide open prairie. Now I see the point where the moon rises burning orange over the horizon and see it set yellow over the sloughs and fields in the west. There is a cycle to the moon-- but don't tell me. It is my mystery to discover.

Now I know I could Google it and know in an instant the lunar cycle. But instead I'm going to learn it the slow way-- as if I have all the time in the world. I will learn by being attentive to the moon and the land every day. To discern the pattern of its coming and going.

It will take me months and years to learn where and when the moon rises-- is it the same year in and year out? A slow and patient learning. The lesson is in the way I learn, as much as the what I learn.

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Alma and Lake on the edge of the wetland behind our farm

Friday afternoon Lake woke up from his afternoon nap at about 4:45, Jens was still sleeping. So Alma, Lake and I went for a walk down to the wetland/lake/pond behind our barn. It was already getting dark and it is quite a walk for a 3-year old. We crossed the plowed field, lumps and ribbons of soil poking through the scant snow. Then through the grasslands and to the reeds. Alma and I knock a path through the frozen reeds for Lake.

We got out onto the frozen water and the kids and dog run wild on the wide open snow covered ice. We find the remains of a rabbit eaten by a coyote, a muskrat house, and walked down to the beaver house. There were beaver cut branches sticking out of the ice. The house packed with mud about 6 feet high.

The sun had set and it was getting dark. I herded the kids back to the edge of the wetland-- as we pressed through the reeds I heard a loud howl behind me. "Hold still!" I yell, my ears straining to hear another howl. I look across the frozen ice to see if a pack of coyotes or wolves are running across. It's dark. I'm far from the house. There are wild animals behind me and my kids. I get the kids through the reeds, the grass, back into the tamed agricultural land. I look down the field in front of me and see Mike and Jens about 1/4 mile away walking towards us in the dark. I was so happy to see them. When we met up I asked Mike if he heard the howl. "Yup, came from right behind you." It really sounded like the wolves I'd heard in the north woods.

We had a giddy walk back to the house. Inside to hot spiced apply cider (local), fresh bread, and a pot of chicken and rice stew.

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boys and chicks 9/14/07

Walked out the door and into the fog with Alma at 7:10. After she was on the bus, I walked down the road the 1+ mile to the USFWS reserve for a couple moments of calm-- look to the N, S, E, W, the sky, the ground. What did I hear?

Cockadoodle do!!

I smiled. Cross the field it's less than 1/2 mile to our barn-- the prairie wetland preserve is the southern boundary of our farm. I couldn't see the barn through the fog, but hearing those rooster crow gave me a feeling of pride. We ordered up 50 baby chicks the 1st of September and they all survived. Last week the hens started laying eggs and a couple roosters made good eatin'.

I knew we made the right choice about moving our family to the farm when one day the kids and I went into the chicken coup and Alma chased down a big hen, grabbed it, tucked under her arm without a hint of hesitation. It was the unselfconscious confidence to grab the screeching, clawing chicken without a flinch. I thought-- that's the 8 year old I hoped to raise.

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I’ve been traveling a lot. It reminds me of something my friend Paul told me. He was in the Peace Corp in Saharan Africa. He was with some Bedouins around the campfire and confessed that he felt out of sorts- homesick. The Bedouins ask him where he came from and he said “across the great desert there’s a great ocean. Across the great ocean is another great land. Halfway through that great land is my home.� The Bedouins said,

“No wonder you don’t feel right. Your soul can only travel as fast as a camel can walk. Your soul hasn’t caught up with you yet.�

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Back in my Masters degree days, Dr. Terry Cooper gave our Soils class an assignment to take an actual farm area in Minnesota and use the soils data to create your dream land use. I don’t think I’ve ever had as much fun with an assignment. I saved the resulting drawing- replete with lamas, wild rice, tea and herb gardens on a farm site I chose in Dodge County, MN.

So now we are doing a similar exercise for real. A contingent of US Fish and Wildlife, Natural Resource Conservation District, and Ducks Unlimited folks pulled into our driveway in a convoy of white federal pick up trucks. They laid out some really tempting visions for a grass based farm. We focused on the wetland/grassland restoration lined in purple. It is a beautiful vision—working lands—grazing cattle.

The hitch is that it is in perpetuity. Forever. That concerns Mike especially. We’ve hardly owned this farm any time at all and now we’re talking about ceding 1/3 of it to federal government oversight?

Kids are up… More later…

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The frost so thick on the trees-- the sky so big-- the prairie shimmering.

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Photo of the Couteau des Prairie. This does not do it justice. This place begs for some photographers and artists to capture the images.

I drove yesterday north and west from our farm through Browns Valley, Minnesota on my way to NDSU. This is a magical place. Magical. It is the continental divide between the Gulf of Mexico and the Hudsons Bay. I was so distracted driving here-- the landscape changes dramatically from flat corn and bean fields to a valley with boulders, grasses, and the couteau across the valley rising up in the Dakotas. Other worldly, haunting, soul touching, lovely. It feels safe and sheltered. The wind was howling-- shaking my car along the road. I felt that if I were here hundreds or thousands of years ago I would feel safe. I had the sensation that I had roots here-- ancient roots. I felt it in my bones.

The earliest people on this land were drawn here. About 9,400 years ago the ice dams broke loose and waters flowed to the north-- the Red River. How dramatic that must have been! And people made this their home shortly after that. I looked it up when I got home and found this history of the region

"The area has seen human presence for thousands of years. A Paleo-Indian skeleton now know as "Browns Valley Man" was unearthed in 1933, under circumstances which suggested death after deposition of the gravel but before creation of significant topsoil. Found with tools of the Clovis and Folsom types, the human remains have been dated approximately 9,000 years b.p.[4][12]

The Traverse Gap was used by Native Americans, who recognized its geographic significance. Two buffalo skulls were placed on the continental divide, where travelers would stop to smoke a pipe to mark the place where the waters divided."

As you pass through here you can sense that something significant is happening on this landscape. One can almost feel the continental divide.

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photo credit Chris Long

[an entry from October]

Took Alma and the boys (in burly) out for a bike ride-- 6 miles in total, about 4 miles on blacktop. After about 3 miles Alma says to me "There are no cars at all. It's kind of creepy." We rode all 6 miles without being passed by a single car. It's not creepy to me. What a change from our house in St. Paul where we couldn't let them ride bicycle even on the sidewalks. Strangers and neighbors constantly pulling into driveways and turning around. We saw a little girl on our block riding on the sidewalk get hit by a car turning into a driveway. She was ok, but her bike was crushed.

We lived here for 6 weeks before I saw a car drive down the gravel road at the end of our driveway. Alma and I were riding bike up the driveway and I looked to the north and saw a truck coming down the gravel road. I actually said out loud "what is that?!" Six weeks -one car.

That was in mid-October. Then the harvest started and hunting season and the world came alive with men. Tractors, trucks and combines all night long, all around us. You should have seen the harvest moon and the men out working the fields. I drove home to the farm from the Cities-- looking at the suddenly populated acres that had been sitting so still and quiet for the first six weeks we had lived here. The moon so bright-- it was enchanting.

And hunters everywhere. One of Alma and my last bike rides we were on our way back home when a truck of hunters approached slowly and rolled down the windows. The urban alertness in me made me feel really frightened. Alma and I were in a completely isolated area with a truck full of men approaching. We were wearing blaze orange and the men laughed and asked us if we were hunting. They said they were from the Chokio area and waved goodbye.

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Last Friday I joined Alma in school for her nursery rhyme recital. Honestly the highlight for me was to play chicken and fox in the gym. Have I mentioned that she has gym and music class everyday in Clinton Elementary. She did not have that in St. Paul (but hey! don't tell anyone because they might take it away-- are kids suppose to have gym and music anymore??). Back to chicken and fox-- teams of 2, me and Alma, hoola hoops with wiffle balls to guard (the chicken) while the other person runs around trying to steal other people's "eggs." Oooooo what fun. I asked if we could play dodge ball and was informed by the teacher that wasn't allowed (do the Chicken Little dodge ball dance here).

As we turned to drive east out of townafter school I could see a big smoke rising up into the air. It was to the east and slightly south. Exactly the direction of our farm. But our farm is about 11 miles away-- could that be from our farm? You see we had a little fire here a few days before what with cutting up metal in the dry grass. Luckily someone was farming near by and plowed a patch that stopped the fire.

Sure enough I'm driving closer and closer and the billowing smoke is aligning with the coordinates of our farm. I turn down our road and all I see is a pink wall of smoke. The fire is on the west of our gravel road and strips have been plowed on the western edge of our fields that would keep it from jumping over the gravel. I'm not sure if I should drive into the wall of smoke. So I stopped to take pictures. The fires didn't cross into our section and the crops were harvested across the road so that the crops weren't lost and didn't fuel an inferno.

There have been a few dramatic fires around here lately. I'm not sure if they are planned or accidents-- like ours was.

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This is Happy. We got her about 4 years ago after our precious middle daughter Milly died. I thought that we needed a reason to say the word "Happy" over and over each day. Little did I know how often we would be saying to the puppy "No! Happy No!" Honestly, Happy was an ok part of the family-- but too big for our little yard, lots and lots of hair in the house, too wild to take to the playground with the kids, bit the nice neighbor lady etc...

I am so very very happy to have this dog today. She was born to guard our farm-- to bark wildly at the bus absconding our little children-- and to run with me through the prairie in the morning. I am not alone on this big lonely prairie. I have a good companion along side of me every mile I run. She doesn't chase the deer or the pheasants, but she does have a thing for rabbits.

I've been having a lot of Little House on the Prairie flashbacks. I read all the Laura Ingalls books to Alma a couple years ago. There was a scene where the Ingalls in their covered wagon come across a man and woman stranded along the trail-- their horses stolen while they slept. The Ingalls offered to take them to the next stop, but they declined to leave their lives' belongings. As the Ingalls ride away, Pa says something to the effect of "what are they thinking to be out here without a dog." Remember the Ingalls have the faithful Jack.

And now I can finally say after all these years. I am really happy to have Happy. She is living up to her name in our lives and our family. We got Happy a dog house-- it has lichen growing on the top-- I'll get a picture. When we put it in the yard facing the house she refused to sleep in it. I moved it around so the back is to the house and the front looks down the driveway and she is in there all the time. She wants to guard us. She is guarding us out on the prairie.

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In St. Paul we walked out the door at 9:08 to be in Alma's classroom at 9:10 with time to spare. There were three doors between our door and the Elementary school-- we didn't even have to cross the street. I loved my leisurely mornings with my kids.

Now I walk out the door with my three little ones (ages 8, 3, and 3) at 7:10 am. That gives us 15 minutes to walk our 1/2 mile driveway to where the school bus picks them up. It takes all 15 minutes to walk that far with 3-year olds. Now that the toads, frogs, and salamanders are gone the walk goes a little faster. We are the furthest stop on the route-- but not the first kids to be picked up thankfully. The bus turns around in our driveway and heads back north.

My boys are incorrigible – maybe because they are boys, because they are twins, because I have a totally emotive parenting style in contrast to their dad’s authoritarian style (we’re a good parenting team). Dale, the bus driver for the past 1/3 century is threatening to suspend my little darlings from riding the bus.

Which leads to the logical question—what are a pair of 3-year olds doing on a bus for 1.5 hours per day anyway??? I asked myself that question before we put them on the bus for the first time. But Mike (my husband) and Dale (the bus driver) assured me that this was the proper and logical thing to do. Dale had dealt with as many at FIVE 3-year-olds on his bus in the past. So, Mike put them on the bus for the first time in their lives on Thursday September 6, 2007. The only problem was, there was no pre-school on Thursday September 6, 2007. So he put them on a bus by themselves in the world to, well, nowhere. But we now live in a small community. So the boys were well cared for in the absence of parents or teachers until the offending parent could pick them up.

So they all ride the bus. We now arm Alma with a pile of candy that she can dole out for good behavior as the bus travels down the gravel roads picking up the increasing number of kids in our “neighborhood.� Did I mention that we are the only family in a four square mile area? So like the term “prairie� I use the term “neigborhood� loosely.

But look at that sunrise—it is a pleasant treat to walk that mile a day with my kids.

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This is the last of the original 1912 buildings on the farmstead and it is not long for this world. The only thing holding up that building was the 1952 pickup truck-- which was pulled out and collapsed the west side of the building. I'm sentimental about these buildings in a way that my neighbor says he and his fellow farmers can't afford to be. Life can be hard and cruel on the farm. Attach your heartstrings to a building and they'll get pulled down along with the building.

I'm reading The World Without Us right now. It's an ecological trip through various parts of the world if humans are wiped from the face of the planet in an instant (i.e. not dragging down the entire planet with us over the coming centuries). The author quotes a farmer as saying if you want to bring down a barn put an 18 inch hole in the roof. In 10 years the barn will be dust. It's true. Drive around rural Minnesota-- not the collar suburbs or the exurbs-- but the far agricultural corners of this State. There are no animals in barns. The barns, where they still stand, are surrounded on every possible side with corn and soybeans. There are no pastures and there are no functioning barns. I think that SE Minnesota might be faring better than other parts of the State, but wouldn't count on that. My sister and her husband have a dairy farm there- a confinement dairy like the majority of dairies. But there are a few pasture based dairies left. Not here.

I feel grief, a heavy sadness at this building coming down. Yes-- we will salvage the wood and Yes-- it will be the bus shelter at the end of our 1/2 mile drive or the siding on the "chicken coop of my dreams" yet to be designed and built (and the chickens are waiting!!).

I feel grief that no one cared to fill the 18 inch hole in this granary. It was a two story granary. Beautiful, but not useful to modern agriculture. If you are working from morning until night-- your fingers swollen with arthritis-- your farm on the verge of bankrupcy-- you don't have the luxury to buy the supplies, take the time and take the physical risk to climb atop an 85 year old granary that serves no modern purpose. There isn't room for sentimentality.

I feel grief that all of these buildings are going away-- more and more every year. And believe me when I tell you that modern buildings-- like granaries and confinement feeding operations-- are not built for beauty. Out here form follows function in 2007-- and the form of industrial agriculture is not beautiful. Somehow I believe it was more than that in 1912. I don't know for sure, but I have a sense. There are some core pieces of beauty inside our house-- I've seen some lovely hand carved rafters.

I can afford to be sentimental. I have a job in the City. I don't have my heart in my throat to just hang onto the land in the face of industrial agriculture.

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Well-- thought I should give a few details about this place on earth we are seeking to resettle. Big Stone County is on the far western edge of the State-- due west of the Twin Cities. There are about 5,000 people in the county-- down from 10,000 people who lived there 30 years ago. Nearly 10% of the land area (491 square miles) is water-- this is the heart of the prairie pothole region. Less than half of the prairie potholes remain, the rest being drained for agriculture. While our farm has wetlands adjacent on the south side and kitty corner to the west, we could probably restore a couple on the farm itself. That is where economics confronts values. I don't know that we can pay for this farm with wetlands, but I do know that we can pay for it with corn and soybeans. Give us some time-- we might find our balance....

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Went for a bike ride with my 7-year old daughter, Alma, to the Minimum Maintence Road-- Travel at Your Own Risk- about 1.5 miles from our house on the prairie. We were riding up this dirt trail when she yelled to "STOP" and got off her bike and said "mom-- we're going into that corn." We're surrounded by corn on all sides-- it is high enough over our heads that we can't see over it to where it ends.

**Aside** This is something I would never have thought to do. This, frankly, is the adventure in having kids-- they come up with great ideas I would not have on my own.

So- what the heck- we start walking through the corn-- against the rows. We are parting the rows of corn and stomping through. It is a beautiful blisteringly bright afternoon on the now crispy drying prairie (I use the word prairie liberally because it is really mostly corn and soybeans). I realize that I am JUMPY and AFRAID. Can I impress upon you that there are NO PEOPLE HERE? The entire county has 5,000 people and most of them are in the small towns and Ortonville. But I think-- if I were homeless or a criminal no one would find me in this corn. You can see about 3 feet in front and behind you and about 10 feet down each row. The world is very small in the middle of a corn field. When our dog-- Happy-- comes bursting through the corn I literally JUMP. This happens a few times. [disclaimer-- I had had a diet coke and a few espressos recently]

I realize that there are all these scary movie images of corn fields. Remember Signs?-- good movie recommend it. There is something inherently spooky about being enclosed in corn where you could be (and probably are) only a few feet from terrible danger and fright yet only suspect it!

We keep moving through the field of corn-- I figure if we keep cutting perpendicular to the corn rows we have to come out the other side-- right? Well we do come bursting out of the corn and right onto the edge of a praire wetland complex. Boom-- right there wild roses and rose hips, prairie grasses, rushes around the water. Dang-- again I'm just so grateful to be here. So grateful to have a kid who makes the sidetrip the main purpose of the journey.

Mike, my husband, says "hold that feeling through November."

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photo credit Jim Ginsdorf

September 11, 2007

Yesterday morning I was completely and utterly awestruck by this place. I put my kids on the bus at 7:25 am and went for a morning run to a prairie pond sanctuary. Who knew that egrets flocked-- I'd only ever seen them as solitary birds standing alone. As I stood in that naturally holy place, pelicans flew in overhead from six different directions in the sky and merged into a flock above my head. They are such massive and primitive looking creatures. They don't make any noises -- but the sounds of their wings flying low in the sky over my head was the whoosh of a whispering jet.

They fly in a wave formation-- it appears to go from front to back. The first one flaps its wings, the next one and on down the line to the last. While the first one glides and then they all glide down the line. Over and over. A rythem-- like a wave demonstration in physics class.

I could have fallen to my knees in awe in the pink morning light.

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