tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-284929002024-03-04T22:27:19.908-07:00Second Chance RanchWelcome to my little experiment.Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.comBlogger83125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28492900.post-15556517846665752122014-11-10T21:51:00.000-07:002014-11-10T22:03:02.811-07:00When Veterans Day Becomes Night<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Last Memorial Day weekend, wrapped in silky clean sheets, I gazed upon my sleeping
lover and realized that his was a true face of the Vietnam War. He served as a Lieutenant in the
Army (’67-’68), earned a Bronze Star and was involved in the Tet Offensive. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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At the age of 68, he wears a slight, rugged
facial scar on his right cheek from cancer surgery, a souvenir from Agent
Orange. He also sports a scar running up the base of his spine and he wrestles with demons most nights. All are souvenirs from an unpopular war fought nearly five decades ago. </div>
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His Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) runs deep and, at one point in his life, made it unbearable. None of the 11 mood medications the VA had stuffed in his
medicine cabinet seemed to help. He told me about these night terrors on our
first date, and the scar too. </div>
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With our 20-year age difference, what little I knew of that war came from Hollywood. (Rambo sure seemed <i>pissed</i>.) I knew that the returning soldiers did not get parades or special ribbons; they were not greeted by a citizenry that appreciated their sacrifice. There were no "Support Our Troops" bumper stickers and the acronym PTSD had not yet been coined. (That came in 1980.)</div>
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Though he's come very far in dealing with this deeply-embedded trauma ("Used to be, if a big truck went by, I'd duck under a table," he said.), he has to carefully avoid movies that depict battle or intense gunfire. The chop-chop-chop of a military helicopter can also trigger terrible flashbacks.</div>
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Once, we were watching TV and a graphic ad for the "Call of Duty" video game came on. I squirmed uncomfortably. Finally, it finished and I turned to him, "Did that bother you?"</div>
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"Nah," he stated flatly, "<i>that's just a game</i>." It was a chilling distinction. </div>
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When visiting his grown children and their families, all
will occasionally be roused up with lights on by his middle-of-the-night screams. “Next
thing I hear is, ‘Dad! DAD! Wake up!’ and I know it’s happened again,” he said.
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His most common dark dream triggers kicking, his brain
replaying an actual scenario: trapped in a foxhole with the enemy in one-to-one
combat. The long body of a machine gun is held to his throat, choking him, and
his hands work at breaking free while his feet kick furiously to deliver damage. </div>
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I don’t know the details of what happened next but i don't think it ended well for that particular North Vietnamese soldier. </div>
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He described how, one afternoon, he napped on the
couch. Awaking with a jolt, he wondered, ‘Why is my foot wet?’ Looking down, he
sees bloodied toes and a banged up coffee table. “Of course, oh my gosh, the
kicking…” </div>
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On various evenings, I have witnessed the ramp up of these hauntings and they are terrifying. His legs begin to move, his breathing quickens and a plaintive
whimper comes from somewhere deep inside him, begging for help. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></div>
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To witness such haunting terror in the face of my man - so
strong and stoic in the day - is jarring. Naturally, I try to stop these nightmares as they begin. (At long last, my night owl tendencies have a useful purpose!) I throw my arms and legs around him and
whisper in his ear, “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. You’re fine, you’re here with
me,. It's 2014. You're in your own house, in North Dakota.” Gradually, the dream dissipates and those stubborn images - ghastly memories as old as myself - release their cruel grip. </div>
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One time, he grabbed my
arm hard and mumbled, “I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you’re here.” He has only a distant recollection the following morning.</div>
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I pondered all this last May while the flickering shadows of a TV
hockey game revealed raw vulnerability in the craggy lines of his handsome
face. His head began moving side to side (“no, no, no, no”) and his brow furrowed
with fear. The anguish in his voice was palpable, laced with a begging mercy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man who laid next to me – this retired
bank president, father of two, grandfather of five – was suddenly a terrified
boy facing his own death in a strange land for the millionth time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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I shook him awake and his eyes popped open, staring straight
into my own. His eyes, so dark and distant, revealed just how far away he’d been.
He was momentarily shocked, disoriented and unsure just who I was; slowly, his mind returned to
present day Earth. Then, a moment of recognition: “Oh, heh,” he snorted, embarrassed, “musta
been that Memorial Day stuff I watched. All ten minutes of it…”</div>
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Then, he rolled over on his left side, facing the wall away
from me. But just before settling in for the next round of sleep, he had to
know. “'Hawkes win?” he asked, eyes closed. </div>
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“No,” I say. “Kings. 5-2.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I carefully withheld the glee in my voice for my hometown team, sparing his
delicate state. </div>
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Long pause. </div>
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“Empty net?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">And just like that, life goes on, with or without a parade. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">***</span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">A big thank you to all who have served in our nation's military and especially those who have sacrificed body and mind. I live as freely as I can - a small gesture toward honoring your efforts. </span></div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28492900.post-91155398587183121122014-10-20T00:13:00.000-06:002014-10-20T00:13:36.315-06:00My Little Questions Became One Big One<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
If ever there was a time I'd like captured and frozen in amber, it is right now. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qe3yjzL9q7Q/VESdKR6t5kI/AAAAAAAAIcY/4ScTqYyktGE/s1600/IMG_7751.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qe3yjzL9q7Q/VESdKR6t5kI/AAAAAAAAIcY/4ScTqYyktGE/s1600/IMG_7751.JPG" height="140" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the Pembina Gorge lookout</td></tr>
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As the leaves around me turn gold, orange and crimson, my head floats and bobs in an atmosphere of intense joy. I exist in this beautiful, remote region of my country, far away from the glitzy, fast-paced metropolis i grew up in, and I am charmed - taken aback, even. Other than putting it to bed, my garden is done and nearly dead. Once the electric fence is dismantled, I will harvest my Glass Gem popcorn and declare my SCRANCH project officially Over. (At least the North Dakota version….)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_4Uj0bpX9Fw/VESa3S4xHBI/AAAAAAAAIcM/Ch1IUE49Rxk/s1600/IMG_6922.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_4Uj0bpX9Fw/VESa3S4xHBI/AAAAAAAAIcM/Ch1IUE49Rxk/s1600/IMG_6922.jpg" height="320" width="171" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Glass Gem popcorn</td></tr>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PBTcrHr4DjI/VESeQZ8NvCI/AAAAAAAAIck/qYLaYUZu3rs/s1600/IMG_6250.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>Has it been three years already? Seems only yesterday I was fantasizing about my NoDak plan, plotting out the details and worrying about the risks. Ultimately, I am mighty pleased that I cast aside my numerous doubts and took the risk to temporary cleave my life in two - summers in northeastern North Dakota and winters in Southern California. With additional long visits in Colorado and Mississippi, I usually answered the oft-asked question, "Where do you live?" with a simple, "America." <br /><br />What I have learned during my 'little experiment' is beyond invaluable, the entire rural experience was life-changing. I came in search of knowledge, a deeper comprehension of organic food production, Farmers' Market logistics and the realities of Big Ag, not to mention my own family's land - the rich, black soil that is now part of my soul. I now understand that the farming lifestyle, is exactly that, much more than a career - it is a relationship with the land that runs deep. All that big machinery, the Carhartt wardrobe and a life spent outdoors make farming a seductive concept. Throw in the wild card of Mother Nature's various blessings and destructive tantrums and we can call it exciting too. <br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PBTcrHr4DjI/VESeQZ8NvCI/AAAAAAAAIck/qYLaYUZu3rs/s1600/IMG_6250.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PBTcrHr4DjI/VESeQZ8NvCI/AAAAAAAAIck/qYLaYUZu3rs/s1600/IMG_6250.jpg" height="200" width="179" /></a>With fewer people becoming farmers (due to the high costs of land and machinery plus and the lure of urban jobs) the average age of the American farmer is 57. With technology advancements, chemical applications and the decline of the family farm (and subsequent rise of the corporate farm), farmers are becoming an endangered species. I feel quite honored to have spent time amongst them even if they never understood why I was there. To my delight, I found that they loved answering all my questions; I think no one had ever asked them before. <br /><br />But what I learned most of all during my city-to-farm-to-city life is that there is a terrible communications gap between farmer and consumer. Straddling both worlds, I see the farmer sometimes forgetting they are growing food and not just bushels and I see the consumer being too quick to blame Big Ag while insisting on perfect, uniform produce.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of my perfectly imperfect babies</td></tr>
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Truth is, the farmer will grow what the market demands and the market is Us. Period. The only vote that counts in this country is the dollar and where you choose to spend it. If there are changes to be made in our food system, we cannot wait for the bio-tech corporations (Monsanto, Dow, Simplot, Bayer, etc.) to do it out of the goodness of their hearts, for they have none, they are a capitalistic entity. The government is not much help either; their interest is assisting the processed food industry (farm subsidies, tax breaks, etc.) whether it benefits our health or not. Broccoli does not employ lobbyists but Kraft Foods does. <br /><br />Pondering my future, I want to meld all my superhero powers (communications, media, gardening, comedy, Ag knowledge, high pain/bug tolerance) into a a solid laser beam of Change in the food industry. This is my wish. I don't know yet what that particular job will be, but it will come to me eventually.<br />
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<br />Meanwhile, as my departure date looms near, i wonder what else I will take with me in my filthy pick-up, other than squash, garlic and a few remaining tomatoes. However, the bigger concern in my mind is what I am leaving behind. Last summer, I found love on the prairie, a fiery connection with an unlikely man in an unlikely place. We come from starkly different worlds, separate eras (20 years apart) and opposing political beliefs but somewhere in the storm of deep debates and a million kisses, profound mutual respect has blossomed. When I think of him, I can actually feel my heart expand and then I want to bake cookies.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-atCk_wAQ0RA/VESlUYnybXI/AAAAAAAAIdE/UO8wy3nuHf0/s1600/IMG_3575.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-atCk_wAQ0RA/VESlUYnybXI/AAAAAAAAIdE/UO8wy3nuHf0/s1600/IMG_3575.JPG" height="250" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Last summer, at the Fargo Fair</td></tr>
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Our love is strong and true but alas, we are at different points in our lives and, unhappily, the winter will pull us apart. <br /><br />I am terrified, not only to leave this unique place I hold dear, but the man I share my days and nights with - how will I face a life without him as my partner? I spent last winter moping around sunny California with an enormous hole in my heart. Sure, I enjoyed time with family and friends, feasting on LA culture, gorging on sushi, running on the beach, but inside, my guts felt black and blue. I don't wish to go through that again. <br /><br />Furthermore, I do not wish to endure six months of hard winter cut off from the world; he does not wish to leave his family or his lifelong home. Analyzing this puzzler from every angle in my dear friend Lisa's Orange County hot tub one evening last February, she gave me some tough advice: "You're just going to have to go back there this summer, love him as hard as you can, then say goodbye." <br /><br />The first two parts, I have done. And so, for all my in-depth research and hard-won knowledge, I am left with one nagging question:<br />
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<br />How do you walk away from love? </div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28492900.post-31457514590555474042014-09-20T08:13:00.000-06:002014-09-20T08:13:35.721-06:00Family, Freezes and Finding Strength<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Dianne Millar</td></tr>
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My family visited the farm recently, making the twin treks from Long Beach, California and Ocean Springs, Mississippi. I was beside myself with joy; there was at least one day where I could not stop saying, "I am SO happy!" which would have been ridiculous had it not been so sincerely felt.<br />
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Beyond the images and words I post online, it is wonderful to have real-life witnesses to my experience here in North Dakota, a state rarely visited. That my mother, brother, sister-in-law and nephew came so far to revisit this magical place did my heart a lot of good. I think they enjoyed it too.<br />
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Naturally, we partied. I put on a Shed Shindig in their honor. We borrowed tables and chairs from the local fire department, swept the dead mice out of our corrugated tin shed and strung lights. (MaryAnn and Carol surprised me with their expert skills here.)<br />
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I put jazz on cassette in the old blacksmith shop and a bonfire was lit under a nearly-full moon - cigars came out, farm talk ensued and memory lane got walked. The pot luck dishes were amazing and some kids played dress-up with all my old San Francisco duds - boa feathers in every color still roll down the prairie. <br />
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We even had our own porta potty. I'm telling you it was as big as it gets 'round here. If the weather hadn't been so perfect we might have had more guests but alas, it was ideal for harvest. <br />
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After all the parties, 4-wheeling and open-fire cookouts, we moved our celebration to the nearest big city, Grand Forks, where we were honored by cousins with big meal gatherings and lush accommodations. (I slept in the bedazzled bedroom of the former Miss Teen North Dakota complete with Xmas lights around the bed and hot pink everything.)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">OMG - heaven! So NOT my trailer....</td></tr>
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Many photos were taken, hugs were exchanged and exclamations of "It's been too long!" were pronounced. Amusingly, both the Mississippians and the North Dakotans thought the other ones lived in the sticks. Fascinating to see citizens of the Deep South and the Deep North - from the two most misunderstood states in the nation - convene for a long-awaited blitz of food and fellowship.<br />
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Occasionally, my sweet nephew, Robbie, would pull me aside and whisper, "You need to come back next summer." <br />
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***<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brrrrr! Tomatoes covered.</td></tr>
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On September 12th, Father Winter dropped his icy fingers down to zap crops both large and small. One farmer I know lost an entire field of beans (Brent lost a section of beans too) and I got hit as well. Thanks to Brent, who gamely helps me cover up every year, I managed to save nearly all my tomatoes and only lost those which I am done with anyway. Still, my watermelon, cantaloupe and popcorn may not get ripe before we get into full frost season. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Yellow zukes got zapped but they still work.</td></tr>
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It all makes me feel a bit rushed. People keep asking me when I am leaving and I cover my ears, shut my eyes and shake my head. I know the day is looming but I can't stand to think about it as reality. How will I get the strength to leave this place? To turn and walk away from the land, the people, the freedoms and big open skies, not to mention one man in particular?<br />
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Where will that strength come from? I wonder. I guess Father Winter's icy hand will just push me out. <br />
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***<br />
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Meanwhile, in the present, yesterday was epic - routine for me here, but so special. Sleeping in until 9 or so, then heading to my favorite running spot and putting in a solid 5 miles, yelling "Thank you!", "I love you!" and "So beautiful!" along the tree-lined route. Then home to a delicious breakfast of fresh dill-and-tomato eggs with bacon and avocado. Work. Internet. Necessary computer time. ("The Internet is both my liberator and dictator," I often say.) <br />
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Then, off to the garden to pull everything for Market - Lemon cucumbers, Scallop squash, Rainbow cherry tomatoes, Champion tomatoes, Romaine lettuce, Freckles lettuce, dill, Green bell peppers, eggplant, sage, Red onions, cantaloupe, Yellow zucchini…and on it goes.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yellow Zukes</td></tr>
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Off to Cavalier, about 17 miles south, for the weekly Farmers' Market, corner of First and Main. Initially, I stop at the home of my love, a man 20 years my senior who owns my heart. His garage also houses my Market table and the two giant wooden signs we made to alert passing motorists to our presence: "FARMERS MARKET TODAY" with a giant red glitter arrow. <br />
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His neighbor's stepson is visiting from Hawaii or Washington, traveling around in a outfitted Vanagon and my love is gamely visiting with him. Soon, another neighbor wanders over and then beer happens. I hang out there for about a half-hour before making haste for the market. Selling begins promptly at 5 p.m. and not a second earlier. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Delicious toes!</td></tr>
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There are just two other vendors there. A young girl is <a href="https://www.facebook.com/evadivapuppysnacks">selling homemade doggie treats</a> to raise money to do Jr. Iditorod in 2023. The other is my friend, Lillian, a young mother of three who also hails from California. Her stepfather sets up hay bails and dried corn stalks to showcase her colorful display of pumpkins and squash. In between brisk sales, she and I discuss life, God and our fondness for North Dakota and its men. It rains on us a bit but we pay no mind. I nibble on the toes of her baby boy, Nathan, whom I adore and together, again, we wonder where I will get the strength to leave. <br />
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Before we both go our separate ways, I give her the bouquet of bright sunflowers that I'd picked as a table decoration; she'd just turned 28, exactly 20 years my junior. We exchange solid hugs and I head for home. <br />
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After changing clothes - out of the stiff jeans and into stretchy pants - I head to the shed for some much-needed yoga. I turn on all the stringed lights, dance a bit to an old Sheilia E. cassette, light some sage and candles and whip out the yoga mat. Damn, it feels good. <br />
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Then, my love texts me and we talk on the phone, planning our romantic getaway weekend in Fargo. He tells me details of a community meeting he'd attended and together, we laugh. I finish up my yoga, close up the shed and head to the trailer, where I pour myself a glass of red wine. I dine on rib eye, creamed cucumber dill salad, Sweet Meat squash (grown my yours truly), and tossed salad with fresh tomatoes (mine) and bleu cheese crumbles. I end up inhaling an entire bar of dark chocolate because I'm feeling victorious for some reason.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harvest at sunset</td></tr>
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I step outside in the pitch blackness for a smokey treat and wonder, again, how it is I'm going to leave. </div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28492900.post-44317742540858794012014-09-03T14:49:00.000-06:002014-09-04T08:03:51.751-06:00Summer Blur<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Despite what the calendar says, Autumn has arrived - the searing heat has gone, replaced by a crisp air and shortened days.<br />
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I hate it.<br />
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The click-over to the next season means that the eight gazillion green tomatoes I have in the garden may not fulfill their destiny of becoming a tomato-and-mayo sandwich or profitable produce for my wallet. It also means that winter is now on the horizon and my departure date draws near; this fills me with more dread than I can convey. When I think about leaving, my stomach aches. If there was a way to freeze a moment in time, I would engage. <br />
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At this moment, we sit on the cusp of the harvest frenzy. There has been too much off-and-on rain making fields dangerously muddy and thus, risky for tractors, combines and grain trucks. And come October 1, the <a href="http://secondchanceranch.blogspot.com/2013/10/thoughts-on-sugar.html">sugar beet harvest </a>will commence - no matter what else is going on - and things get kicked up several notches. In October, harvest goes 24/7 and those famously pitch-black North Dakota nights become salted with blazing lights in the fields - truly an incredible sight. <br />
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In my observation, a large part of farming is waiting - waiting for rain, waiting for no rain, waiting for temperatures to rise, waiting for temperatures to drop, waiting for wind (to dry fields), waiting for no wind, waiting for parts and waiting in line at the elevator and/or sugar beet piles. But make no mistake, just because farmers are good at waiting doesn't mean they do it without complaint, it's just not part of their nature.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brent, waiting, and not happy about it</td></tr>
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Meanwhile, golden oceans of ripe wheat surround me, making me long for wings. The even beauty of these fields temporarily overtake my concerns with chemicals and GMOs as I watch a graceful crop duster lower down on a field, spray and then swoop up into the wild blue yonder. Long stretches of smiling yellow sunflowers seem to be everywhere lifting their big, eager heads in the day and then, dropping their chins at dusk.<br />
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Driving down dirt roads, I'm always tuned to 98.3, <a href="http://music.cbc.ca/#">CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Company)</a>, and inevitably, Julie Nesrellah or Tom Powers will dish up the perfect musical accompaniment - usually the perfect classical piece or an earthy folk tune. My heart soars and I thank God I am here in this magical place so rarely seen. What divine fortune! <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My running church</td></tr>
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I ran 5.11 miles this morning on my usual glorious path - a snowmobile route lined with a cathedral of cottonwoods - and felt exuberance in every cell of my being. Earlier this morning, I had made a customer delivery of basil and cucumbers to a delightful woman named Joy (of course!) and my gratitude was off the charts. <br />
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Tomorrow, my family visits from California and Mississippi and I am beyond excited. They have all been here before but my nephew, Robbie, last visited at age 3 - he is now almost 11. There is so much to show him and though he lives straight down the Central Time Zone on the bayou - literally from one border to the other - I hope he can see what I see - a unique remote magic come to life. </div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28492900.post-87398014084906284002014-08-14T15:42:00.001-06:002014-08-14T15:42:08.916-06:00Robin Williams RIP<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Like so many, I am reeling with the sudden death of Robin Williams. Despite all his fame, wealth and success - not to mention all the love and affection from family, friends, fellow artists and millions of fans - it was not near enough to ease his deep and complex pain. My heart hurts when I think of how he left us alone in a world without his magic. And then, my head chimes in and says, 'Well, at least he left us on his terms.' <br />
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When my friend Sydney said, 'It's like a 9/11 of sorts,' I knew what she meant. While his death is not on par with a global terrorist event, it does evoke a similar brand of shock, the kind that freezes a moment in time so you remember where you were when you first heard. (Me, in Sydney's living room, watching the headline flash on the muted TV. Me, yelling the news to her on the patio and her, not believing me. When the word "suicide" came out we both crumpled in to chairs, hands over mouths.)<br />
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Today, we learned that not only was Robin battling severe depression, substance abuse, career woes and financial concerns, but he was also showing early signs of Parkinson's Disease. Here was a man who brought laughter to millions but could no longer find the joy in his own life after one immense challenge after another piled up until he could no longer bear the weight.<br />
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Seems unfair, doesn't it?<br />
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I once interviewed Robin Williams' mother, Laurie, for an article on Moms of Celebrities that I did for the Nob Hill Gazette. It was pouring rain but I met her in some country club in Marin. We were there several hours, chatting away and she enjoyed telling stories about Robin's childhood and her own life. We visited a few more times on the phone and I'll always remember her big smile, the same one she gave to her son, who then shared it with the rest of us. What an honor that was.<br />
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When I lived in San Francisco, I lived in the same neighborhood as the Mrs. Doubtfire house which has now become <a href="http://www.sfgate.com/bayarea/nevius/article/Robin-Williams-S-F-memorial-a-private-affair-for-5687220.php#photo-6714232">an impromptu memorial</a> to Robin. I also lived not too far from SeaCliff, a tony neighborhood that included Robin's house overlooking the GG bridge with his famous flagpole in the front. When he was home, a pirate flag flew; when he was gone, no flag. This way, his hometown always knew where he was. <br />
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On a very selfish note, having an iconic comedian commit suicide on the first day of my comedy festival was profoundly horrible timing. Our weekday shows thus far have been sparsely attended and I can only think that many comedy fans are staying home to re-watch Robin's best performances in films and stand-up. I know that's what I would be doing. <br />
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So, let's say hypothetically, that you live in the Denver area and need some cheering up. Please come to one of <a href="http://blogs.westword.com/showandtell/2014/08/smile_train_comedy_improv_festival_sylvia_avenue_theater_dead_mans_cell_phone_denver.php">our three remaining shows</a>:<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><b>Friday, August 15:</b> The D-Note in Old Town Arvada, 7:30 p.m. free!</li>
<li><b>Saturday, August 16: </b>Denver Bookbinding Company, 7:30 p.m. $20 - free apps, beer and a public head shaving!</li>
<li><b>Sunday, August 17:</b> Lannie's Clocktower Cabaret in downtown Denver, 7 p.m., $15 (half off parking under the nearby Rock Bottom Brewery)</li>
</ul>
Let's also say, hypothetically, that you just want to get rid of all that extra cash that's been weighing you down and looking for a cause that offers a clean-cut solution to one of the world's mysteriously disturbing problems, <a href="http://support.smiletrain.org/site/TR?pg=fund&fr_id=1040&pxfid=14770">consider donating to Smile Train</a>. Why do I feel so strongly about this? Because I grew up with facial disfigurement and being a kid is hard enough, I can't imagine going through that as a poor child in a world with no resources, no support. No comedy! Humor was - and is - my main weapon in dealing with medical drama.<br />
<br />
To fix these kids and give them a smile, it's a $250 (free for patients) for a 45-minute operation - DONE. <br />
<br />
Either way, grab a friend who is down and go see some comedy this week, or the next. Somewhere. Anywhere. The world will always contain soul-crushing darkness but we have to find a way to keep laughing in the light whenever we can. <br />
<br /></div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28492900.post-40817280630711760262014-08-07T04:39:00.000-06:002014-08-07T04:39:51.764-06:00Call for SCRANCH Interns<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8XofZelKF_Y/U-NUrFF_xSI/AAAAAAAAIUE/RKwGBWfJydk/s1600/IMG_6474.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8XofZelKF_Y/U-NUrFF_xSI/AAAAAAAAIUE/RKwGBWfJydk/s1600/IMG_6474.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
Soon, my isolated farm world will be turned on its ass
with intense travel and giant ruby milestones – a wedding, a reunion and a week-long comedy
fundraiser to run. But before landing in Colorado and California, a request: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Call for SCRANCH Interns! I need some help and most importantly, I need a witness and temporary sidekick. <br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1mnFQJfoBvw/U-NWOw5x36I/AAAAAAAAIUQ/aSvAt_1fbBQ/s1600/IMG_6458.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1mnFQJfoBvw/U-NWOw5x36I/AAAAAAAAIUQ/aSvAt_1fbBQ/s1600/IMG_6458.jpg" height="200" width="158" /></a></div>
Duties: </div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>Field Work: help harvest, maintain garden and assist with
Farmers Market</li>
<li>Kitchen Work: assist in using harvested produce and herbs when
cooking</li>
<li>Reporting: document the experience – writing, photos, video,
music and yes, social media. Did I mention video? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></li>
</ul>
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What to expect: hard work, unpredictable weather and a unique view
of an expansive hidden America where the food industry starts. There will
likely be pie. </div>
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Considerations:</div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>Required 4-6 days in August – October. </li>
<li>Uniform not required but khaki is nice. </li>
<li>Can cover 1/2 airfare, lodging, transportation and most meals. </li>
</ul>
Curious? Here's <a href="http://secondchanceranch.blogspot.com/2013/10/guest-post-eleni-liberty-jacobson.html">a post from last summer's intern</a>. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WdGkcJ2VKIo/U-NWvfIkVZI/AAAAAAAAIUY/I93ZSfDCGgc/s1600/IMG_6459.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WdGkcJ2VKIo/U-NWvfIkVZI/AAAAAAAAIUY/I93ZSfDCGgc/s1600/IMG_6459.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taters in bloom!</td></tr>
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Interested parties shoot me an email (clizbiz@gmail.com) or contact me via Facebook. </div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28492900.post-10449107598256328892014-07-22T14:57:00.002-06:002014-07-22T14:57:39.552-06:00Stubborn Realities<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DKC7i2ewtZE/U87C6wuYMiI/AAAAAAAAIR8/8BGT3a44Ie4/s1600/IMG_7065.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DKC7i2ewtZE/U87C6wuYMiI/AAAAAAAAIR8/8BGT3a44Ie4/s1600/IMG_7065.JPG" height="234" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Orphan sprouts!</td></tr>
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I'm the decider. This time of year, I must thin the plants. My maternal instinct pains me to waste even a single plant baby so I end up collecting them all in cups filled half with water. They line my kitchen counter, which is already tiny. <br /><br />First, I try to replant them in a deep hole with a solid drink of water and wishes of luck on life anew. Or, I bring some to the Market to sell fresh - mostly Lemon basil, sage, cilantro and parsley right now. Finally, I strive to use them in cooking. Tonight, I baked a sweet potato and covered it in sea salt and chopped parsley. Then, I sauteed some garlic (from the store, mine's not ready yet) in olive oil with onion slivers, apple chunks and cubes of local sausage. At the last, I added scissored bits of garlic scapes.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xd6t4tXYPrY/U87DdwvP82I/AAAAAAAAISE/O8h0fOWNt64/s1600/IMG_7067.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xd6t4tXYPrY/U87DdwvP82I/AAAAAAAAISE/O8h0fOWNt64/s1600/IMG_7067.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Garlic scapes and parsley</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Still, the act of choosing who will live and who faces an uncertain future feels slightly God-like. I am still not comfortable with the concept but have grown used to the power and the idea that's it's another teensy version of what real farmers (and ranchers, especially) must face. Culling the herd, as it were, so everyone has enough room to thrive and reach full potential, is a necessary evil. <br /><br />The wide open skies of this region drive home this point. My mind has room to roam here, to play within itself, wander around and open new doors. There is surely something to the need for head space, else why would so many suburban home layouts include vaulted ceilings?<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NPdjo0cKSt0/U87NF0blkGI/AAAAAAAAIS4/sGDTMAVAyp0/s1600/IMG_7009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NPdjo0cKSt0/U87NF0blkGI/AAAAAAAAIS4/sGDTMAVAyp0/s1600/IMG_7009.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Through my windshield on the way to 'town'</td></tr>
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<br />***<br />At my usual running spot the other day, I chatted with a farm worker I usually see there. He was high up in his semi cab and delivered a warning: "If you see a red flag behind me, on the edge of the road, that means we're spraying for bugs. Pesticide," he said, dragging on his cigarette. "I'd find another spot to run that day, if I were you."<br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HKdhCgjnpfE/U87EVmtTdVI/AAAAAAAAISM/wo6lVZvj1UU/s1600/IMG_6352.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HKdhCgjnpfE/U87EVmtTdVI/AAAAAAAAISM/wo6lVZvj1UU/s1600/IMG_6352.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a><br /><br />
Sigh.<br />
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<br />***<br /><u><br /></u><u>Two steps forward, one step back:</u> A pal of mine runs a local farm here with her hubby and four kids. This year, they managed to get their Romaine lettuce into the local grocery chain store, Leever's. I was excited to purchase a head (before mine came in) knowing it had been grown just down the highway. I suggested to the cashier that they put a small sign up labeling the lettuce as "Locally Grown" and name the farm. He was baffled by this concept, no matter how many ways I tried to explain it. <br /><br />"But all our produce is local." <br /><br />"What? No! Most of it is from California and Mexico. I think people would prefer it if their produce didn't have to travel so far." <br /><br />"I don't understand what you are talking about." <br /><br />I tried again and his eyes glazed over. I left, highly frustrated, with him saying to me apathetically, "Sorry I ignored you."<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicfSxDLH49I5wjeEs0Cgtbqdqq8OVsQm3K3nZN-Ng_gq0iP37Wo-61L3eVW4C7wrqZ7zRyEGWRCBL4wmsqe4G1I9gk3I4LGSxi4EYMO11gVjdOM6rqAlDbIxgNgXtYUcAkThlulQ/s1600/IMG_6302.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicfSxDLH49I5wjeEs0Cgtbqdqq8OVsQm3K3nZN-Ng_gq0iP37Wo-61L3eVW4C7wrqZ7zRyEGWRCBL4wmsqe4G1I9gk3I4LGSxi4EYMO11gVjdOM6rqAlDbIxgNgXtYUcAkThlulQ/s1600/IMG_6302.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The audacious heads</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When I urged my pal to ask the manager to label it "Local", she had already done so and met the same resistance. "Yeah, I tried that. He said, 'I don't think people care about that. If anything, they would prefer their produce come from some other place.' Seems backwards but in his mind, there are no benefits in doing that." <br /><br />It is hard to fathom this ancient mentality, especially in a grocery store literally surrounded by fields of wheat, corn, potatoes, soybeans, canola, pinto/navy beans and barley. You'd think being so close to the beginning of the food industry would bring insight to those selling it but alas, no. Perhaps I'd have to survive a winter here to grasp the persistent belief that only produce from warmer climates will do. With the price of gas, you'd think that idea would get tossed out at first chance.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXs7eJNSlX-PhwUWu86a8DPvwfYNw5rceOTbhw1uWQRosmNIwdbxhOjQVHAhPw1TEoel7qse7mxPBk3xpvj6VO11vX07tVjoThZ05bqKGsGYpcNi7sGJa_vKY4l6hawe1wjE7leg/s1600/IMG_6370.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXs7eJNSlX-PhwUWu86a8DPvwfYNw5rceOTbhw1uWQRosmNIwdbxhOjQVHAhPw1TEoel7qse7mxPBk3xpvj6VO11vX07tVjoThZ05bqKGsGYpcNi7sGJa_vKY4l6hawe1wjE7leg/s1600/IMG_6370.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Local potatoes in bloom</td></tr>
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***<br /><br /><i>Bemusement.</i> Finally, I've settled on a description for the look that I sometimes get here. So often, people's faces contain a notable mix of amusement and confusion when talking to me. Occasionally, it goes beyond that.<br />
<br />
At a family funeral last week, my cousin (part of a hugely successful family farm operation) got a gander at my business card, read my made-up title: "Blogger/Farmer" and laughed a bit too hard. "Farmer?!? Oh, that's a GOOD one!" With watering eyes, he clutched his belly, looked at the card, then at me, then snorted another hearty guffaw.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pDDfu-5GH3I/U87PWN24MyI/AAAAAAAAITE/_I5XKB0WmyE/s1600/IMG_6313.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pDDfu-5GH3I/U87PWN24MyI/AAAAAAAAITE/_I5XKB0WmyE/s1600/IMG_6313.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tractor Talk: The beau, Walter and Cousin Carol</td></tr>
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<br />
Meanwhile, my cousin, Walter, age 94, likes to poke fun. "You still here?" he often says upon greeting me, and then chuckles to himself. I gracefully resist the urge to ask him the same.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AjOReS8_v4Q/U87LA7mPZqI/AAAAAAAAISs/QmQyoCtg1kc/s1600/IMG_6296.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AjOReS8_v4Q/U87LA7mPZqI/AAAAAAAAISs/QmQyoCtg1kc/s1600/IMG_6296.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Cherry Belle radish haul</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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A few days ago, Brent and Wayne stopped in the lane on their way to hauling grain. Both had watched me carrying a wheelbarrow's worth of composted dirt toward the garden. By my estimations, it was 85 degrees with 1,000% humidity. They pulled up next to me, shaking their heads in wonder. I put down the 'barrow and slumped my head on the passenger side door jam, at the burly arm of Brent. "Wanna switch jobs?" I said, panting. <br /><br />"Noooooope!" said Wayne. <br /><br />"Not a chance," said Brent. <br /><br />"Oh, that's right. You guys are off to make real money." <br /><br />"Um, well…" said Brent. <br /><br />"Oh, well, not exactly," said Wayne. Corn prices had been painfully low as of late. <br /><br />"At last you guys got air conditioning," I offered. <br /><br />"No air conditioning," said Wayne, "it's broke." <br /><br />We chatted a bit more about the grueling heat and the relentless cruelty of bugs - mosquitoes, specifically. Then, they drove off, happy at least not to be me, doing everything by hand with no help, no spray and no machines. Why? they must wonder. What is the point? Everyone has a garden here but nobody - and I mean, NOBODY - would think of not using pesticides or herbicides on their plants. When the skies are filled with crop dusters (I can hear them buzzing right now overhead) and the roads are loaded with fertilizer tanks, the idea of turning one's back on modern-day 'progress' seems ludicrous. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3Kfbk1ZBE3Q/U87KKhPnRQI/AAAAAAAAISk/_C4dG7BWQhM/s1600/IMG_6372.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3Kfbk1ZBE3Q/U87KKhPnRQI/AAAAAAAAISk/_C4dG7BWQhM/s1600/IMG_6372.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The organic trenches</td></tr>
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My beau often teases me. "Y'know, honey, just a couple squirts of RoundUp'll fix up that garden real quick. Lot easier than hoeing." <br /><br />"No. No. And, just to be clear, NO!" I say. "You really think I came all this way just to cave in to chemical ease? That sod spot is pure! I'm not going to f**k it up after all this work." <br /><br />"So if I came out to farm and sprayed it behind your back you would be mad?" <br /><br />"You are CORRECT," I said, fuming at the idea. I glared at him. He stared back, smiling, and above all, bemused. </div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28492900.post-17764964553785926522014-07-10T14:29:00.001-06:002014-07-10T23:19:12.655-06:00CERES: The Goddess Rests With Me<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
During my first summer here, after lugging every bit of my earthly goods to the shed, I began to sift through a half-lifetime of souvenirs. Opening one cardboard box after another, I came upon a metal street sign, clearly stolen by someone, somewhere, long ago. I knew immediately the sign would hold a place of prominence here on the farm, the irony being too rich to ignore. <br />
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<br />
In the early 80s at Lakewood High School, I was a member of the sorority, CERES. We were a 'service club' meaning we were supposed to raise funds for those less fortunate than... no, wait, we just raised money for parties, for ourselves. Parties in Big Bear (winter), parties in Newport Beach (summer), parties in Palm Springs (spring)...just parties. We held car washes and bake sales, whatever we could do to keep our dance cards full. The rush period was horrific - entire scenes from <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0377092/">"Mean Girls" </a>and <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0097493/?ref_=nv_sr_1">"Heathers"</a> verbatim - and I'm certain I was grudgingly admitted based solely on the high desirability of my older brother, Rob, commonly known as "Hot Rob." <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GAnMfqR0kBE/U771f9eMj7I/AAAAAAAAIQc/rM-ajrcBQmQ/s1600/IMG_6225.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GAnMfqR0kBE/U771f9eMj7I/AAAAAAAAIQc/rM-ajrcBQmQ/s1600/IMG_6225.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shed living room</td></tr>
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Once in, I learned many of the club's traditions - the CERES song (<i>"We are the Ceres girls, red lips and bouncy curls...</i>"), the colors (dark blue and light blue) and by god, we even had our own car honk (long-short-long) which came in handy when convoying to the next party. There were no other sororities at the school and I had never heard of any sorority in a high school, not then and not ever. Other than laughter, silliness and branded souvenirs (t-shirts, sweatshirts, mugs, jewelry, etc.), the club had no real point and I had only the vaguest idea about the club's name. It just never came up. <br />
<br />
Fast forward 30+ years and I am standing in a North Dakota shed, my 46-year-old hands hold a sign reading CERES AVE. Only then, do I remember the uncanny significance in my present life: Ceres is the Goddess of Agriculture! (Technically, the Roman name for the Greek goddess, Demeter.) What are the odds?<br />
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Early in the 1970s, this sign was acquired by the club and a tradition was born. Starting with Judy Centers in 1971, a passing-the-torch concept continued for 13 years ... until it got to me. At the annual beach house - a tradition planned by all the sophomores and juniors as a 'send-off' to the seniors - a senior girl would select a junior girl (can't recall the criteria), paint her name and graduating year on the back of the Ceres Ave. sign and present it to her in some drawn out ceremony of sisterly love. In the summer of 1983, a lovely girl, Crystal Eble, choose me and I was honored.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1971-1984</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
A year later, I prepared to select a name and present the sign and was informed that there would be no beach house that year; the young 'uns simply didn't have their act together and the tradition was broken. And so, the Ceres Ave. sign remained with me. Occasionally, I felt some guilt over my possession but I also took great care to display the momento wherever I hung my hat. <br />
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In the end, I cannot imagine a more suitable resting place for the Goddess of Agriculture to rest than with a Ceres girl who became a farmer.<br />
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And also, I tip my hat to the women whose names now live in my shed:<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>Judy Centers - 1971</li>
<li>Laurie Crawford - 1972</li>
<li>Teesa Alorn - 1973</li>
<li>Diane Hess - 1974</li>
<li>Karen Judd - 1975</li>
<li>Bonnie Britton - 1976</li>
<li>Jeri Helwig - 1977</li>
<li>Patty McGarry - 1978</li>
<li>Karen Lee - 1978</li>
<li>Linda Walton - 1979</li>
<li>Tracy Billingsly - 1980</li>
<li>Susan Rainey - 1981 (Hot Rob's prom date)</li>
<li>Michael Ann Arce - 1982</li>
<li>Crystal Eble - 1983</li>
</ul>
I'll take good care of it, ladies. HOOOOONK-honk-HOOOONK!<br />
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Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28492900.post-53233948151163031872014-06-22T13:14:00.002-06:002014-06-22T13:14:47.089-06:00First Day of Summer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Summer Solstice Evening</td></tr>
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When you live in a box, things warm up quickly. Right on time, the heat blasted me awake on the first day of summer. This year, I have taken to wearing only shorts and a sports bra while working on the farm, which sounds much sexier than the reality. </div>
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Still, why be modest when there is nobody around? Time to go native. Whenever I start to use my turn signal - after decades of dutifully doing so - I laugh, knowing that nobody - and I mean NOBODY - is behind me to care enough about which direction I am going. </div>
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Things on my mind include the stagnated US hemp industry (<a href="http://secondchanceranch.blogspot.com/2013/04/hemp-envy.html">thorn in my side</a>), the local Farmers Market (which I now lead), my upcoming Smile Train fundraiser, glyphosate in our blood (active ingredient in RoundUp) and, oh yeah, my garden, my reason for being here.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not hemp seeds, tomato</td></tr>
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This week, I spoke with Rachel at North Dakota Department of Agriculture
about obtaining a license to grow hemp. She told me that getting a
state license is one thing - and fairly simple - but you have to get approval from the DEA as well,
and that is less likely. “There is currently 0% acreage of hemp being grown in
the state at this time,” she said, with a sigh of frustration. </div>
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Evidently, you can bring hemp seeds across the border from Canada but
only to make oil or other products, not for planting. If you have seeds, you must provide a sterilization certificate to accompany them or you're in hot water. </div>
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The minimum amount of acreage for hemp production in North Dakota is 10 acres, quite do-able but still, I have questions: </div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>How would you harvest? Are there hemp headers out there?</li>
<li>Who would you sell it to? Do we have industrial hemp production facilities here? </li>
<li>How much would a bushel sell for? What is the market rate? </li>
<li>I'm told Kentucky farms grow hemp like crazy but I wonder, what do they do with it? </li>
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Bugged <a href="https://twitter.com/RepThomasMassie">Rep. Massie</a> about it on Twitter but got no response. (Also, have a friend
in Kentucky who is going to make a call.) He is the lead sponsor of H.R. 525 and S.359, the <a href="https://www.govtrack.us/congress/bills/113/hr525">Industrial Hemp Farming Act of 2013</a> which would, "amend the Controlled Substances Act to exclude
industrial hemp from the definition of marihuana, and for other
purposes." </div>
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This would clear the way for the US farmers to finally cut in to some of Canada's billion-dollar hemp industry pie. Money on the table, people! </div>
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***</div>
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Had to cancel the Farmers’ Market debut last week due to rain, which we needed. I don’t
have any produce yet to sell but baked goods ladies were going to come, plus
somebody who makes homemade doggie biscuits. I was just going to play my
ukulele and see if anyone had questions. Plus, I'm going to start taking orders for funky homemade ice cream because, well, why not? </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Impending disaster</td></tr>
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Also, I hired the beau to make me a wooden sandwich board sign. Unfortunately, I agreed to do the lettering which has proven disastrous. The black paint made the cardboard stencils stick to the wood. Brent lent me some brass stencils but in the meantime, I tried big, fat black Sharpies, which unfortunately, have produced similar results. Wish I was talented enough to just do it freehand. </div>
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***</div>
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Prep for my annual <a href="http://Smile Train Comedy Improv Festival">Smile Train Comedy Improv fundraiser</a> is chugging along. The festival is
going to feature 40 performers at four different venues in Denver and Arvada,
including the famous Lannie’s Clocktower Cabaret in downtown Denver. Somewhere
around this time, I also must attend a very important wedding in Denver and, if
possible, my 30-year high school reunion in Long Beach. Great time for the
beginning of harvest, no?</div>
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I fear it will involve planes, trains and automobiles and my already maxed credit card in various orders. </div>
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***</div>
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The super sharp Robin Talbott alerted me to the idea of glyphosate testing on Facebook the other day. DUH.
Why didn’t I think of this before? </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sprayer, in action</td></tr>
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Glyphosate is an herbicide, the active ingredient in RoundUp. Seems like a no-brainer, except there are few tests available for the human body. How much of it sprayed in the field ends up
in our cells? Turns out a test is difficult and expensive to obtain. A recent
effort by <a href="http://www.momsacrossamerica.com/glyphosate_testing">Moms Across America</a> was made and <a href="http://www.momsacrossamerica.com/glyphosate_testing_results">the results </a>are being debated but I've contributed to this <a href="https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/nationwide-glyphosate-testing">IndieGoGo campaign</a> to get a nationwide testing effort going. </div>
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As for glyphosate's effects on our systems, I do not trust Monsanto with their assurances of safety. They only point to the studies that they themselves commissioned and funded. (The same could be said about the Moms campaign, I suppose.) Color me officially suspicious, but I long for a un-biased third-party long-term study. Y'know, other than the one currently being done on our children...</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EhRE2HTKPOU/U6ck-mTo0hI/AAAAAAAAINs/0xl5z1vdS10/s1600/glyphosate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EhRE2HTKPOU/U6ck-mTo0hI/AAAAAAAAINs/0xl5z1vdS10/s1600/glyphosate.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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As a rule, I hate needles but this is one little prick I would welcome.</div>
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Believe it or not, I am still planting in the garden. I KNOW, but I am feeling older and slower this year! Sometimes, I look at the size of the plot (approx. 50' x 100') and think, "What the hell? How am I supposed to do this by myself?" </div>
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However, everything long-term - melons, squash, popcorn - has long been in the ground. Everything going in now is fairly quick - lettuce, radish, spinach, flowers and herbs. </div>
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Sadly, no hemp in the ground yet...SOMEDAY. </div>
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Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28492900.post-36632449304441382242014-06-06T14:36:00.000-06:002014-06-06T14:36:12.413-06:00Bugs, Beauty and the Lessons of Now<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I met this wee rooster on his fourth day.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
At this exact annual moment, I always wonder what I am doing here. Doubt sneaks in to my brain like a thief trying to steal my vision, my resolve and any shreds of sanity laying about. Internal arguments ensue until physical exhaustion, social isolation and relentless bug trauma wear me down into a groove that I now know well.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More fun than the real thing.</td></tr>
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Regarding insects, how is it that something so very miniscule can steal all the
focus - can suddenly run your entire life? Oh, the invoked terror that comes with the
high-tin buzz of one lone mosquito in a tiny RV bedroom! Or the slow realization that a wood tick is crawling somewhere it shouldn’t be, which is everywhere on my person. My now-robotic gesture of
pinching, capturing and immediately drowning ticks is my only real form of defense. I once picked off two in the middle of a conference call without breaking my sentences.
(I’m up to 5 today but my record is 8 in one day.) And don't even get me started on the gnats - loathsome bastards, every last one. </div>
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But when I come out on the other side of this dubious, buggy darkness, my eyes register the stunning beauty of the season. I am surrounded by endless carpets of
budding green fields, made orange every evening around 9:30 p.m. by a falling sun slowly diced even by a flat horizon. And though everyone here proclaims victory over dead dandelions, I find the sunny yellow dots endlessly charming. These prairie images leave me gobsmacked and my crush on North Dakota intensifies. Now, snug in the
belly of the Mae Flower, I hear vigorous thunder from Canada.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Green and blue, everywhere. </td></tr>
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As for the garden, between intermittent rain, bug swarms and an aching lower
back, the planting isn’t happening over night. Like the real farmers around me, I often play the hurry-up-and-wait game, dependent on weather and soil conditions. But instead of an elaborate plan,
<a href="http://secondchanceranch.blogspot.com/2013/03/the-2013-garden-plan.html">like in previous years</a>, I am going in relatively plan-less, with more focus on planting long-range crops first. Also, when my <a href="http://secondchanceranch.blogspot.com/2013/11/robbed.html">seeds were stolen last fall</a>, it was a gut punch I hadn't let myself feel until recently. At the time I rationalized it – balance of the universe and
such. “Bad things don’t happen to me that often,” I said bravely, “if this is
my slice of Life Shit That Ain’t Fair, then I’ll take it.” I had successfully avoided my white
hot rage, I dared think, but in reality, I'd only postponed it. <br />
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Just a few weeks ago, standing before a double rack of seeds at Echter's in Arvada, Colorado, I took a deep
breath and began to peruse. I was exhausted, a bit hungover and emotionally detached; I just wanted to grab some seeds at random, then go. But the more seed names I recognized from my former stash, the tighter
my lips and fists got. Clenching my teeth, the rage eeked out just a bit. </div>
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“Assholes,” I hissed. “JUNKIE FUCKERS!” </div>
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I had underestimated the emotional whack that loss delivered - it knocked the wind out of my agricultural sails. But I'm working to get it back. I bought a tobacco plant yesterday and the novelty of bringing back dried tobacco for smoking in LA tickles me to no end. Little tricks like this, y'see.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brent, filling up the garden's water tank</td></tr>
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Also, I'm now running the local Farmers Market, which is bizarre. The previous lead, my friend, Victoria, called me up over the winter with a request. "Please, please, PLEASE run it next year! You're much better than policing people than I am." A-hem. It's true that I lack that layer of Midwestern Nice that comes naturally to the locals, and I am not one to shy away from confrontation, but was I really the right person to take over?<br />
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Doesn't matter. It's already happening. Thankfully, we've got a <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/430190663692357/">Facebook group</a> so communications are easy. I've already met with the Chamber of Commerce dude and we picked a more visible spot for it - no longer in the gorgeous City Park but right along Main Street. I've scheduled a vendor meeting, taken over the bank account and contracted my main squeeze to build me a sandwich board sign reading: "FARMERS MARKET OPEN TODAY" so wheels be turnin'.<br />
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I've never done any of this before but why let inexperience that get in the way of a juicy challenge? After all, isn't that why I've come here? To learn?<br />
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Ah, yes. Now I remember.....</div>
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Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28492900.post-50813419881283944962014-05-29T13:21:00.000-06:002014-05-29T13:23:54.744-06:00Back on the Farm <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Giant bizarre machinery has returned to my life.</td></tr>
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After <a href="http://clizbiz.blogspot.com/">seven months of gallivanting</a> and two weeks of driving and visiting, I am finally back on the farm. To get here, I survived brutal hail storms three days in a row in two different states, and was pulled over for speeding just 8.4 miles from the farm (only a warning, thank god). I also was blessed with spectacular skies and the warm laughter of many friends along the way.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love me some menacing clouds.</td></tr>
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My Colorado visit was epic. I stopped in Crestone to see Miss Bliss and Nealio and grab me some blessings at the stupa. (Bliss and I did powerful work up there - some wheels be turnin'....)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Hello, Universe? Um, is this thing on?"</td></tr>
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And returning to the familiar folds of Hearthstone, my Colorado co-housing community, was such a boost of love and friendship. It was an amazing stroke of luck that was able to call this place home for nearly two years and my fortune has continued with their willingness to welcome me back again and again.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hearthstone music night</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Adam, Noah and Tracy, jammin' on the porch</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Susan, Harriet and Scott, hanging at the Common House</td></tr>
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Also, I caught up with the Kirkpatrick clan - Reid, Molly, Ben and Boudreaux - some of my favorite beings in the world. Again, they let me remain in the fold of their lives and I am so, so grateful. Not long after I left Ben and Molly became engaged so congrats to the happy couple! <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This guy is happy because he is awesome.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reid, Ben and Molly at Little Man Ice Cream</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boudreaux Kirkpatrick aka "Mr. Handsome"</td></tr>
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Plus, I got to hang with my old pal, Amy, just as she was checking on
her new hive - whee! She still calls herself a "newbie" when it comes to beekeeping but she taught me a ton. I am super grateful too all bee folk who help this crucial insect thrive in the face of a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Colony_collapse_disorder">serious decrease in their populations</a>. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Free to Bee Me!</td></tr>
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While in Denver, I also accomplished a long-held goal: to lead a Listening Workshop. With the encouragement of my friend, Maria, who leads <a href="http://www.ucdenver.edu/academics/colleges/SchoolOfEducation/Discover/News/Pages/Educational-Foundations-March-18.aspx">successful workshops of her own</a> dealing with fear around climate change, I made it happen. There were just six attendees - exactly the amount I envisioned - for the 'beta' version of the workshop. Of course, it came together Hearthstone - where else would such an ambitious project begin? It went well enough that I was encouraged, so more to come.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two of my hosts, Annika and Kiki</td></tr>
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It all makes me wonder why I ever left such a
beautiful place. Seriously, it seems crazy to me now. Oh wait, that's right, I remember, I left to come here and play organic farmer. Well, I removed the first wood tick from my body today so I guess the season has officially begun.<br />
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I've arrived smack in the middle of a planting frenzy. Though the skies are clear, the air is thick with harried stress. With the fields still wet and muddy, farmers face a race with the rain and the pending insurance deadlines. (Certain crops have 'must be planted by' dates or they face a percentage decrease in their pay.) <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brent seeding wheat. </td></tr>
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I've cleaned out the shed where a lot of living gets done - music practice, yoga, writing, brainstorming, seed planting and such. Lots of dust rabbits (bigger than bunnies), mouse carcasses and oil stains to deal with but I enjoyed cranking up my 80s and 90s cassettes and settling in. After a long, filthy day, I treated myself to a sunset yoga session followed by a nice cold shower. (No hot water yet, sigh.)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yogaaaaaaaah!</td></tr>
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The garden has been tilled (thanks to Brent) and I've got <a href="http://www.nativeseeds.org/community/199-the-story-of-glass-gem-corn-beauty-history-and-hope">Glass Gem popcorn</a> planted, plus some onions. I wanted to plant more today but winds are too high (25 mph) and I've got a meeting with the new head of the Chamber of Commerce anyway. Somehow, I've become the new lead for the Cavalier Farmers Market so we're going to make some changes, maybe move it from the park to main street for higher visibility and more customers. <br />
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The plot is 50' x 119' (6 of that are garlic rows) which never sounds very impressive when people ask me, "So how many acres do you farm?" (Sheepish answer: "One-tenth of an acre.") However, considering I am doing it all by the hand and hoe of yours truly, it is plenty acreage. <br />
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Trust me on this. </div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28492900.post-24216611787117983502014-03-20T19:02:00.001-06:002014-03-21T12:59:53.720-06:00Yay For Spring! <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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''Tis SPRING! <br />
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The fertile season has officially launched - at least on the calendar - and so my thoughts turn to farming, growing and all things SCRANCH. <br />
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Truth be told, my brain never really left the farm. As much as I enjoy gallivanting about here in Los Angeles, seeing old friends, gorging on movies and sushi, running on the beach and discussing the brilliant character development on (insert title) TV series, my heart is deeply embedded in the gorgeous black soil of the Red River Valley.<br />
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And when my earthly shell ceases to be, could someone bury me deep down in my garden soil? No box, no shroud, just use the frontloader in the barn and compost me direct as a final gift back to the land that has taught me so much. Not
sure if this bloggy statement will stand up legally but such are my
wishes. Should my survivors be squeamish, I suppose my ashes will work
just as well for soil enrichment.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Planting those first seeds 2 years ago.</td></tr>
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But I morbidly digress. <br />
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Watching NE North Dakota this past winter has, nevertheless, made me grateful for the California sun, even the gritty smog that comes with it. The average North Dakota temperature this past winter (December-February) was 4.3 degrees. On December 16, it was -27 degrees. In fact, I'd heard about a record number of days-below-zero this winter, something like 45 in a row. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GAq1Ml3PlGc">Crazy, right?</a> All that plus 60-mph winds? For the love of God, what crazy-ass humans are still there this time of year? <br />
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<a href="http://secondchanceranch.blogspot.com/2012/10/the-teacher.html">Brent</a>, for one. I spoke to him last night and evidently, the 2013-2014 winter was especially brutal. "It was either the second or fourth coldest winter on record, depending on which station you listen to," he said.<br />
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In Walhalla, just 16 miles west of the farm, 35 houses are currently without water because the water lines broke. Why? Because they are buried 6-8 feet down and this year, the frost goes down 10-feet deep. That's 10 feet of frozen topsoil, people.<br />
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Also, my garlic is still hibernating under a huge snow drift. I had to ask, "How high?"<br />
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"'Bout up to m'crotch," Brent explained helpfully. (Brent is 6'4" I believe, so that's a high crotch.)<br />
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This bracing reality has cooled my jets. No need to rush back to frozen ground. Anyway, this gives me time to plan crops. Reflecting on lessons learned from the past two summers, I'll make some adjustments. Some crops are getting fired, others, promoted. Here's the pink slip (or reduction) list: <br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><b>Green beans</b> - Too much labor, not enough sales and so, too much waste.</li>
<li><b>Yellow Crookneck Squash</b> - They became orange gourds much too quickly.</li>
<li><b>Carrots</b> - They are harvested so late in the season, they sometimes get wasted, never sold. </li>
<li><b>Tomatoes</b> - I love 'em but it's overwhelming. Maybe just four varieties instead of eight? (Last year, I was making giant batches of tomato soup every single day for weeks.) Plus, everyone grows their own so I don't sell much. </li>
<li><b>Lettuce</b> - Just one variety instead of four, and not so much. They bolt fast and are heartbreaking to till under.</li>
</ul>
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Meanwhile, some crops are getting an enthusiastic 'Welcome, back!' and maybe, more space:</div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li><b>Spinach</b> - my favorite crop of all, especially Lavewa and Bourdeaux. I sell it like crazy, it never freezes and I eat tons of it myself. </li>
<li><b>Herbs</b> - especially Lemon basil. Dill, cilantro, sage, basil, parsley, chives, oregano, thyme - they are easy to transport and sell</li>
<li><b>Watermelons </b>- though I will no longer use saved seeds, easy since they were all stolen. I believe the quality was weaker last year - not as red or sweet. </li>
<li><b>Ground Cherries</b> - Delightful, easy to harvest and kids love 'em.</li>
<li><b>Peas</b> - only because they are fun to eat in the garden while doing other things. </li>
<li><b>Eggplant </b>- I still cannot believe I had such success last year, even planting by seed and fighting potato beetles. Amazing. </li>
<li><b>Lemon cucumbers</b> - But only if I can sell then again to the organic co-op. Locals at the market are scared of them - too exotic. </li>
<li><b>Lakota Winter Squash</b> - beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. Oh, and sentimental.</li>
<li><b>Uncle David's Dessert Squash</b> - Super yummy and long-lasting. I am STILL eating them. </li>
<li><b>Onions</b> - Like spinach - they always produce, never complain, easy to harvest. </li>
<li><b>Popcorn</b> - Not getting a fair chance to succeed and it's my fault. I need an electric fence to zap those fucking raccoons who pillage every year. </li>
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I told Brent I'd be going online to purchase a solar-powered electric fence to battle the varmints and was immediately scolded:<br />
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"No, no, NO. Don't be doing that. We've got enough material around here - we can make our own. We got wire, we got chargers, we got everything we need." <br />
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"Um, okay, but you realize that 'we' means you, right?"</div>
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"Just don't be buying anything off the internet."<br />
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And then, just yesterday, I just had to see the headline, <a href="http://www.mnn.com/your-home/organic-farming-gardening/stories/how-to-grow-and-make-your-own-tea">"Grow Your Own Tea"</a>…. dang! Now, I want to be a tea farmer. </div>
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***<br />
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My favorite seed sources:<br />
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<a href="http://www.echters.com/">Echter's</a> - incredible garden store in Denver. Love picking out packets on my way north. <br />
<a href="http://landrethseeds.com/">Landreths' </a>- a 230-year old American company that I adore. Their catalogues are works of art and they get personally involved in your happiness.<br />
<a href="http://www.prairieroadorganic.co/Prairie_Road_Organic_Seed/Welcome.html">Prairie Road Organic Seed</a> - a small, family-owned North Dakota company. I met Theresa, a co-owner at the MOSES conference. I went to her house to buy seeds and she and her husband popped me popcorn from their fields. <br />
<a href="https://www.groworganic.com/">Peaceful Valley</a> - wonderful company in Grass Vally, CA - this is where I get my garlic and shallots every year. <br />
<a href="http://www.seedsavers.org/">Seed Savers Exchange</a> - I've heard about this wonderful nonprofit for years but I have yet to get involved. This is the year I learn more. </div>
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Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28492900.post-77323048801674809562013-11-12T11:28:00.000-07:002013-11-12T11:28:18.542-07:00Robbed<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
'I've been robbed,' I thought to myself, with a whimper. Staring at the empty spaces in my pick-up's cab last Saturday morning where my stuff was last seen crammed together tightly, it was the only logical conclusion. <br />
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But before I can admit this fact, there were those first few moments of disbelief when my eyes and brain tussled a bit; logic tapped its foot impatiently while I danced with denial. 'I must have moved everything somewhere else and forgotten about it,' and so on. So often, before we admit that our precious items are gone forever, we first apply a generous layer of outrageous explanation.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Guitar on left, gone</td></tr>
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But the denial never lasts. Mine certainly didn't extend more than a few seconds - I have few things and very little space for said things. The beautiful black guitar given to me by Kirk and his daughter, M? Gone. The ukulele gifted to me by my mother? Also, gone. A pile of effective, and therefore, pricy coats, including a sentimental favorite - big, black down vest with <a href="http://shockwave.com/">shockwave.com</a> stitched on the back? (I was a member of the Launch Team.) Vanished.<br />
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A particularly painful loss was a massive black CD holder than held so much precious music, most of it personal mixes, including several burned for me last week by Miss Bliss in Crestone, CO. If you know me at all, then you know how seriously I take my music so this loss feels like a blow to my soul. If there is any good news here, it's that the great majority of the CD content exists on my iTunes. Also, I've had more than a few offers of CD burnings to replace my collection but a number of covers made long ago will likely be lost forever. <br />
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Worst of all, an open box that was obviously grabbed in a hurry contained pricey organic road snacks, several containers of smokey treats and seeds for next season - those I had purchased, acquired and harvested - painful. Just this morning, I started to grasp the great variety of seeds I had in that box - so much spinach, cilantro, lettuce, watermelon, green beans and so on. Ooof. That hurts. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harvested bulbs</td></tr>
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But no loss could compare to nearly 50 garlic bulbs that were taken. My babies, that I had carefully planted in 2012, cultivated, weeded, watered, fussed over, harvested and painstakingly kept in a friend's cellar, all gone. Likely, they were trashed for they won't get a junkie much at the local pawn shop. There were even four perfect white specimens that I'd planned on gifting to family members this Christmas. I was going to hunt down small boxes in Robin's Egg blue (aka Tiffany boxes) and present them like they were the Hope frickin' Diamond.<br />
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Realizing that the garlic was gone brought real tears of sadness. It wasn't so much that things were stolen, it was the theft of my time and hard work. The unfairness of it all was overwhelming and the violation left a sick feeling in my stomach. I sat in my pick-up for nearly an hour, just weeping and feeling sorry for myself, reviewing my losses. <br />
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I'd lived all summer in a place where nobody locks anything and I'd gotten out of the habit. This was likely what happened; there was no sign of forced entry, no broken windows. I'd slipped up even though Laurianna had warned me about the risks. Some loser had come along and jiggled the handle, found it open and helped themselves. Bastards. <br />
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I can only console myself with the knowledge that farming is all about starting over, season after season, and I would begin next spring with a cleaner plate than I'd planned. Also, when I sought out the collective sympathies of <a href="https://www.facebook.com/heather.clisby">my Facebook community</a>, I received an overwhelming response - offers of guitars, seeds and CDs, not to mention genuine rage. It was the best reminder that my life is rich with friendship, love and support, something that poor soul is so obviously lacking. And not only that but they've got an expensive drug habit to support - an unfriendly monkey on their back.<br />
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I leave Albuquerque today, my load quite a bit lighter than I'd prefer, but there's got to be some lesson I can glean from this crime. Ironically, my stroke of bad luck might be the perfect reminder of just how lucky I am. </div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28492900.post-30662437803266782932013-11-04T14:24:00.000-07:002013-11-05T12:19:47.489-07:00Gone for the Season<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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On October 24th, Grandpa Wilbur's birthday, I left the farm for the season. Brent disconnected the Mae Flower, closed up the sewer pipes, pumped out all the water and we filled 'er up with that bright pink party punch known as RV anti-freeze. The color always seemed oddly celebratory to me, usually in contrast to my mood. No matter when I leave SCRANCH, it always feels too soon. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brent, ponders a Mae-Flower-less yard</td></tr>
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Leaving North Dakota is always bittersweet. Mostly, I am sad to leave behind this piece of earth that has been in our family for over 90 years. I'd never really understood the pull of that connection until now. When seeing people on the news refusing to leave their homes despite an impending natural disaster, I would be baffled by their geographic loyalty. 'Fools', I'd think to myself.<br />
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Well, now I understand, though admittedly, the pull is not strong enough to keep me there for 6-7 months of serious winter. Growing up in Southern California does not prepare one for 30 below zero, it's that simple. Bullets, Botox and smog? Sure. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ty0iucpb6nA">Water freezing in mid-air?</a> Um, NO. <br />
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Another emotion is worry. Did I do enough? Did i learn everything I could? Talk to everyone I should have? Did I listen hard enough? I may have to accept on faith that just being here with eyes and ears open was satisfactory, that I absorbed plenty. <br />
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Still, there is much fretting over 'my babies' - the resulting produce harvested with great effort and satisfaction. I write this now from a cozy spot in Albuquerque, New Mexico where I am still carrying around winter squash, watermelon, eggplant, peppers, shallots, Lakota squash, chilies, parsnips, carrots, heaps o' garlic and a few hearty well-traveled tomatoes. When packing my pick-up, Brent was impressed that the majority of my load consisted of crops I couldn't bear to leave behind, rather than the clothes, make-up and fancy shoes I'd lugged to LA the previous year. "Guess you are getting to be a real farmer now," he said.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Big open fields - another thing I'll miss</td></tr>
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At this point, it would almost be a lie-by-omission not to mention that I fell deeply in love over the summer. We are very different people, this man and I, and our differences only sharpened the intensity of our coupling. With a two-decade age difference, we are geographical, cultural and political opposites - one, a strict German banker from small town North Dakota, and the other, a cultural liberal from Southern California. One, a fan of Bill O'Reilly, Rush Limbaugh and all things Fox News, and the other, an ardent fan of Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert and Louis CK. One attends a very traditional Lutheran church (Missouri Synod) and the other is primarily pagan; guess which one I am? <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Big ass machinery - another thing I'll miss</td></tr>
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But meeting up in the middle? Oh my, that's a sweet spot. Of course, this new development made the moment of leaving feel strangely cinematic and four times as hard. I am not one to share my personal life on the internet but I cannot help but openly marvel at how love has a tendency to color daily life in glowing, rich hues while anchoring these place-and-time memories deeper than otherwise imagined. Now there is a whole new unexpected layer to my North Dakota experience, one I will not forget. Logic be damned, the heart wants what it wants. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tomatoes and squash</td></tr>
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Nonetheless, the call of family, holidays and the aforementioned push of the notorious NoDak winter means I had to pack up and leave for the season. The chances I will return next spring for one more solid SCRANCH summer are about 70% right now - 30% being reserved for whatever Amazing Opportunity the Universe might decide to throw my way. Otherwise, I feel that a third and final year would complete the original intention of this project. And let's face it, I'd miss my beautiful black dirt, which is also now entrenched in my heart.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Garlic varieties for 2014: Lahonton, Music and Siberian</td></tr>
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In a gesture of 'place holding', I even planted some garlic and shallots for next season. On a day of snow flurries, I broke up the bulbs, soaked them in kelp juice (picture Brent rolling his eyes) and popped those babies in that gorgeous Red River Valley soil. I had an amazing bounty of garlic and shallots this year - they were my biggest money maker - so I can't see myself skipping them. And you have to plant in fall so regardless of whether or not I return, they will pop up for someone to harvest and enjoy. <br />
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[Interesting side note: The percentage increase from my 2012 SCRANCH income to my 2013 SCRANCH income is 451.5% - nearly $700 more than last year! Huzzah!] <br />
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On my meanderings back to Long Beach (and the eventual jump back to my other blog, <a href="http://clizbiz.blogspot.com/">ClizBiz</a>), I have been fortunate to stay with friends in Colorado and New Mexico. Other than my friendship and gratitude, I tried to repay their hospitality with one or more of the following homemade goodies: tomato soup, banana bread (made by the new beau), garlic, grape juice, winter squash and - time permitting - a cooked meal. Mama Iva taught me that Food = Love and my time in North Dakota has reinforced that fact.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tomato soup!</td></tr>
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So thank you to Helen and Annika in Denver, Bliss and Neil in Crestone and Laurianna, Wyatt and Jack in Albuquerque, for hosting the wandering farmer on her way back to the big city, or as I have come to call it, The Land Where People Lock Things. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heading West</td></tr>
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Long Beach, here I come! </div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28492900.post-23232222562573672572013-10-28T11:43:00.000-06:002013-10-28T11:43:47.199-06:00Guest Post: Eleni Liberty Jacobson<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Back in August, I was honored with <a href="http://secondchanceranch.blogspot.com/2013/08/first-scranch-intern-elenis-visit.html">a visit from Eleni</a>, a shining light of the future and the teenage daughter of my friends, Val and Jake. Today is Eleni's 19th birthday so I'd like to share her take on that summer visit: <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eleni in the Tonka</td></tr>
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<i>My time at SCRANCH in early August was a lesson in absorbing contradiction, disorienting yet enlightening. I was visiting an open-minded, liberal woman living amongst a conservative population. Surrounded by thousands of acres of identical corn and bean plants, we kicked off her garlic harvest by pulling just 20 or so of her precious organic bulbs, planted in October 2012. Each of the bulbs made a delightful sound as it popped from the ground. That small joy of hearing that noise is an encapsulation of the rewarding energy cycle that goes into organic farming. Sadly, I think there are no such noises in the world of industrial agriculture - the organic sounds of crop harvest have been drowned out by the roar of engines and innumerable machines. <br /><br />As much as I support and believe in the importance of organic farming, I appreciated the lifestyle and culture to which I was introduced. In the Northeastern corner of North Dakota, I met people who don't know much about anything but farming, a narrow scope of life that is compensated for by the depth at which they live. When all you do is farm soybeans, you know EVERYTHING about farming soybeans, and there is a beauty in knowledge so deeply entrenched. <br /><br />In my college-student mind, industrial agriculture is the lecture hall of food production - thousands of identical organisms churned through massive machines on their way to becoming processed food. By that analogy, SCRANCH is the discussion seminar, where every element has individual merit and value, and every tiny, manual step of production matters.</i><br />
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<i>I now realize that living in California has skewed my perception of reality to an alarming extent. "Open your eyes," North Dakota reminded me. "See that, here, the pace of life is slower, the space is wider, and the language is simpler and fuller than it is at home." A small moment which I carried with me all week occurred as I sat in Applebee’s on my first morning in ND. I pointed out to Heather that the limeade I had ordered was not really, truly limeade, but more of a syrupy glass of crushed ice with some citrus-ish looking slices on the bottom. </i><br />
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<i>Heather looked at the glass, and she looked at me, and she said, “That’s how you know you might be a snob.” Talk about culture shock! I carried that instance with me all week - a small reminder that, for a week, I needed to set aside my preconceptions about what I knew life to be, and adjust my reactions to what I was being shown.<br /><br />SCRANCH is an intriguing place because it lies in such contrast to the immense fields of industrial agriculture that surround it. Among the physical hugeness of the fields and the smallness of rural life, SCRANCH is a tiny physical garden with revolutionary social implications - the inverse of its surroundings. The majority of the neighbors who know about Heather's garden can remember when everybody had a garden just like it – one without chemicals or sprays, using seeds saved from one year to the next, with which all able hands are expected to work. </i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">4-wheeling with Brent</td></tr>
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<i>I think her garden is a wake up call, a jolting reminder of how far we have strayed from this small, healthy, resilient scale of life. Her presence is her power, and her blog is her voice, and her produce is the lynch pin of it all - her impact. The crops are little edible packages of awareness! To encounter, scrutinize, question, purchase, and consume SCRANCH produce is to support, engage in, and become cognizant of the organic food movement. <br /><br />At times, I felt that Heather was preaching to the choir - selling her organic produce at Amazing Grains (a co-op in Grand Forks) and at the Cavalier Farmer's Market, where people already appreciate and understand its intrinsic importance. But I wanted to see more outreach and education to the local population so it can follow along with this organic, "small ag" (the opposite of "big ag") movement. <br /><br />Then again, what “local population” am I thinking about? Again, I went head to head with my preconceived notions of “outreach” and “population.” There are just not that many people to reach out to - North Dakota is a state with fewer people than San Francisco. The town nearest SCRANCH, Neche, is 10 miles away, with just 366 residents, right on the Canadian border. <br /><br />Spending time with the major players in Heather’s life was like taking a mind shower. I felt so awash and entirely inundated by the new perspectives on agriculture and economics that they shared with me. The farmers I met have ridden an incredible wave of change, and their lifetimes straddle two vastly, wildly different periods of time. We have so much to learn from their adaptability, resilience, and commitment to their livelihood. From Brent in particular, I learned tenacity, and it emanates from him so strongly that I can’t help but feel that a small touch of it rubbed off on me in the form of personal inspiration to never give up, even when my task seems fruitless.</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Wayne - he flew in a similar helicopter during the Vietnam War</td></tr>
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<i>Again, I cannot emphasize enough how personally rejuvenating it was to readjust my perspective on life. As I texted a friend, "Let's go to the Metreon in SF, or in Santa Cruz, or the farmer's market at CSM, or a photography trip to Stanford or the Ferry Building, or visit this urban Jewish organic farming operation in Berkeley I heard about, or go rafting, or hike San Bruno Mountain...wait...all I'm doing is naming things that people in ND would never even dream existed." Then again, I might just as well have texted them saying, “Let’s look up at thousands of brilliant stars, or slide down the pile of corn kernels in the silo, or kiss our newly pulled garlic bulbs that we planted ten months ago, or jump four-wheelers over logs, or go visit the cows in the bush, or chew wheat until it turns to gum in our mouths, or...wait...all I’m doing is listing things I never even dreamed existed.”<br /><br />It’s all about the perspective.</i><br />
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<i>For all my pondering of the grand metaphorical resonance of SCRANCH, these unheard of activities (grain-scrambling, plant-kissing, star-staring, log-hopping, etc) were just plain fun! I never get to try so many new things in a row. That sensation of newness is so lacking in my day to day life, and it was a breath of fresh wonder that I really hope everyone gets to experience every now and then.<br /><br />I expected to spend most of my time working in the garden while carrying on intellectual conversations about the state of our food production system. I foresaw isolation, an almost yogic experience of cleansing and removal from my life on the San Francisco Peninsula. I saw a stillness of life and an almost halt to my usual mad rush of daily activity. Therefore the biggest surprises all came in the forms of a vast variety of experiences that engaged and delighted me--some of which are listed above, and many more of which are outlined in Heather’s original post--again, disproving my misconceptions of rural life.<br /><br />I want to share a piece of advice my Ethnic Studies teacher shared with me last semester as we planned and executed an event together. I find it to be very true, very applicable to SCRANCH, and something that people need to understand as we endeavor, daily, to leave our impact upon the world. He told me that “the success of any attempt depends on the passion with which you put it together.” SCRANCH has succeeded thus far because of the intensity of care, dedication, and focus Heather has given to it. Heather, thank you for sharing that passion with me.</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Queen of the Grain Bin</td></tr>
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Happy Birthday, Eleni! The world is your organic oyster, my friend. Eat up! </div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28492900.post-82663478829102919982013-10-12T14:50:00.001-06:002013-10-13T13:54:11.103-06:00Thoughts on Sugar<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gazillions of sugar beets</td></tr>
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It's the annual sugar beet harvest this month and the roads are muddy and buzzing with truck loads. Recently, I was able to witness the 24/7 frenzy up close as I rode along with Wayne during a typical 12 hr. driver shift. Investigating big-scale farming realities is a hobby but really, it's an elaborate excuse to be around heavy machinery.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another loaded truck down a dusty road</td></tr>
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To harvest the beets before a hard frost, seasonal drivers generally work 12-hour shifts - either midnight to noon or vice-versa, over a 10-12-day period. Work stops for rain, frost and extreme heat only. Otherwise, the harvest runs 24 hrs. a day and there is an exciting madness about it all.<br />
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During beet harvest, the deep black of a North Dakota night is dotted with working combines and truck headlights, storming down the highway, resolute and united in their mission. The asphalt is covered in muddy tire tracks and the rumble of traffic anywhere near the piles is constant. <br />
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The process is simple: A farmer drives a lifter which pinches up beets that are fed into a delivery machine. Meanwhile, drivers steer alongside the tractor, collecting beets as they are dumped into the truck bed. Lifter dude gives hand signals (at night, they are light signals) to Driver dude - speed up or slow down - to fill up the truck bed. When full, Farmer waves goodbye to Driver who then leaves the field, headed toward the nearest 'piler', where all the beets make up tremendous beet mountains.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kelly works the lifter, giving signals</td></tr>
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A piler is a massive cement spot on the prairie with mobile machines that accept and weigh a truck's beet cargo, returning rejects and extraneous topsoil back to the truck bed, where it is dumped back onto the field it just came from. From the piler, the beets are carted off to the nearest sugar processing plant as soon as possible. This part of the world is "beet country" with 5 <a href="http://www.crystalsugar.com/">American Crystal Sugar </a>processing plants in North Dakota and Minnesota. (Founded in 1890, American Crystal is farmer-owned, becoming a co-operative in 1973.)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beet mountains at Hamilton piler</td></tr>
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Beet piles are heat-sensitive and will start to break down if the weather is too warm. (The colder North temperatures make the region ideal for beets.) To combat the risk of heat decay, empty pipes are inserted in the core of the enormous piles to keep them cool with circulated air. During Wayne's shift, we drove back and forth between the beet field, the Hamilton piler and the Midway piler, near Bathgate. At each spot, we took our turn in line, waiting to unload our sugar beets. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beet pipes, pre-season, piled up near Minto. </td></tr>
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For an increasingly diabetic country like ours, sugar is big business. Whether its cane sugar, beet sugar or high fructose corn syrup (made cheap by government subsidies), a society that lives on processed food can hardly do without. The average American consumes 22.7 teaspoons of sugar every day. The American Heart Association's recommended daily limit is 9 tsp. for men and no more than 6 tsp. for women.<br />
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In National Geographic's recent cover story, <a href="http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2013/08/sugar/cohen-text">"Sugar Love (a not so sweet story)"</a>, the author, Rich Cohen, notes that sugars were first introduced into processed foods in the 1970s. Then, we are presented with a disturbing graph showing a spike in diabetic diagnoses about the same time. <br />
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<i>"In 1973, 2% of the population, 4.2 million Americans were diabetic. In 2010, it is 7% of the population, 21.1 million Americans. Almost all the cases in this epidemic spike are type 2 diabetes, once called adult-onset diabetes." </i></blockquote>
I just checked with the National Diabetes Foundation and as of 2011, 8.3% of the U.S. population is diabetic. Furthermore, they estimate that <a href="http://www.diabetes.org/for-media/2013/annual-costs-of-diabetes-2013.html">healthcare costs for diabetic Americans</a> reached $245 billion, up 41% over a five-year period. War on Drugs? Meh. We've got much bigger problems. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Truck receiving beets from Lifter while moving</td></tr>
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Like anything, too much of a good thing can be a bad thing, and so it is with sugar. Still, as I watched all the activity, I couldn't help but think, "Seems like an awful lot of trouble for a vegetable you can't really cook with." But again, this is the industrialized food system, food grown expressly for fuel, animal feed or processing, not for you and I to dice up and throw into a pot. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Loaded trucks in line at piler</td></tr>
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Moreover, the world demands the sugar beet as it is much easier to process than cane sugar. Still, I think it worth noting that Ireland stopped growing sugar beets in 2006 once the government subsidies ended. (Russia is the world's main sugar beet producer, followed by France and the U.S.) The sugar beet is not like corn, potatoes or rice, it is not a nutritional staple found in kitchens around the world. <br />
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Which again makes me wonder how much our government - you know, the paralyzed, ineffectual one? - subsidizes crops that keep adding to our national health problem. Here's a brief explanation of subsidies from the Forbes' 2008 article, <a href="http://www.forbes.com/2008/06/27/florida-sugar-crist-biz-beltway-cx_jz_0630sugar.html">"Sugar's Sweet Deal"</a>:<br />
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<i>Sugar subsidies in the United States work through a complex system of
loans and quotas. Sugar processors take out loans from the government;
then, after the harvest, they face one of two scenarios. If they’ve been
able to sell their sugar for more than the cost of the loan, they pay
off the loan and pocket the profit. If their crop is worth less than the
loan, they can keep the money and just give the government their sugar.</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Communication by radio</td></tr>
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<i>The loans are made to processors, but in order to qualify, they agree
to make payments to the producers at a predetermined rate. The system
guarantees the sugar industry a minimum price for sugar.</i><br />
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<i>
</i><i>In order to prevent the subsidies from causing oversupply, however,
the Department of Agriculture maintains marketing allotments, preventing
producers from growing too much. A strict quota system also limits the
amount of sugar that can be imported into the country.</i></blockquote>
With one-third of Americans officially obese, we are the unhealthiest industrialized nation on earth. No, I am not blaming the sugar beet and certainly not the amazing efficiency of large-scale farming, but I do question the spendy health damages of Cheap and Fast processed food. Government and large bio-tech companies who enable this market do not - I repeat, DO NOT - have our best interests at heart. <br />
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As for the farmers, they are doing what farmers have always done, grow crops that are in national and global demand. When I see these large-scale industrial harvest productions, I know full well that the average farmer is not thinking about the end result, the point where the crop meets the consumer. They are too busy watching the weather, the daily crop reports, global market prices, soil moisture and, my god, when they are going to have time to fix the header??? <br />
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Brent, for example, is famous for not opening his mail until winter and getting haircuts only when his cap no longer fits. These people work HARD and would give you the shirt off their back anytime. I admire these farmers and feel sympathy as they are caught up in the same hyper-industrial system that makes their combines - currently costing $300-500K brand new - now run on complicated hard drives instead of just grease. Farming requires serious capital and involves massive unforeseen risks; it is not for the spineless or the weak. <br />
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The fact is, this too-much-sugar problem is <i>our</i> issue (meaning consumers) to deal with, not farmers. The only vote that counts in this country is the Almighty Dollar and farmers are going to grow, harvest and sell whatever pays their bills and keeps them working the land. Period. Right now, it is sugar beets (among other crop rotations) and I see no end to that in my lifetime.<br />
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Supply and demand always wins. What kind of products you buy, conversations with your grocer and the companies you support with your purchase - that's where we affect change. Looking upon those mountains of sugar beets, I saw Oreos, canned fruit, soda, pudding cups, Twinkies, muffins, granola/protein bars, spaghetti sauce, salad dressings, cereals (pre-packaged oatmeal - the <i>worst</i>!), juices, candy and condiments. <br />
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Of course, the body needs a certain amount of sugar for energy, and to carry out
basic functions, but we've gone way beyond that point. Our liver takes all those extra Oreos and converts them into fatty acids which takes up residence on our padded bellies and major organs. High sugar levels in our bloodstream also
set off hormonal responses, such as insulin spikes, that confuse our
bodies, increase appetite, slow down fat burning, and encourage even
more fat storage. So as we discuss the rising costs of healthcare, keep in mind we're really shooting ourselves in the foot with this sugar habit of ours.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sugar beet trucks, working 24/7</td></tr>
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My original goal here was to describe the magical sugar beet harvest <i>only, </i>not deliver a soapbox rant, but seeing the literal birth of sugar reminded me why I've come here. An enormous chasm of non-communication echoes between farmer and consumer and lately, that's where I find myself uncomfortably positioned. In these moments of personal division, I revisit the initial non-partisan thought that drives me forward on this project:<br />
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<i>Everybody</i> eats.<br />
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To see more of my photos from the Sugar Beet Harvest, go <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/clizbiz/sets/72157636437650573/">here</a>. </div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28492900.post-22626875086686043702013-10-02T11:55:00.002-06:002013-10-02T11:55:32.928-06:00Legacies<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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During Mama Iva's visit last month, we spent one sweltering day trying to clean up the homestead house that we donated to the Pembina Historical Society in 2003. Built in 1882 by my great-grandfather, Adam Curie Paton, it now sits on the grounds of the Icelandic State Park about 18 miles south of the farm. As the old timers will tell you, it was the first saw-cut house in the region - literally cutting edge. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mama Iva, in the kitchen</td></tr>
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The house was part of the the Paton's Isle of Memories, Grandpa Wilbur's historical project, his lifelong obsession to document the lifestyle of the regional farmers and homesteaders in the early 1900s. The Museum, located here on the farm was originally four buildings: the homestead house (where Wilbur and his siblings were born and raised), the one-room schoolhouse where my grandfather, grandmother and mother once attended, the church (he purchased it in Canada and drove it back, the only church known to have served two countries) and the Museum Shed, which once had small rooms displaying era-accurate kitchen, dry goods store, blacksmith shop, barber shop, music room and parlor. These days, the Shed holds all my furniture, worldly goodies, trinkets and treasures - a museum of <i>my</i> life now, I guess.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">School and church, as seen from the Mae Flower</td></tr>
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We were fortunate that the Park wanted the house, its contents and the great majority of the other buildigs. Once upon a time, the Isle of Memories was busy with visitor tours weekly. But no more, so <a href="http://clizbiz.blogspot.com/2007/09/family-legacy.html">we had it moved</a>, where it now sits amongst the antique tractors, train depot, cook car and barns.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Homestead House, far right, at Icelandic</td></tr>
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Cleaning the house was an awful task. There is no electricity there so vacuuming up thousands of dead flies and ladybugs was just a dream. I tried to sweep them up with a broom but they didn't go easily. Mom and I dusted everything best we could and took frequent water breaks. We wanted it to look nice for the upcoming Pioneer Machinery Show where all the buildings are opened up, the old tractors are dusted off and there's all kinds of nostalgia going on - log-cutting, flour mills, including the world's shortest parade.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cousin Walter, age 92, on his 1959 John Deere 730, in the 2012 parade</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cousin Royce, in 2012, on a John Deere 4010</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miss Teen North Dakota pitches in during an antique demo</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Everyone on the bench, and behind it, are family - minus the purple lady, who I'm sure is still very nice</td></tr>
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During the Show, we were able to give some personal tours and allow some folks to come upstairs. (Normally, a chain blocks the super-steep stairs for liability issues.) A young family stationed at the nearby Air Base couldn't believe their luck - ironically, they were actually Californians so it all came full circle. They couldn't believe all the turn-of-the-last century clothing and china and the straw beds.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Adorable family</td></tr>
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Soon, other folks came in the house and we were able to show them around too. A little boy tapped me on the arm and said, "Do you remember me?" I looked at him and had a memory flash from the previous summer.<br />
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"Did you come here last year with two of your buddies and I gave you guys a private tour?"<br />
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He nodded. "Yes! That was me! I came back!" (He's the one in the middle.)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Precious! The ropes are for the tractor pull, I think.</td></tr>
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Those boys were the sweetest - so interested, so polite, so smart, so huggable. Pure North Dakota farm boys, every last one. (Wish I'd met their parents so I could gush.) I remember one of them saying, "Boy, we were sure lucky that you were here so we got to go upstairs!" - pure genuine gratitude.<br />
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I swear, kids here still talk like its the 1950s. If "Golly, gee whiz!" were to come out of their mouths, I would not be shocked. It's delightful. <br />
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This year, a few lucky folks even got to hear Mama Iva talk a bit about being in the house as a child and how meals were made in the kitchen, which seems so primitive to us now - no microwave, blender or dishwasher!<br />
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And at some point this summer, some true genius put in an honest-and-true Victory Garden right next to the house! Picnic table too! Oh, the sweet poetry of this delightful development - it was like getting positive confirmation from the Universe on everything I am trying to do here. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom and visitors in the living room</td></tr>
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Apparently, the garden was planted as a student project, to teach kids about the history of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Victory_garden">Victory Gardens</a>, a government campaign (here in the US, plus UK, Canada and Germany) that encouraged citizens to plant their own food to help free up rations for the war effort. Imagine that! Of course, this was before processed food became such a giant industrial diabetic bully and BFF to the government, but I digress...<br />
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From Wikipedia:<br />
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<i>Amid regular rationing of canned food in Britain, a poster campaign "Plant more in '44!") encouraged the planting of victory gardens by nearly 20 million Americans during the course of WWII. These gardens produced up to 40 percent of all the vegetable produce being consumed nationally. </i> </blockquote>
Hard to imagine this kind of national effort now, isn't it? Nevertheless, I think food gardens are making a serious comeback, just judging by the number of my friends who asked me to help me start theirs last winter. Then you have the tangible rise in demand for organic produce, school/community gardens, farmers markets, locavores and the comeback of canning - people are starting to take part in their own food sourcing and again, we move forward by looking back. Sure, it takes effort, you get dirty and battle bugs but the payoff - nutritonally and financially - is immense. Plus, kids get really into it. As my hero, <a href="http://www.ted.com/talks/ron_finley_a_guerilla_gardener_in_south_central_la.html">Ron Finley</a> says, "If kids grow kale, kids eat kale."<br />
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My grandfather's legacy was one sweeping gesture of remembrance, a museum to remind us of the past and rekindle just how much hard work and ingenuity played into our survival and success. It makes me think about my own legacy and I think it is seeds, not just the literal ones that grow into food but seeds of ideas on self-reliance. On this day when the government is MIA, it's the perfect time to remember when we did much for ourselves.<br />
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Before our food became overly processed, before our lives were saturated with chemicals, we made due and did just fine, we thrived with fewer ailments, allergies and syndromes and did not need 13 prescription medications (<a href="http://www.naturalnews.com/037226_drug_prescriptions_medical_news_pills.html#">the national average, per person</a>) to live. There's got to be a reason why all my farming relatives live - and thrive - well into their 90s. <br />
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At the risk of sounding like a ranting old lady (at 47, do I qualify yet?) I aim to plant seeds of independent consumer thinking and self-reliant actions. And that, I suppose, will be my legacy. </div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28492900.post-38765219898847592162013-09-17T13:56:00.000-06:002013-09-17T13:56:06.886-06:00Decisions, Decisions<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The latest Garden shot</td></tr>
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After two solid weeks of fundraising and comedy performances in Denver followed by my mom's visit, I am re-settling back into my routine. Going 800 mph, I am slowing down to a cruise - still catching up on sleep, bills and this blog. There never seem to be enough time for everything and sunset comes sooner each day…<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Friday night gang, including me. Photo by <a href="http://www.lennstoutphotography.com/">Lenn Stout.</a> </td></tr>
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The <a href="https://www.facebook.com/DenverImprovSmileTrain">Smile Train Comedy Improv Festival</a> was a wonderful success having raised $7,610! That's enough to fund cleft repair surgeries for 30+ kids so I am very pleased. Though Steve Loukas is the Festival Director and me, the Figurehead, I still had some duties - show hosting, box office, concession stand, social media, marketing, correspondence and spokesperson. Plus, some performance time and, best of all, lots of audience time. There were so many hilarious moments - very healing to be around all that laughter. I'm thrilled our 6th year went so well and - with seven shows at two theaters and 33 performers - happier still that it is over. Phew!<br /><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mama Iva with seeds</td></tr>
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On the tail end of that insanity was Mama Iva's visit to SCRANCH. I met her in Denver at the gate to my flight home - she'd flown from LA earlier that morning. Having her on the farm was lovely, of course. It was a bit tight in her namesake trailer, the Mae Flower, but we managed just fine. After all, I spent most of my childhood in a motorhome, The Voyager, thanks to my parents.<br />
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Of course, Mama Iva came bearing my favorite vegan cookies from Trader Joe's, some fancy cheeses and avocados to make her world-famous guacamole, not to mention boxes of See's Candies as gifts. This woman is where I learned that Food = Love. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brent and Mom, catching up</td></tr>
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We saw cousins galore and I put her to work, but only after she insisted. I had her de-leafing and de-seeding pulled up cilantro plants ("I never knew it was coriander! Huh!"), pulling weeds around the garlic and acting as my accountant-secretary at the Farmer's Market. I am missing her this week but since her ankles were eaten up by evil horseflies (the photos are ghastly), I'm happy she's back home, safe and sound. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brent harvest his wheat field on our land</td></tr>
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With wheat harvest up and running all around me, I must now deal with my own garden, which is starting to wear Autumn on its shaggy, green face. Peas and beans are dead so I've got to rip them up and save the seeds. Huge spinach plants must be ripped out and I'm still harvesting seeds and leaves from the cilantro plants.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Damn varmints!</td></tr>
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Seems I've lost most of my beloved popcorn to fungi and wildlife but my watermelons, Ground Cherries and tomatoes are coming in so that's a delight. The bugs have leveled out a bit and it's getting cooler so my garden time is less arduous, more peaceful. Oh, and that Yellow Crookneck squash I planted? Yeah, if I don't catch 'em when their young and pale, they turn into big, bumpy orange gourds - inedible fall decor. Not what I was planning to grow but then again, I didn't plan <a href="http://secondchanceranch.blogspot.com/2013/08/edible-enemies-and-market-milestones.html">Corn Smut</a> either. <br /><br />Every time I look at a Ground Cherry (a Physalis, really), I think, "Miracle." This delightful wee fruit is also called a Chinese Lantern and, in fact, are delicate, edible papery works of art. Harvesting the ones on the ground, you look for the deepest beige. Peeling back the feathery natural packaging, you find an orangey-yellow fruit, like a sweet, lemony-tomato - incredibly different from any other taste. A fellow organic farmer/vendor named Miles introduced me to them last summer and I flipped out over them and had to make them part of my life and market table. I made every single person at the Market try them this week and I sold a bunch with that strategy.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ground Cherry</td></tr>
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Already, we had a nip of frost this week and a few of my plants got singed, some Lemon cucumbers, squash vines and watermelons bear black marks. I've purchased a new frost blanket and Dave McCurdy (<a href="http://www.everybodylovesdave.com/">"Everybody Loves Dave"</a>) gave me a gajillion old burlap potato sacks yesterday - perfect for individual plant coverage - so I guess I'm ready. I only have to pay him with a watermelon from my patch - a typical deal around here.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ground Cherries, in their papery packaging</td></tr>
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Honestly, all this chatter is my way of avoiding what is really going on with me here at SCRANCH. Y'see, it's getting that time when I have to decide if I will return to NoDak next summer and indulge in another year of SCRANCH gardening adventures or stay in one place the entire year (!) to put down Real Life roots once and for all. <br /><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sage bundles</td></tr>
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Plain and simple: Do I come back for a third year - my original time commitment to no one but me - or finally have a go at settling down in the Santa Barbara area? In SoCal, I will be closer to Mama Iva, my small army of wonderful friends, amazing creative/career opportunities, farmers/ranchers, like-minded freaky types, gobs of culture and, of course, honest to god Mexican food, plus other culinary delights. I could have a real life instead of being the Wandering Farmer who uses your guest room, tells entertaining stories, but has no ties or commitments. <br /><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Office</td></tr>
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But am I done? I have learned so much and gained a deeper understanding of industrial farming and the reality of being an organic producer. Coming face to face with everything from chemicals to consumers on a daily basis - on family land! - has been one of the richest experiences of my life. Is it over now? Did I build all this up just to walk away? Mind you, I decided long ago that SCRANCH is a place, an idea, that goes where I go but I get emotional about this place and am now addicted to freedom and SPACE, so much space. And the big open skies here, oh man, I will miss those most of all. <br /><br />I wrote a list of pros and cons for returning but I change my mind every day. Today, as I think about ordering garlic for next year (which I must do soon before they run out) and how much I paid for The Mae Flower and how much I upended my life to be here, I'm thinking "Yes" to Year 3.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A nearby field</td></tr>
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But while living a geographically divided life has its perks, it also means not having pets, the least favorite part of my life. (Am thinking about acquiring a hedgehog - thoughts?) Having animals in my daily life is one of my long-term goals and has been for some time. Animals feed my soul and make me feel close to God in a way that nothing else does. Kids too, though they are harder to adopt, unfortunately for me. <br /><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'Farmland from the sky'</td></tr>
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This transient existence also puts a damper on my love life - it's hard to form a lasting bond when I am always leaving to go Somewhere Else. In fact, I began a wonderful relationship this summer with NoDak fella and am dreading leaving him now too. Alas, he is firmly settled here, a 6-7 month winter is really no place for an LA girl like me and the Mae Flower isn't built for 30 below zero anyhow. <br /><br />I was hoping that last Saturday's annual Chicken Slaughter Party at Powerful Pierre's would have some clarifying effects, what with all the blood and guts, but my brain continued to argue with itself: "What am I doing here???? YOU BELONG HERE! What am I doing here??? YOU BELONG HERE!" As I cut off their feet and plucked out their pin feathers moments after their deaths, the chickens could only tell me in one last garbled cluck, "Life is short. Take all the risks you can, lady."At least that's what I heard.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">End of my driveway at sunset</td></tr>
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And then yesterday, when I swung by Pierre and Evelyn's to pick up my five fresh chickens (plus a bonus bag of chicken backs for soup), I couldn't imagine having to buy such things in a store ever again. And I realized that no matter where I go, this beautiful, self-sufficient culture that I have experienced here in North Dakota will always be my gold standard for a contented life.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Second Chance Ranch, as seen from Hwy 55</td></tr>
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But still, the Decision remains open. </div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28492900.post-88329882560111991852013-08-29T17:58:00.001-06:002013-08-29T17:58:09.643-06:00Farmus Interruptus<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wednesday night gang - Monkey's Uncle and Friends</td></tr>
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It's that time of year when I abandon my garden (painful, painful) and head to the beautiful city of Denver, Colorado to co-produce a fundraising project I started six years ago. Every summer, my comedy husband, Steve Loukas, and I put on a comedy improv festival to benefit <a href="http://www.smiletrain.org/">Smile Train</a>, the amazing folks who do cleft repair surgery on poor kids all over the world. Having experienced facial disfigurement (and the resulting 25 surgeries) for the first 21 years of my life, I have made this my personal charity of choice.<br />
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As I type this, we are four shows in to the festival and have three more to go. We enjoyed some unprecedented media coverage this year including my 17-minute radio interview with host Wayne Yaffee - it broadcast the weekend of 8/17 and 8/18 on four stations - KOSI, KALC, KQMT and KEZW. Also, we made the <a href="http://www.denverpost.com/news/ci_23912234">Denver Post</a> (print and online) as well as snippet on <a href="http://www.5280.com/events/2013/08/30/sixth-annual-smile-train-comedy-improv-festival">5280's website</a>. Huzzah! <br />
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Just this morning, I received some incredibly good news. My dear friend, Valerie Liberty, works for an insanely cool company, <a href="http://balsamiq.com/company/">Balsamiq</a>, and through them has made a sizable donation ($3800!) to our fundraising campaign. If you go their site, she's the gorgeous mama in orange. (Doesn't that look like a fun place to work?) <br />
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Mind you, Val is not only the mother of <a href="http://secondchanceranch.blogspot.com/2013/08/first-scranch-intern-elenis-visit.html">my very favorite farm intern, Eleni</a>, she is now my biggest donor. When I called today to make sure she really meant all this and there were no numerical typos, she said: "I've decided it's the Year of Heather!" and then went on to tell me about how proud she was to be my friend.<br />
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Incredible. I am still stunned and wondering how I can properly thank Val and Balsamiq in meaningful way. Perhaps I'll send them some garlic. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunday night crew: Gay v. Str8t</td></tr>
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Being yanked out of the rural farm life and plopped in a city, hanging out with snappy comedians every night, well, it's quite the cultural shift. My witticisms are slower but my driving is faster. I worry about the ravenous corn fungii that I'd found (again!) on my popcorn just before I left and I simultaneously worry about filling theater seats each night and if the funds raised will be worth all the effort. Straddling two worlds, never fully in either, I wonder if my reality will always be spread so thin. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hearthstone!</td></tr>
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My life is always a mixture of extremes, lots of bittersweet moments and mixed emotions. Being here in Colorado makes me homesick for, among other things:<br />
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<li>Hearthstone, the co-housing community where I once lived, it remains my Colorado home until they file an official restraining order</li>
<li>Mexican food, the REAL stuff - no ketchup on the table </li>
<li>Sunflower/Sprouts/Whole Foods - healthy food selections in large amounts! Swoon!</li>
<li>The beautiful Rocky Mountains - nice to see land go up, just for a change, plus, they give off gobs of powerful spiritual energy </li>
<li>The smell of weed at nearly every stoplight - breathe deep! </li>
<li>Colorado citizens: The people that live here are noticeably friendly, optimistic, progressive, healthy, spiritual, intellectual and good looking. They've got a rugged glow that comes from thriving outdoors, every season. My Colorado crush runs deep. </li>
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As does my North Dakota crush so, yes, I'm already starting to miss my farm life, the people there and the wide open skies. Not the bugs though, I don't miss them at all.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Monday night jokesters: Rodents Out of the Basement</td></tr>
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Staying in the Hearthstone home of friends, I am sleeping in their daughter's bedroom. At night, when I shut out the light, the ceiling lights up with glow-in-the-dark stars and I can't help but compare them to the incredible panoramic night sky view on the farm. With zero light pollution, the Universe is all mine. Sometimes, I lay in the grass late at night and ponder my great fortune and the joyful liberation of my own insignificance. Divine. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tuesday night: Junk Drawer</td></tr>
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The other day, I met a friend downtown for lunch and spent 20 minutes looking for street parking before I caved and paid $7 for a lot spot. Having done my time in LA and San Francisco, I am all-too-familiar with Parking Anxiety, a chunk of reality for so many urban dwellers. My life in NoDak does not include this category - nor does it include locking anything - houses or vehicles. There is an entire layer of urban concerns that is peeled off me every summer, and put back on again in the winter. On the farm, the only real anxiety I have is what type of mood Mama Nature might be in that week; her foul moods tend to destroy things, like farms and lives. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset at Second Chance Ranch</td></tr>
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Being here in Denver, I get to re-connect with friends who keep track of me online, and they give me such lovely encouragement. "I love your photos from the farm! You are doing such great work up there!" and so on. Feedback like this means so much; it all goes into the boiler room that burns the energy that keeps me going forward. When someone tells me they look at my farm photos while they sit in their office and dream about having their own farm, my heart swells with the possibilities, for I want them to have their own farm too. Making people think about the potentials of beyond-normal living has got to be one of the key points of my life. <br />
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Otherwise, I'm just a girl with a lot of zip codes and no roots and I aim to be so much more than that. <br />
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Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28492900.post-62637001521001471902013-08-13T10:48:00.001-06:002013-08-13T10:48:19.015-06:00First SCRANCH Intern: Eleni's Visit<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eleni harvesting shallots</td></tr>
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This past week was a big one for me on so many levels and top of that list was the welcoming of Eleni Liberty Jacobson, my very first SCRANCH intern. Though she is safely back home in the Bay Area, I am <i>still</i> stunned and unbelievably flattered by her desire to visit my wee farm so very far from everything she knows about America.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Her very own grain bin perch!</td></tr>
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Just two months shy of 19, Eleni is wise beyond her years. Blessed with an insatiable curiosity and mad articulation skills, she is obviously the product of a loving home that appreciates and encourages intelligent conversation and sharp wit. In discussions about food and farming, love and life, I kept thinking she was much older but then I'd remember, 'Oh wait, that's ME.' <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kick-ass Parental Units, Jake and Val</td></tr>
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This is the part where I brag about her parents - my dear friend, Val (she of last summer's Skype <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rJoR361OzDY">ukulele jam sessions</a>) and her father, Jake (also goes by David), a fellow writer and sports lover; both are exceptional beings, among my favorites. When I stay at their home during my NorCal visit, it's like going to an Emotional Spa where my soul gets a scrub down to a healthy glow.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the surrey</td></tr>
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Honestly, I was anxious about Eleni's visit. Not nervous really, but I was a bit worried about the quality of her time here. Sure, there's plenty of work to do but this was my big chance to shape the mind of a bright young woman on all things food, farm and North Dakota, I didn't want to blow it. Most of all, I didn't want Eleni to be bored.<br />
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In the end, I need not have worried so much. Eleni is an easygoing soul, polite and thoughtful, respectful and sunny. Early in her visit, I wrung my hands over a lunch at Applebee's (a reluctant decision made of time and convenience) when she made the accommodating comment, "It's okay. I'm here to be here." (I love this philosophy so much, I may need a t-shirt for it.) And, as a child of the Bay Area, she had never, ever visited an Applebee's, something that my friend, Wayne, found impossible. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Digging up the garlic</td></tr>
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(Mind you, Eleni's wise statement was made before she saw 'Oriental Chicken Salad' on the Applebee's menu. "What?!?" she said, incredulous. "They still use the word 'Oriental'??" I had to stop and explain that we were both, in fact, California-raised Bay Area snobs, politically-correct to the nth degree and there was nothing to be done about it. Poor thing, she was as shocked as I was. )<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nJScygdQwuI/Ugm8NlK5wFI/AAAAAAAAHTY/P-uua3Jvssw/s1600/photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nJScygdQwuI/Ugm8NlK5wFI/AAAAAAAAHTY/P-uua3Jvssw/s200/photo.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Wood Chip Marge</td></tr>
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Point being, Eleni is a born traveler - she knows how to keep her knees bent, her mind nimble and her expectations adjusted. Whining just isn't part of her behavioral make-up. Every request I made of her was met with enthusiasm, every place I took her brought delight and every person she met was visibly charmed. If you ever get a chance to hire this sharp young lady, I recommend that you do so, immediately. <br />
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Some highlights:<br />
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<b>Girls on Ice</b> -We tagged along with Wayne to see his granddaughters play at their hockey camp in Minnesota. Eleni was only in the car 10 minutes before we dragged her to another state, much to her surprise. It was fun to watch young girls skate around like the pros. Eleni and I both agreed that we would be terrible at this.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nora takes a shot</td></tr>
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<b>Fargo VA Medical Center</b> - Accompanying Wayne, Eleni and I were fascinated by the facility which was like a military museum inside a hospital. Also, the tax-free, super-discounted gift shop. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Private Jacobson, reporting for duty</td></tr>
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<a href="http://fargoairmuseum.org/"><b>Fargo Air Museum</b></a> - We visited on a whim and what a delight! We weren't 5 minutes in the door when a former soldier had Eleni suited up for duty. We also got inside a B-17, which was incredible, and Eleni bought a souvenir sweatshirt, which she wore all week. She talked a lot about her late grandpa, a former tail gunner named Dick Liberty, which was pretty darn cool.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With the tail gunner</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Props to Eleni!</td></tr>
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<b><a href="http://secondchanceranch.blogspot.com/2013/08/edible-enemies-and-market-milestones.html">Corn Smut</a> </b>- First order of farm biz, I had her harvest the corn smut so could fry 'er up!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Mmmm! Down home fungii burritos!</b></td></tr>
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<b>Solar Oven</b> - We 'cooked' up some squash and taters but alas, it was a chilly, cloudy week so the experiment took 2-3 days. We're overdue for some warm weather this week so I'll give it another go. <br />
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<b>Shallot and Garlic Harvest</b> - I had Eleni pull up some shallots and we took turns harvesting the first of the garlic. It was nice to have someone there when I saw the first bulb - I squealed and kissed it. When I last saw Eleni, she was waving at me from the other side of airport security, and still holding two long souvenir garlic stalks/bulbs.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first of my babies! </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A proud mama</td></tr>
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<b>SCRANCH Bonfire</b> - Boy, was this a good idea! Brent worked the burger grill while Wayne roasted hot dogs and we burned wood from the bush. I made a couple of salads plus some homemade vanilla bean ice cream (with raspberries picked by Wayne) - a feast! Then, we toasted marshmallows and looked at the stars - the night sky is so vibrant here without any light pollution. It was a beautiful night to remember.<br />
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<b>Farmer's Market</b> - Every Thursday, I stress out over this tiny event so it was great to have Eleni's help. Customer-wise, there was a strong turnout and I sold out the remainder of my lettuce in the first five minutes. I sold out my green beans and peas too. Also, Eleni got to meet my cousins, Walter and Eileen Millar.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walter, Eleni and Eileen</td></tr>
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<b>Pizza and Debate</b> - After market, we visited Wayne's house just across from the park where we hold the market. There, we dined on sausage-and-tomato pizza (a new favorite) and debated politics and what's to be done about the quality (or lack of) education in this country. Fun stuff.<br />
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<b>Professor Brent</b> - Mornings, I am stuck at a computer, making a living, so Brent was kind enough to kidnap Eleni not once, but twice, and show her around the region. She'd always come back bubbling about all the machines and crops she saw, plus all the farm schwag Brent had given her. I'm so glad she got to pick his brain, which contains endless farming knowledge - a rich resource and another perspective on the industrial ag issue.<br />
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<b>Lettuce Slaughter</b> - Sadly, my lettuce has bolted (gone to seed) and the leaves are too bitter to sell. Wah! The remaining heads (too many to think about) needed to be dug up, ripped apart and left for compost. I didn't have the heart to do it - Eleni to the rescue! She pulled this off one morning at 6:30 a.m. while I...er, um, snoozed.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A salad crime scene</td></tr>
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<b>Driving Lessons</b> - As I said, Brent showed her the beauty of large machines. Her last day on the farm, Brent had her driving an 4-wheeler and a 1950 frontloader tractor we refer to simply as "the bucket", as in Brent telling me, "Why would you need a wheelbarrow and/or ladder when we have the bucket?"<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She's a natural!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My favorite shot of Eleni<b><br /></b></td></tr>
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</b><br />
<b>Pembina State Museum</b> - This was a quick visit but their excellent explanation of local geology (we're at the former bottom of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lake_Agassiz">Lake Agassiz</a>, an immense body of glacial water) and the local <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M%C3%A9tis_people_%28Canada%29"><b>Métis</b></a> culture (when French fur traders married Native American women<b>)</b>. Plus, I wanted her to see the Victory Gardens posters for herself.<br />
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<a href="http://www.amazinggrains.org/"><b>Amazing Grains</b></a> - Eleni's presence was a good omen for me. On the day she arrived, I made my first store front deal with Amazing Grains, an organic co-op in Grand Forks. I sold 'em over 3 pounds of shallots - it was so very exciting to see them on the shelf!<br />
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Then, on drive down to Fargo for her flight home, Eleni put together 12 bundles of my Lemon basil to sell in the same store. Again, it is a thrill to see my Scranch label on the shelf and be part of the 'eat local' movement in a very real way. (Ironically, the produce manager, Rex, said to me, "This is great! Now we don't have to order this from California" which means I'm competing against my home state.)<br />
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<a href="http://www.hoteldonaldson.com/spaces/restaurant/"><b>HoDo</b></a> - On her final night in NoDak, I treated my wonderful intern to a fine meal at HoDo, a swanky restaurant in downtown Fargo that specializes in local, organic ingredients. (They've even got an herb garden on the roof.) Their menu states:<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>We thank the artisans, farmers, ranchers, beekeepers and other uncommon souls from the Red River Valley and beyond who enhance our table and the food we offer.</i></blockquote>
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After spending quality time this week with Eleni - another uncommon soul - I feel blessed by her support and friendship. More importantly, I feel buoyed by her interest in the health of the world and the future of food. <br />
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And I am still giggling at her offer, "You want more interns? I can send you my friends." Oh man, I could build an army of bright-eyed young folks who just might be able to turn this ship around before it hits that chemical-laden iceberg. I feel re-energized by Eleni's interest in this issue, like maybe I'm on the right track. <br />
<br />
I asked her if the trip met her expectations. "It exceeded them, "she said. "Honestly, I thought I'd just be weeding in the garden 8 hrs. every day, being sweaty and dirty, but you had me doing so many different things!" <br />
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Whew! This was a relief to hear. I can't believe she thought that I'd have her travel 1,900 miles just for slave labor. Holy cow. No wonder no one else visits! <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eleni's first farm sunset</td></tr>
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"I'm coming back, you know?" she said, and the itinerary for Eleni's next visit is already done. But I gotta tell ya, in the meantime, I'm sure going to miss hearing, "Anything else, Miss Clisby?" </div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28492900.post-20707198282893338062013-08-04T23:22:00.000-06:002013-08-05T10:36:21.289-06:00Edible Enemies and Market Milestones<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Corn smut, harvested</td></tr>
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Remember the <a href="http://secondchanceranch.blogspot.com/2013/07/corn-smut-and-other-surprises.html">corn smut I discovered</a> on one of my ornamental corn plants? As threatened, I went ahead and cooked up a fine huitlacoche burrito - a somewhat frightening but ultimately delicious new lesson in fungi cuisine. Sure, it looked hairy, scary and not suitable for consumption but the interwebs and Facebook friends assured me I had won some strange fungi lottery. (One bit of advice: "Jack up the price and sell it to foodies!") <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Corn Smut Burrito - YUM! </td></tr>
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I kept reminding myself the black stuff was not dirt but spores and threw 'em down on a pan of olive oil, garlic, onion, zucchini and lo! Total tastiness. The flavor invoked a corn-flavored mushroom, rich and earthy. Delicious. Of course, the cilantro-egg, cheese and hot sauce didn't hurt either.<br />
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Today, I found more smut on the same plant and was not the slightest bit upset, already plotting my next smutty meal. But a few hours ago, I received a phone call from a close friend, Bellina, who grew on a Kansas farm and offered her counsel. Evidently, the smut party is over and I need to nip these spores pronto before they spread to my Dakota Black popcorn which is NOT my wish. "Remove the stalk and burn it far, far from the other plants," advised my farmer friend. <br />
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Looks like our planned Wednesday cookout will now be renamed the 1st Annual Corn Smut Bonfire Celebration, 'cause I'm always up for a rebranding.<br />
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***<br />
<br />
Tomorrow, I'll be heading down to Fargo to pick up Eleni Liberty Jacobson, SCRANCH'S first intern - so exciting! She is the daughter of my dear friends, Val and Jake, and for reasons still unclear, asked her parents to ship her northward in my general direction.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eleni, Val, Jake and Cooper</td></tr>
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When looking into flights into Fargo for the visit, her mother commented, "Day-um! They should call it 'Far-From'..." a corny joke which I have been quoting and stealing ever since.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Val, pampering me</td></tr>
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'Cause here's the thing, folks often say, text or FB comment to me, "Would love to visit!" but nobody - with the exception of the super-sturdy-and-slightly-crazy Kirk - ever makes the trek. Why? Because as previously mentioned, it's FAR. My family doesn't even get here and have only the faintest idea what I'm up to, really. (Mom did visit last year but that may have been obligatory.) <br />
<br />
Nevertheless, the Universe is gifting me with a bright, lovely young woman for a 5-day span and I truly hope she finds some value in the experience. If nothing else, I will feed her well while presenting ideas and scenery previously unknown. Plus, we're sure to laugh lots as I need me a dose of California Woman Energy. <br />
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But I'm pretty sure, either way, it's going to be a trip Eleni will never forget. <br />
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***<br />
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Sadly, we are experiencing a cold spell lately - quite unusual for August. Last year at this time, it was sweltering and my air conditioner got worked. Right now, I'm wearing wool socks. This is worrying for farmers and gardeners alike. Most crops need heat to ripen - corn, beans, sugar beets - and the threat of frost is ever-present. (Couple of years back, this region had a frost every single month of the year.)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">DAY OFF: Pembina Gorge, about 15 mi. west of farm</td></tr>
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Just today, Brent told me about one night not long ago, when a frost dipped down mid-summer and nipped 65% of his beans before it went back to the usual heat. "All it takes is one cold night and that's it, you're screwed for beans...." he said, shaking his head.<br />
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As for me, I've got at least 25 tomato plants that are craving heat so I hope the temps rise again soon.<br />
<br />
***<br />
I haven't given up on getting my SCRANCH produce into local stores. As much as I love the local Farmers Market, it's just not enough. So, while fetching Eleni down south (when you live on Canadian border, everything is "down south"), I'll be meeting again with Rex, the produce dude from Amazing Grains, and hopefully, selling him some shallots, basil, Lemon basil and cilantro.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harvesting shallots</td></tr>
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He'll pay me $3 per lb. for shallots but as I discovered today while shallot harvesting, it takes quite a few of them to make up a pound. <br />
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Unless there is something wonky going on with the scale, which is possible, I don't have near enough shallots. Anyway, since I sell these for at least $2 ea. (sometimes more, if they are big), it may - once again - not economically viable. I will probably do it anyway with a portion of my shallots, if only for the thrill of hitting that public marketplace milestone.<br />
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More importantly, it's another real-world lesson in that age-old question: How does an organic farmer make it all worth it? Really? And I'm not even <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Organic_certification">certified organic</a>, which another nasty bureaucratic ball of wax entirely...<br />
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***<br />
<br />
And just to keep ya'll updated on my bug wounds, here's a recent double-doozy. First, the left eyelid swelled up, making me feel like a beaten boxer....<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OEs80J5EAy0/Uf8sU5xtHAI/AAAAAAAAHQ8/6Uq5g4FRQvA/s1600/IMG_3555.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OEs80J5EAy0/Uf8sU5xtHAI/AAAAAAAAHQ8/6Uq5g4FRQvA/s320/IMG_3555.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">OW</td></tr>
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....and a week later, the right eyelid got it's own wound, because skeeters are democratic beasts, y'know?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seriously? </td></tr>
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Unattractive, yes, I realize that. Most people are striving to look their best online even as I flaunt my gruesome wounds, but, JAY-ZUS, look at that! Greedy little fuckers. They are my nemesis, especially when trapped in my bedroom at night with all their high-pitched stalking. Lordy, the deadly whacking and swearing that goes on; I'm sure they can hear me in Canada.</div>
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Anyway, it's just too gross not to share, ego be damned. </div>
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You're welcome. </div>
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Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28492900.post-43214720708549972992013-07-30T15:16:00.000-06:002013-07-30T15:16:14.726-06:00Corn Smut and Other Surprises<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My blossoming peas</td></tr>
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Without a doubt, I am a much better farmer than I was last year. I still sleep more than the average dirt lover but at least weeds-wise, I'm ahead of the game. I greet my exploding plants every day ("Hi, babies!"), inspect everyone, pull the beetles off the eggplants, encourage the tomatoes and redirect the over-achieving squash vines, often in vain. When things don't come up, I don't waste time and replant with lettuce, spinach, onions or herbs - something with a short maturity time.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My table at last week's Farmers Market</td></tr>
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During yesterday's plant check, I came across a disturbing sight on my Painted Mountain ornamental corn:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A bulbous alien invasion on my cob</td></tr>
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Something evil is attacking my plant! Tragedy! But after some research (meaning I posted a photo on Facebook and got informed), it's less disastrous than originally thought. Yes, it's a fungus but it's called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corn_smut">Corn Smut</a> (technically huitlacoche, pronounced "weet-la-KO-chay") and is actually <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/02/14/AR2007021400391.html">a delicacy </a>that tastes like mushrooms. And while I may not get the beautiful patterned corn I was hoping for, I did get introduced to a whole new crop - a natural disaster I can eat!<br />
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Once I figure out how to cook it, that is.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ripening canola field off Hwy 29</td></tr>
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Yesterday, I also harvested lots of sage. I planted two bunches right at the end of the carrots, an effort at <a href="http://www.organicgardening.com/learn-and-grow/companion-planting">companion planting</a>. The sage is thriving, however, the aforementioned greedy squash (3 kinds) vines are taking over like an insatiable <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0091419/">Audrey II</a> so I wanted to harvest while the plants could still be located.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UM36SaumT-8/UfglrbIzo4I/AAAAAAAAHOw/S1XqjDy29ys/s1600/IMG_3641.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UM36SaumT-8/UfglrbIzo4I/AAAAAAAAHOw/S1XqjDy29ys/s200/IMG_3641.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
I hear things about using sage for seasoning, especially turkey stuffing, but really, all I want is to make sage bundles for burning away bad juju. The smell evokes both my beloved California desert home in Twentynine Palms and <a href="http://clizbiz.blogspot.com/2009/06/spring-circle-2009.html">Colorado Circles</a>, held with <a href="http://clizbiz.blogspot.com/2008/06/summer-circle.html">friends</a> of <a href="http://clizbiz.blogspot.com/2007/07/queendom-comes-full-circle.html">spirit and laughter</a>. I hope to burn many a bundle, send off a few, save some for gifts or maybe even sell 'em. We shall see. <br />
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***UPDATES***</div>
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Approximately 30 minutes after I posted my bit about <a href="http://secondchanceranch.blogspot.com/2013/07/market-sort-of-ready.html">not being ready for bigger markets</a> and lacking things like, y'know, adequate produce quantities and food scales, Brent pulled up and whipped out a fancy scale for me to use:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Bro4BjB_GvE/UfgjVMlKjNI/AAAAAAAAHOg/nXyEwaHw-hE/s1600/IMG_3612.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Bro4BjB_GvE/UfgjVMlKjNI/AAAAAAAAHOg/nXyEwaHw-hE/s320/IMG_3612.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ta-da! Spinach not included. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Talk about service! I still have to get enough baby spinach leaves to make the delivery to Grand Forks worth my gas but I may do it regardless. Can you imagine? SCRANCH produce for sale in a real organic store? Do you know how long this milestone would take in California? It boggles the mind.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0EKtPQlZf_Y/Ufgnx-d9q3I/AAAAAAAAHPA/TqzXkTSjgkM/s1600/IMG_3593.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-0EKtPQlZf_Y/Ufgnx-d9q3I/AAAAAAAAHPA/TqzXkTSjgkM/s320/IMG_3593.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me with a wind turbine arm - it's like a whale</td></tr>
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Here's the big headline for this week: I'm getting an intern!! (And yes, I just used more than one exclamation point, something I am otherwise vehemently against, but this calls for additional punctuation.) I won't state her name or use her image in this space until I have her express permission but she is the daughter of a longtime friend and she arrives on Monday for a 5-day visit. I am PSYCHED. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jwiNW2aElo4/UfgpJRr10PI/AAAAAAAAHPU/0d4hVFqwOzQ/s1600/IMG_6350.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jwiNW2aElo4/UfgpJRr10PI/AAAAAAAAHPU/0d4hVFqwOzQ/s320/IMG_6350.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Edge of a wind turbine</td></tr>
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I can hardly believe it, <b>the very first intern at Second Chance Ranch.</b> While she is here, I plan to harvest the garlic and test out of the solar oven, among other things. It's unbelievable to me that such a bright young woman (a botany student!) would willingly visit my empire of dirt but if she's that crazy, I'm open to providing all the entertainment and plant-related enlightenment she can stand. </div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28492900.post-68489064538694165372013-07-24T23:48:00.001-06:002013-07-25T11:43:49.367-06:00Market Sort-of-Ready<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Watermelon patch view: popcorn on right, squash on left</td></tr>
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Second Chance Ranch produce - is it market-ready? Well, yes and no. <br />
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Yes, because the local Farmer's Market (in Cavalier, Pop. 1,302) started last Thursday and I certainly had the most produce of any vendor there. I brought three kinds of lettuce - Romaine, Buttercrunch and Marvel of Four Seasons - plus two kinds of spinach (Lavewa and Monstrueux de Viroflay), plus Lemon basil, cilantro and onions. Not much, but enough to kick off the season.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gotta move those heads!</td></tr>
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There were just four vendors and most had brought baked goods - always a big seller. I always get nervous about how much to pull for the market - too much and you've got leftover produce; not enough and you are missing sales. It's a tricky deal and I worry about it all market-day long. Still, I was so proud of my lettuce heads, they were so massive, so green and so beautiful! I felt like a proud mama, albeit, one that is willing to sell off her babies for $3 a pop. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xiFFJ2DUuPs/UfCw-Km84NI/AAAAAAAAHM0/NIQ72lYfofk/s1600/IMG_3539.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="278" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xiFFJ2DUuPs/UfCw-Km84NI/AAAAAAAAHM0/NIQ72lYfofk/s320/IMG_3539.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lettuce bed</td></tr>
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Bonus, there was a sweet little girl there named Shelby who sold me an Orange Soda cupcake for 75 cents:<br />
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I ended up making about $42, which is a healthy start. Tomorrow's market should be bigger as they are having an annual Art in the Park thingamaroo with music, games, hot dogs and the like. Hopefully, it will bring in more people; the biggest challenge here in these parts is not enough customers. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UbrjqqJGhS0/UfCvL3bSHEI/AAAAAAAAHMk/fRNvny8S_4s/s1600/IMG_3604.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UbrjqqJGhS0/UfCvL3bSHEI/AAAAAAAAHMk/fRNvny8S_4s/s320/IMG_3604.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Western half, coming in thick! </td></tr>
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SO, on my way back from Fargo last week, I stopped in Grand Forks at my favorite NoDak organic grocery store, <a href="http://www.amazinggrains.org/">Amazing Grains</a>, to inquire about their produce needs. Some fellow organic farmers (Shelby's parents, actually) had mentioned that they might need some local spinach. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mid-section</td></tr>
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Mind you, I was just <i>curious</i> about it. Well, in about five minutes, I had a deal with the produce manager, Rex, to deliver spinach. Currently, they sell spinach shipped from California and would much prefer to sell locally grown. I scribbled down a few of their needs (baby spinach, loose leaf, 20 lbs. a week, triple-washed, deliver in 2 lb. bags) and told Rex I'd follow up by phone. He is open to starting out with even a 4-lb.-per-week delivery but would like to schedule a "tasting" with his staff since I have so many varieties.</div>
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Reality is, I don't think I can fulfill this order. I've got lots of spinach but most is large leaf varieties and the one baby leaf I've planted (Bourdeaux) hasn't shown up yet. Plus, do you know how much spinach it would take to make 20 pounds? Or even 4 lbs.? A LOT. </div>
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How would I weigh it? Where do I find 2 lb. bags? Would the money I make even cover the petrol cost of the 190.6 mile round-trip weekly delivery drive? </div>
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Sadly, the answers are 1) I don't know 2) I have no idea and 3) Not likely. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eastern half, including the fancy new water tank! </td></tr>
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Sigh.<br />
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Looks like I'm too big for the little market and still too little for the big market. Still, it's encouraging to know how easily I can get my produce into stores here and that there is definitely a market for organic produce in the land of industrial farming. </div>
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Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28492900.post-53065129655394365902013-07-15T22:51:00.002-06:002013-07-15T22:51:46.042-06:00DIG IT: Tilling Traditions, Sprayed Down<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">North view from the Pembina Museum tower</td></tr>
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This time of year is truly beautiful here in North Dakota. Under wide open blue skies, fields in every direction are a gorgeous lush green, bursting with the potential of sugar beets, wheat, corn, soybeans, edible beans, canola and sunflower. My eyes have grown so used to a deep-green-and-powder-blue palette, they may never accept the color grey again. <br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TawANF7fbvY/UeTO5uVrXSI/AAAAAAAAHKw/W4VAP1c1ryQ/s1600/IMG_3394.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TawANF7fbvY/UeTO5uVrXSI/AAAAAAAAHKw/W4VAP1c1ryQ/s320/IMG_3394.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Which is exactly why it is so startling when one comes upon a "dead field" that is a crispy pale brown:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZRTMX5Cd9FI/UeLoIbp5kJI/AAAAAAAAHJM/soNEhOc4L2Y/s1600/IMG_3423.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZRTMX5Cd9FI/UeLoIbp5kJI/AAAAAAAAHJM/soNEhOc4L2Y/s320/IMG_3423.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dead field - note the sprayer tracks.</td></tr>
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What's up with these sad fields? Evidently, there's a relatively new approach to dealing with a damaged field, and unfortunately, it involves adding more chemicals to the soil. As with all things farming, such methods are directed by market demands, fuel prices and efficiency. When one is dealing with a limited growing season (May-October, sometimes less), time is money, in the most literal sense.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jYFSiBf8CT0/UeTPYmQt3YI/AAAAAAAAHK4/iD558Qmhl4U/s1600/IMG_3422.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jYFSiBf8CT0/UeTPYmQt3YI/AAAAAAAAHK4/iD558Qmhl4U/s320/IMG_3422.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dead field</td></tr>
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Back in the day, letting a field lie inactive was a standard part of crop rotation, a way of 'resting' the soil and planting a simple cover crop (oats, rye, flax, alfalfa, etc.) to add more nitrogen in the spring. (This also helps minimize soil erosion, especially in a windy place like NoDak.) But that was in a time of cheaper land - say $300 per acre as opposed to $8K per acre - and these days, farmers must use every available scrap of land to justify investment costs.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-t26mdk7Jc8w/UeTEnr0yhGI/AAAAAAAAHJo/-nS2Y_MmAMk/s1600/IMG_3421.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-t26mdk7Jc8w/UeTEnr0yhGI/AAAAAAAAHJo/-nS2Y_MmAMk/s320/IMG_3421.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dead field with water damage</td></tr>
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Due to <a href="http://secondchanceranch.blogspot.com/2013/05/limits-of-sky.html">heavy rains and and flooding</a> in the region, this is a record year for fields that cannot be planted. (In farming and, likely, insurance jargon, these are known as "prevent-plant" acres, or simply, PP.) Government estimates reveal that <a href="http://www.farmandranchguide.com/news/regional/prevented-planting-acres-and-farm-bill-raise-concerns-in-nd/article_292cfb66-ddcc-11e2-80a7-001a4bcf887a.html">up to 2 million acres of North Dakota farmland will lie empty</a> this year and all of those acres in the upper half of the state - <i>North</i> North Dakota, if you will. <br />
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But even when the rains stop, waiting for a field to dry out and become till-able again is a risky guessing game. Too soon and your expensive machinery can get horribly stuck, all the while making mud balls and damaging the land even further with deep ruts. Wait too long and you'll miss the deadline. Cut off dates for planting are determined by (government-subsidized) insurance companies, and once the date has passed for planting corn (say. May 25), that's it - no corn for you.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t29prPIvzQw/UeTFuAmgSpI/AAAAAAAAHJ4/Bz8w1xSZu_I/s1600/IMG_3528.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t29prPIvzQw/UeTFuAmgSpI/AAAAAAAAHJ4/Bz8w1xSZu_I/s320/IMG_3528.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Planted field quickly being overtaken by weeds</td></tr>
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At this point, the average farmer would simply "till under", meaning they would cultivate the topsoil under and leave it black - this is called "summer fallow". This ancient practice kept weeds from taking over the field completely and it had to be done at least twice before planting a cover crop.<br />
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These days, a farmer faces a decision: Till it under or spray the whole field with Round Up? <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-O_duJ4YoPPw/UeTHLOUZT3I/AAAAAAAAHKQ/niu9qlFLhQc/s1600/IMG_3536.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-O_duJ4YoPPw/UeTHLOUZT3I/AAAAAAAAHKQ/niu9qlFLhQc/s320/IMG_3536.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One local farmer famously insists on tilling - no RoundUp</td></tr>
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Fact is, it has become cheaper, and more efficient for a farmer to take the Round-Up route and kill off everything without tillage. This practice has become the norm within the last 5-6 years, thanks to several factors:<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>Cost of diesel fuel went up and stayed there</li>
<li>Cost of equipment is always increasing </li>
<li>Cost of Round-Up has dropped </li>
</ul>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tg0O3zPPUKE/UeTJHyaroxI/AAAAAAAAHKg/soAWjOB2QwE/s1600/IMG_0137.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tg0O3zPPUKE/UeTJHyaroxI/AAAAAAAAHKg/soAWjOB2QwE/s200/IMG_0137.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
This last point is worth noting because Monsanto's patents on Round-Up expired in 2000, thus, all kinds of generic versions of Round-Up (anything with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roundup_%28herbicide%29">glyphosate</a>) now flood the market. Manufacturers such as Bayer, Dow AgroSciences, Du Pont, Cenex/Land
O’Lakes, Helena, Platte, Riverside/Terra and Zeneca essentially sell RoundUp under these product names: <sup class="reference" id="cite_ref-Weed_Handbook_Glyphosate_32-1"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roundup_%28herbicide%29#cite_note-Weed_Handbook_Glyphosate-32"><span></span><span></span></a></sup><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>Accord, Aquaneat, Aquamaster, Bronco, Buccaneer, Campain, Clearout 41
Plus, Clear-up, Expedite, Fallow Master, Genesis Extra I, Glyfos Induce,
Glypro, GlyStar Induce, GlyphoMax Induce, Honcho, JuryR, Landmaster,
MirageR, Pondmaster, Protocol, Prosecutor, Ranger, Rascal, Rattler,
Razor Pro, Rodeo, I, Silhouette, Touchdown IQ.</b></blockquote>
Also, I learned that RoundUp has to "hit the leaf" of a growing weed, otherwise it won't work. The chemical actually causes cells of the plant to duplicate themselves until it essentially shuts down. (Same basic theory as making foie gras, from what I understand.) <br />
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There are <a href="http://www.motherearthnews.com/homesteading-and-livestock/no-till-farming-zmaz84zloeck.aspx#axzz2ZB5Jm2Kj">ongoing debates</a> about no-till farming, with proponents insisting that <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/01/05/study-notill-farming-redu_n_804604.html">tillage causes carbons to escape, thus adding to the climate change problem</a>. Honestly, I have no idea but this recent trend of adding even more chemicals to the soil makes me uneasy.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hg4H-U17aKU/UeTGJcmKSYI/AAAAAAAAHKA/YkZ79bdtgEk/s1600/IMG_3534.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hg4H-U17aKU/UeTGJcmKSYI/AAAAAAAAHKA/YkZ79bdtgEk/s320/IMG_3534.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">RoundUp field, as seen from the local high school track</td></tr>
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Is the spray solution the lesser of two evils?<br />
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Whether till, no-till or spray, weeds are a constant headache to the farmer - this much I know personally. In farming, there is very little control over production costs, a constant race against time, and then there's the wild card of Mother Nature - definitely a risky way to make a living. With the new generation, it seems this spray trend is here to stay, but some old timers resist the easy way out. <br />
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As one young farmer told me, "My dad still can't get used to the idea of spraying and no tilling. It's just not the way it was done in his day. He's not a fan."<br />
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That makes two of us. <br />
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Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28492900.post-1664791923873969932013-07-09T23:32:00.003-06:002013-07-10T14:14:09.522-06:00A Little Help, Please<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stripes of cut hay, waiting to be baled</td></tr>
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Feeling strong about the garden these days, confident about my knowledge growth but MAN, my body is taking a real beating. I am a walking meat-sicle to so many tiny, hungry beings right now; like a one-woman meat market.<br />
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Lately, I've been working my ass off in the garden, often until I can no longer see - which is past 10 p.m. In these hours, the mosquitoes are out in full force. The other night, the bugs finally figured out the once place where I do not apply repellent - my lips:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Take that, Nicole Kidman!</td></tr>
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And just like that, I got the full collagen treatment for free, compliments of nature. These last few days, the skeeters have also discovered the blood-rich area that is my facial scar and that has been an itchy torture.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm now a snack food. </td></tr>
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Then, this morning, I awoke with two big bites right square at my throat, not unlike the fang marks of the undead. Being a vampire would actually be a big help, I thought to myself, then maybe I'd finally have time to get everything done. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hay baling in my front yard</td></tr>
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But the worst was last Friday, when I awoke to a throbbing right appendage. A horrible pain shot from my shoulder, down my arm, and I could barely lift it without severe pain. I replayed the day's physical tasks over in my mind, 'What could I have done to piss off my arm so much?' The only thing I could think of was carrying the heavy industrial extensions cords that run my new water tank - I'd done it with my right arm. <br />
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Could I really be that out of shape? Am I becoming delicate in my advancing years? What if I broke myself? I don't have time for that! <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Garden progress - Western half</td></tr>
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I'd been down this road before when I dislocated my right elbow after falling down a flight of stairs in San Francisco. I already knew what the two hardest tasks would be - bra on/off and the creation of my daily ponytail. (When it is 90 degrees and high humidity, the 'tail is mandatory.) I had no choice, I had to recruit Brent for the job. He's just lucky (unlucky, maybe?) he didn't get the bra job too. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Garden progress - Eastern half</td></tr>
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I found him out near the shop, where he'd just introduced his grandsons to their new (meaning he bought them used and broken, then fixed 'em) 4-wheelers. Levi and Layne were beyond excited, Layne especially. (I caught him kissing it the other day.)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Layne and Levi, with Grandpa Brent<i><br /></i></td></tr>
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<i>"Hi guys. Um, I know you're having manly bonding time and all but I need somebody to put a ponytail in my hair. I did something bad to my arm and I can't lift it. Brent?" </i><br />
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Brent looked at me, terrified at the prospect, and stammered, <i>"Well, um, I, don't have any idea how... my hands are dirty... I don't know..." </i><br />
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I shuffled in front of him, shoved the elastic in his massive paw and gave him no option to refuse.<br />
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<i>"Time to learn something new, Brent. Now, just gather up all the hair into a tube, kinda, then wrap the elastic thingy around it and..."</i><br />
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Lordy, I wish I'd had a video of Brent, with his big always-dirty hands, fumbling with a head of female hair and a tiny yellow piece of elastic. The man is known as a mechanical genius in these parts - he can assemble and reassemble any John Deere around - but had never before faced the complicated design of hair control.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grandpa Brent, with Levi, at the Pembina Fair</td></tr>
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The best part was when I tried to explain how to tighten it up the finished product, Levi (age 13) jumped in:<br />
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<i>"No, grandpa. Like THIS. See, you take the ponytail and split it so the band goes up." </i><br />
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Impressed, I asked Levi where he'd learned that trick. <i>"I have friends with long hair,"</i> he said, like the worldly being he is quickly becoming.<br />
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With my battered mop secured for the day, I left the men to their machines. Brent, still stunned by the morning's unexpected lesson in hairdo creation, went back to the world that he knows, one without pesky, one-armed, puffy-lipped females with and their silly hair needs. </div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com3