Kate pulls the hay wagon.

Make Hay While the Sun Shines

The steady rhythm of the seasons has always been a joy to my soul -- the welcome return of light, heat, and growth of summer.  The scent of new-mown hay and the feeling of security against the winter months that a fat load of hay creates.  On Hawk's Hill, we make hay the simple way -- Without hay ballers or balers, my husband mows it, rakes it with an implement he crafted himself, and then we load it onto a hay wagon with the new tractor bucket and pitchforks.  Then into the barn we fork it into one huge pile.

We made hay the week before Independence Day on a hot, sunny afternoon.  Come Thanksgiving, when our oldest daughter returns home from college, she and I will find ourselves moseying out to the barn to check on the laying flock, then plopping ourselves down in the warm hay pile to take in the quiet sounds of the barn-- the hens scratching and feeding, the wind in the eaves.  Time will open up to hear her thoughts, her latest stories, and the eternal sense of connection with each other and nature will spring up gently within us.  That is what I think of when I make hay in the sunshine.

Of course, the practical reason we make hay is to provide clean bedding for the hens in the winter.  They will pick through it for seeds and other tasty bits, too.  But the hay makes a clean floor covering, and a cozy stuffing for nest boxes to cushion the birds and their eggs.

The growing hay pile nearly reaches the ceilin.

David scooping hay.

 Have you ever wrapped yourself in a woolen cloak and tucked down into a pile of clean hay?  The scent of the summer meadow rises up around you, your body warmth is reflected back to you and you feel the rare sense of delicious warmth in the midst of the bitter weather.  Yin and yang.  The heat and stickiness of making hay -- sweat running down your brow and stinging your eyes, prickly grass bits lodging down your shirt, the sun pressing into your body -- mingle with the remembrance of Novembers past and the delight of warmth in the cold, and nearness to nature and kin.  Its these simple earthy pleasures that make living on Hawk's Hill a gift from God.

Here's hoping you are enjoying the heat of this season and storing up memories for winter's fireside.
Betsy

Spring Photo Post

 Indoors and out, spring is springing on Hawk's Hill. Spring showers have brought rainbows.

Kale, cabbage, broccoli and Brussels Sprouts grow inside our solar heated greenhouse (no additional heat).

 We have started plowing beds in preparation for planting greens, beets, carrots, broccoli, and onions.

Indoors, the plant stands are up and going in the south windows of Soulstice, our solar home.  Onions and broccoli starts wait for the winds to diminish so they can get hardened off outdoors before transplanting in the garden.  Above, tomatoes, peppers and eggplant seeds sprout in flats.

Wishing you all spring within and without!
Betsy

Vernal Equinox, part 2

Out in the nourishing darkness tonight, I closed up the chicken's hatch to their outdoor pen as the snow pelted the lush spring grass.  Overcast skies blotted out any moonlight, and I made my way attended by the beam of a very small flashlight. A soft purr of concern rose up from the flock as soon as I arrived outside the barn, and I calmed my birds with a whispered assurance, "Just me."

 Inside the dark barn, I collected eggs from under sleeping hens, my hand slipping between the hay nest and downy hen feathers, warm as an antique quilt.  As I gathered the eggs, the hens' wings curved around my hand in a practiced move, trying to gather back in the wayward eggs. Had I rooster right now, I'd let those eggs lay where they are.  But it's all ladies in the flock.

Back outside, my dog and I stopped to experience a snow squall ride in to our hilltop from the far ridge.  A dusky cloud of snow swept over the landscape, blotting out the little I could see of the fields and fencerow trees this dark night.  My dog and I paused to drink in the cold air, to feel the frozen prickles of snowflakes on our noses, and hear that lovely singing sound snow makes as it lands on open ground all around you. The simplest prayer is just to listen.

 Good bye winter.  Goodbye snow.  I carried the basket of warm eggs back into the buttery light of the house to where the broccoli and onion seedlings grow under lights.

Welcome spring!
Betsy

Happy Spring Equinox

A snowy first day of Spring follows a mild winter, and finds Hawk's Hill decked in green grass and blooming daffodils.

Earlier in the week, we dug the last of last summer's potatoes. A full pantry and a bounty of spuds last fall led us to experiment with leaving 5 or 6 rows of potatoes in the ground.  We used the earth as our refrigerator over the winter.  For the most part it was successful. The potatoes held indoors in pantry storage have grown long sprouts and gone rubbery. Out in the good earth, we dug up about a bushel of solid, unsprouted spuds. About half of the overwintered potatoes in the garden had gone mushy or frozen. We harvested the other half.  As I write, a pot of Kennebec potatoes boils to make mashed potatoes for dinner. Yum!

Giant Kennebec potatoes 

Natascha golden roasting potatoes and Banana Fingerlings

And the hens are laying, providing me with a favorite springtime treat -- egg salad sandwiches.  Here's a pot of eggs recently boiled.  I love the variety in colors in the brown eggs -- some rosy, some tan, some earthy brown.  Soon, the hens will leave their wintering home in the barn, and roam the fields again, eating fresh green grass.

Wishing you all balance and a return to contact with Nature at this Spring Equinox!
Betsy

Blessings of a January Day

Part of the blessing of these winter days is the quiet openness that extends out on a crystalline morning.  The January cold has stilled our outdoor work, and we simplify, move inward, and tend to hearth and home.  Our spirits rise listening to the murmur of a pot of chicken soup simmering on the stove, watching fine snowflakes drift down from scattered fluffy clouds, or witnessing the sun's brilliance as the clouds part and spill its light into the landscape.  We emerge from the rush of the holidays and return to the stillness of nature, newly aware of the balm and spiritual connection we receive there.

Though seemingly still, the landscape is not empty, as a lively flock of chickadees flitting from tree to tree through the woods reminded me on my morning walk, their spirited voices breaking the morning quiet like a magic spell.  Leaving the woods, I passed last summer's potato bed and the permanent planting of Jerusalem Artichokes, and smiled at the thought of these unseen caches of food still lying underground on Hawk's Hill.  On my way back up the hill to the house, I stopped in the garden, retrieved a spading fork from the tool shed, and tramped down to the bed at the bottom of the garden where our winter carrots lie, kept crunchy and sweet by the cool earth.  Finding a row label marked "July 5 Scarlet Nantes,"  I shoved the digging fork in alongside the ferny tops.

I pried the fork back, unearthing the golden booty.  Before I slid the carrots from their good earth, I squatted back on my heels as people have done down the millenia. I looked up at the sky and took in the beauty of nature around me for one grounding moment before saying, "Thank you, Carrot Nation, for feeding the people."  Slipping the slender taproots from the earth, I brushed the dirt off and collected them in a plastic grocery bag I pulled from my coat pocket.  A few more forkfuls of earth yielded enough carrots for our family's needs for the next week.

I have taken to saying this simple prayer of gratitude as I collect eggs from the hens, pluck leaves from the kale plants, even when we plowed out long rows of potatoes earlier in the year.  I learned it from my friend, Brad Silberberg, director of The Mesa Creative Arts Center,  who teaches Native American spirituality and often works alongside us on the farm.  I find the prayer immerses me in gratitude in the moment.  And the more gratitude I express, the more abundant my life feels.

Some of the carrots ended up in that simmering chicken noodle soup we ate for dinner, the rest got scrubbed up and tucked in the refrigerator to be eaten out of hand.  We found long ago that carrots taste best when just pulled from the earth, and that within a few days, their sweetness diminishes.  So, now we're hooked, and we enjoy freshly dug carrots as one of the perks of winter's quiet days.

As to the nuts and bolts of carrots, we start our winter carrots around Independence Day, and plant a row on either side of a drip irrigation line.  One carrot seed is planted every 2 inches down the row.  I make a shallow trench with my finger, place the seeds in, and cover them with fine soil.  I've tried using an Earthway planter, but find the job is best done by hand.  It takes a while, but if you have a partner to chat with, the time goes quickly.  My carrot planting partner is our oldest daughter, Sarah.  A Creative Writing major in college, Sarah spins tales for me, sharing the latest developments from her story worlds --  fine entertainment for a simple task.

Carrots may take up to 3 weeks to germinate, so you have to keep the rows weeded and the ground moist during that time.  Once the ferny carrot tops begin to develop, they will out-compete the weeds, and all we do is keep watering (we try to keep the weeds controlled between rows).  And, of course, we harvest.  And offer prayers of gratitude.

At the end of the day, after my harvest and before the night's temperatures plummeted under the clear blue sky, I covered up the remaining carrots with leaves to blanket the carrots' shoulders from the bitter cold.  Voles like to burrow in such a natural "quilt," and eat whatever lies above ground, so I usually wait to mulch until temperatures drop into the teens or below to hold off the little thieves.  At this point, I figure the voles will get some of the tops, but the rest will be saved for us to enjoy.

May these cold January days also bless you with quiet openings and abundance,
Betsy