tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62244660832256011262024-03-13T18:53:05.937-07:00thick moon rough goatreflections from the southeast PA rural undergroundwayne millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10312383040250353339noreply@blogger.comBlogger51125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6224466083225601126.post-69241499979905511962014-04-14T06:04:00.003-07:002014-04-14T06:04:58.285-07:00The razzled, frazzled, scattered, fuzzy brain of a Farmer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Um. . . .did you put the water on? Yeah, I know. . .but. . .er. . .did you water the carrot bed again? Cuz, cuz, you know if the carrots don't stay COM-PLETE-LY damp from day one they will not, WILL NOT germinate. Is it dry, it seems dry. . .the wind and sun for two days with this light ass soill. . .is it dry? Did you run water<i> ON THE CARROTS</i>!!!???<br />
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Full disclaimer, dear reader, your humble servant is neither farmer nor writer. Merely a hack, at both endeavors. An English degree does not a Writer make and a market gardener with dozens of varieties of vegetables to be seeded, watered, weeded, picked, packed, washed and hauled to market does not a Farmer make. Sometimes I write words, most of the time I grow veg (that's Euro-speak for vegetables).<br />
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Since we all need to be labeled-- and for crying out loud let's not forget to exploit our very own de facto labels for as much as they're worth, thank you very much indeed-- I will call myself a<i> grower</i>. You my dear readers may decide if I have any mastery at all over the written word. And so it begins yet again, the awakening time, Spring in all its glorious madness. Time to lessen intake of caffeine. For now it's all cool night and sun drenched day. Nature's energy buzzing here and there making it harder to sleep. Yet easier to sleep less and do more. Gadzoooooooks it's here again!<br />
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And with the vernal resurrection upon us, you may look around to see your friendly neighborhood grower looking right back at you. Or if you're lucky you might even catch a glimpse of a real live honest to goodness farmer as well in the coming months. Do bid them your support in all manner of decency that you see fit. The <i>farmer</i> will be the one, who you may already know?, who's got land. That's right baby, LAND. She's got land like her thighs have power. Her arms are engines, whether sleek or stout. She knows that open space where the chickens dance, the berries ooze, and her tractor crawls and hauls, like she knows her fickle heart. He's got a sawmill, an engine shop, a welding shop, a wood crafting shop, 100 acres of commodity crops next to 300 foot of plastic-covered ground for red tomatoes, cucumbers, or strawberries. This is not a back yard, yours or mine! This is not a metaphor, not a symbol but a true kingdom of here and now.<br />
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These people are zippy or glum, in your face or removed, scowling or smiling as wide as the horizon like the rest of us. Cheers to them. They do real things all day. Well, most days. What's a real thing you ask? A real thing is at least partly physical, requiring grace, balance, or at least a modicum of stout heartiness. If you haven't ever seen an old order Mennonite kid (or and adult for that matter) on a unicycle, well that's just too bad for you. A real thing involves a human using hands in more than one way vs. to eat or type or socially mediatize. A real thing is that product that the producer produces, no more or less real than these words yet some how so. There will be materials involved that can be viscerally experienced in this 'line' of work. Like soil, water, wood, metal, textile, cardboard, seed and such. These materials have a relationship to the person. Line? Did I say line? Lines across the earth, scratched and raked, buried and furrowed, lost and remembered. The hasty Sun beckoning, 'do you not see the path I have set before you?'<br />
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And most of all, the Spring mind of the grower and farmer alike will drift. Rashly sifting thoughts that become actions or just frantic thoughts again. And finally, the moments collide, utterly focused as if the center of the center of the universal truth(s) had just seeped, or crashed, into the ocean of their brain. Seeds become trees, roots, and flowers after all. At once the mustard seed, drifting chaotically in the wind, and so then later grounded, to the ground of all being, to root itself and be known.<br />
<br />wayne millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10312383040250353339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6224466083225601126.post-28164727600740109862012-09-24T18:31:00.001-07:002012-09-24T18:42:14.642-07:00The 19th CenturyIt's harvest time. Or so they say. Depending on what vegetables you grow and attempt to sell, harvest time could have been a month ago--tomatoes. Or back in Spring--greens. Or maybe just beginning, it's true, if you're cash crop is apples in this here Northeast where we live. The Autumn days are here to be sure. Crystal clear days, plenty of sun still fairly high in the sky, good cool nights for sound sleep, and all the Pumpkin Ales you can cram in your tummy until they take 'em away for another year.
And to top it all off here I sit without hunger, without cold, not wanting and indeed, steadily enjoying a Long Trail Harvest Ale shipped down from the good folks of the Green Mountain state. As the song goes, "Good times are comin', comin', hmm. Good times are comin', comin' hmm." It all seems so idyllic. If I could pen as well as any of the greats, well, it'd just about be down right sublime, romantic to be sure, and even dare I say, beatific? Again, if I had the talent and couldwould stretch it Just. . .That. . .Far. And on and on with the wonderful descriptions of the first world amenities and social networking and laptops and everything so damn connected. But alas, to be a vegetable grower (nay, not really a true farmer, any more than the rest of the fakers and throwers around of labels from times gone by) means to be undeniably bowed and bound to the ground.
The last three days have been especially taxing. Weekend? What is that to a vegetable grower. There are only seasons. And they are long. The rest of society may clock in and clock out but the rain will fall when it pleases and the wind will howl and blow your plants dry and your covers off and take branches down. You are not protected from the elements. You are in and one of them. Having to sell the wares so dutifully and timely (as fast as you can man) means hours of driving. Deliveries. Market days. Ask the farmer if his/her sciatica is acting up. Then there is the daily field work and its oh so romantic, bucolic, and what was the last one. . .oh yes beatific charm. Is it charming to be alone for hours on end to the point where you begin mumbling to yourself about any manner of topics including politics and film? This is bending over most of the time so that your lower back, arms and neck are stretched in ways that most indoor workers of the world could only wonder about. This is not like the gym after work. A seasoned field hand will economize their movements without thinking about it so that more and more efficient motion can be attained. This is not Zen. This is economy. Surviving the day's movement. After all it is organic farming. Isn't that just, like, gardening? Wow. That must be so peaceful. So meditative. So. After the driving and the bending comes the pounding.
I recently purchased a greenhouse and now have the joy of putting 6 1/2 foot by 2in. wide metal stakes into the soil roughly 30 inches deep. This involves standing/balancing on a plastic 5 gal. bucket with a 25lb metal 'pole setter' and driving the stake (or hoping to do so!) through the ROCKland Township ground as far as it will go. It will inevitably be short of the 30 required inches by 6-8 inches. Then its time to finish the job with the sledge hammer. The sound of metal setter against metal pipe is louder than most gun shots and much higher pitched. Yes, it hurts your ears. By the 10th stake or so (out of 50) my left shoulder had begun to ache enough that I wished for a 20 year old to finish the job and wondered cynically if I had it in me to do it all myself.
Then there is the crouching down to the damp, cold soil at 7 am (where's the morning commute and coffee?)and reaching over a bed of wet greens to hobble along, cutting the tender salad for an hour an 1/2. This will remind you that yes, you've done this so many times before that you know you will do it again this time (asking yourself if its that Protestant work ethic, or just stupidity, or lack of professional ambition, or just "being used to it by now" that carries you through)
because of course, you damn well can. And you will.
You think of the Mennonites you know. Some of them almost twice your age. They wouldn't flinch at this work. Hell no! Move your ass college boy. So what if your friends are actually living this century's lifestyle and making the kind of money only a college degree in the first world can provide. So what! Teachers with pensions and every governmental benefit known to man. Nurses. Graphic designers. Whatever. But hey, you're outside and don't have to put up with the hierarchy and the corporate bull. Hm. For $30-50,000 more a year. . . .
So you resign yourself to knowing that know one else knows what it's like to be a grower, or a farmer, or a vegetable producer, or a market gardener, or a plain old worker. And that's just fine. Because somehow it just fits you. And the few others who attempt to grow food AND sell it for a living. *When did food become the lowest of the low commodity items on the list of household priorities? Making it the last thing anyone would want to pay a fair price for.* How could they? They think it's like any other business only better! Oh the romance and the beauty. And the pounding. And the back aching. And the hustle. And the wondering if you can sell it all or any of it. How could anyone who's never lived in the 19th century during their waking hours know what its like?
wayne millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10312383040250353339noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6224466083225601126.post-5465555963301647302012-07-04T08:13:00.002-07:002012-07-04T08:22:42.805-07:00Fast lines for crazy timesNothing says Holy War like big fat judo-to-fakie airs in an 11 ft. deep pool by 38 yr. old (yes, 38!) bowl riding veteran, Omar Hassan. Happy Birthday to SoCal and America at large. Never let em' tell you to stop!<br /><br />(the end of the vid is sick and fast)<br /><br /><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/ERiMFPU9Bh8" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>wayne millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10312383040250353339noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6224466083225601126.post-24279480764571853272012-04-21T08:41:00.008-07:002012-04-21T10:31:12.304-07:00Oh Where, Oh Where Can Jah Love Be Found?<div style="text-align: justify; "><p align="CENTER" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; "><br /></p><p align="CENTER" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; "><br /></p><p align="CENTER" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; ">“<i>My dear, it's here in the Underground.</i></p> <p align="CENTER" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; "> <i>Inside the hearts of your own children.”</i></p><p align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in; "><i>--</i>from the song<i>,<b> House of Suffering</b></i></p> <p align="CENTER" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; "><br /></p> <p align="CENTER" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; "><br /></p> <p align="CENTER" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; ">--Paul D. Hudson aka. H.R. (Human Rights), <i><b>Bad Brains</b></i></p><p align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in; "><b><i><br /></i></b></p></div>Punk has taken many forms over the years. Starting mostly in England as out-and-out physical and mental rebellion against all forms of the status quo cultural norms, authority figures and economic inequality. A muscular, often filthy, angry, F!@# YOU! kind of punk with roots in the working class struggles as much as angsty teen boredom with all manner of mainstreamness. Read: WHITE RIOT. <div><br /></div><div>Like any movement though, meanings and attitudes change. Punk has been no different. Having taken on religious themes during the late 1980's and transformed into very sellable 'pop punk' in the 90s (some would say punk had died a commercial death) the evolution over those first 25 years was just as varied as any other art form. Always and forever at the heart of America's punk rock scene or more specifically, the American born version known as <i>hardcore</i> punk, were the Bad Brains. A truly original blend of reggae and blistering, 10-times-faster-than-anything-else punk music. Add to that a big old helping of professionally trained jazz fusion musicianship and you get the idea. </div><div><br /></div><div>From 1977 till now and beyond to whatever future they create, almost no band compares in scope, authenticity, and sheer powerful energy that encapsulates all that punk ever was and will be. With themes of charity, DIY, Rasta, and the ideal of a hardcore/punk community thriving against the heavy weight of an always profiteering mainstream art and music world, the Brains have kept on their rocky-at-times pilgrimage to Jah's Mt. Zion. Long live hardcore. Long live the youth nation.<br /><br /><br /><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/PXEgso51K3g" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>wayne millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10312383040250353339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6224466083225601126.post-81907048320066792202012-03-12T15:16:00.006-07:002012-03-12T16:07:40.183-07:00That Good Ole Space TwangEvan Dando sat by himself across the stage from me smoking cigarettes and clearly enjoying that he and his band had stumbled upon some fine country music happening at John and Peter's in New Hope, PA. I never saw the Lemonheads in person so I wouldn't have known it was him except that the lead singer of the Wallace Bros., who were by this time well into their 2 1/2 hr. set, exclaimed to me, his wild eyes popping with joy, "Holy shit! The Lemonheads are here!" Huh. I could see that early 90's grunge look was still with their (heads) singer along with the stringy blonde hair. That much I could tell hadn't changed a bit. It was a truly great evening of music at John and Peter's and the slow ballad by Dando just put the icing on the cake. I kept thinking to myself, there just can't be many real live music venues like this one left in Southeast PA. Let alone the whole country. Cheers to you New Hope, PA. Thanks for all the great music over the years. After all, it's not just the home of Dean and Gene.<br /><br /><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/FZZEhine_QA" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br /><br /><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/rUm4L4zVII8" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>wayne millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10312383040250353339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6224466083225601126.post-80172400136802421722011-11-13T10:24:00.002-08:002011-11-13T10:54:45.349-08:00Autumn MeditationAll hail the mighty Red Oak! Thank him for his long lasting units of heat. All HAIL!<br /><br /><br /><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/YXqbZOpwyEQ" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>wayne millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10312383040250353339noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6224466083225601126.post-41519840521210204882011-11-11T07:48:00.000-08:002011-11-11T08:51:30.335-08:00Soil AmendingThe first rule for producing healthy vegetable plants is to feed the soil. Read any organic or naturally grown manual on raising veg and this golden rule will be right there at the beginning. The soil needs to be amended just as the body needs replenishing of organic matter. For all the micro nutrients, organisms, and structure of the soil to remain strong, some inputs by the grower is unavoidable. In the fall most growers, at some point or another, add limestone to raise pH and calcium levels. This need be done only every 3 years in most circumstances. Having never added anything but organic matter to my soil, the pH is significantly lower than I would like. Horse manure will grow the soil's body and nitrogen content but to raise the pH it'll need calcitic lime or something similar. I chose aragonite which I have been told is roughly 3 times stronger than the lime and helps to add even more calcium. Like anything in growing it's to a certain degree an experiment. The reaction time of lime or aragonite is supposed to be around 6 months. I'll see in the spring if my veg grows better and my soil structure seems improved.<br /><br /><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/9xhHrmbAWzY" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br /><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/wPCmQQWLHBA" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br /><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/8JCH8XwfWjI" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>wayne millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10312383040250353339noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6224466083225601126.post-56299634224996525452011-11-04T08:47:00.001-07:002011-11-04T09:02:27.032-07:00The Meat PuppetsWelcome back to the sonic circus revelry. Conjuring up all that is guitar laden and desert washed.<br /><br /><br /><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/RVNKdza1ghI" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>wayne millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10312383040250353339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6224466083225601126.post-82812976313342781522011-11-01T08:56:00.000-07:002011-11-01T12:34:44.570-07:00Folk Hero<iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/0hs7VxllkWg?feature=player_embedded" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="360" width="640"></iframe>wayne millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10312383040250353339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6224466083225601126.post-35542590462144754422011-10-14T10:59:00.000-07:002011-10-14T12:45:41.528-07:00Where did the Summer go?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKZyrxtDFmV3nTkrz9gZJxbNK3lsHLl5KHtWTmr9Qz89yuJmtmJd817A9z5LgXR6ARjOb1PepjBj5oxIF-6k4ezGPqd_gSsooEJQ3AHHsWKdFSBlt22ctY-yPnRsqK2wPH-NpXjosQPqQ/s1600/IMG_5718.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKZyrxtDFmV3nTkrz9gZJxbNK3lsHLl5KHtWTmr9Qz89yuJmtmJd817A9z5LgXR6ARjOb1PepjBj5oxIF-6k4ezGPqd_gSsooEJQ3AHHsWKdFSBlt22ctY-yPnRsqK2wPH-NpXjosQPqQ/s320/IMG_5718.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663429909795595058" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVPzdv7fm0mBBW-aINFTK1TXV7xT2EdPQ8Ur7QERMl_uhRq9CuDthB1wy9F4Z8cd2Ik75Cqpe7yMr14RLngRXYS4cbtfULSXU7nVHZv5QLCBYW0yo2XgFFyhYuFGRN63bEBr5IPxTqx5k/s1600/IMG_5609.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVPzdv7fm0mBBW-aINFTK1TXV7xT2EdPQ8Ur7QERMl_uhRq9CuDthB1wy9F4Z8cd2Ik75Cqpe7yMr14RLngRXYS4cbtfULSXU7nVHZv5QLCBYW0yo2XgFFyhYuFGRN63bEBr5IPxTqx5k/s320/IMG_5609.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663429911000085026" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWukdSoDoqvYz0U0cshB-Y8FQaSp3PNDkYxC9CG7hCuKqwawjg8kf_77ovkPEo1DTBnWd_EBnNllI87UVMOJh84c-QTAVZovMk1OqQ8eq9zqmal2Bz_lM658VAo_v0_oilJ2j_qV0jIgk/s1600/IMG_5578.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWukdSoDoqvYz0U0cshB-Y8FQaSp3PNDkYxC9CG7hCuKqwawjg8kf_77ovkPEo1DTBnWd_EBnNllI87UVMOJh84c-QTAVZovMk1OqQ8eq9zqmal2Bz_lM658VAo_v0_oilJ2j_qV0jIgk/s320/IMG_5578.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663429905014033506" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhoVH9faSTIX6LU5BOhOYKq_wDI9OefeMFPi0gBzryGCL2Gv7KoxrKB9yCmZ68IL8Hum3Xx9dhSmuesEKt8njPk3xCU9EZgmW6wIj4WmaMw_cdqXyN86sKMe8_8bbzA-DggZPaj3qSVqo/s1600/IMG_5715.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhoVH9faSTIX6LU5BOhOYKq_wDI9OefeMFPi0gBzryGCL2Gv7KoxrKB9yCmZ68IL8Hum3Xx9dhSmuesEKt8njPk3xCU9EZgmW6wIj4WmaMw_cdqXyN86sKMe8_8bbzA-DggZPaj3qSVqo/s320/IMG_5715.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663429921843470386" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It's raining. Again. It's raining. . .er. . .again.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7kKSHlKT2jPgiaPwMHTzXMJ0f9rJIJedWl7AKTCQhX5PgTS-2pQFrMdut8pW0AZdR65SSpwyzHKW0WwH0sa_Fu3uyXcgu-H1JKxlEWP3yimwnrq5QIUqqbZC0e08MOPrJdbU0uMO9VrM/s1600/IMG_5688.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7kKSHlKT2jPgiaPwMHTzXMJ0f9rJIJedWl7AKTCQhX5PgTS-2pQFrMdut8pW0AZdR65SSpwyzHKW0WwH0sa_Fu3uyXcgu-H1JKxlEWP3yimwnrq5QIUqqbZC0e08MOPrJdbU0uMO9VrM/s320/IMG_5688.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663425571461618754" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaYn3XoqtJqYYF4OaZhdy6koGTlKYSo47KKjfaQ1hwMw4VyumiLfi_GIlYUizDobztGpNuxjvZvCCvLilM6o33qzOpTvRym934oAOd4ehqntC6v-6mQ4q-yoYOVYwSeS7t9WkFh3Xzzpc/s1600/IMG_5667.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaYn3XoqtJqYYF4OaZhdy6koGTlKYSo47KKjfaQ1hwMw4VyumiLfi_GIlYUizDobztGpNuxjvZvCCvLilM6o33qzOpTvRym934oAOd4ehqntC6v-6mQ4q-yoYOVYwSeS7t9WkFh3Xzzpc/s320/IMG_5667.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663425266158602882" border="0" /></a>For those of us in the growing community (no, not OWSers--vegetable producers) it may seem that summer never happened at all. Or if it was back there in August, it came without sun for half of its annual reign. Today is another humid, wet, sticky, August. . .wait. . .it's October!?. . .day in the good old growing season of 2011. Surely a victor over the last wettest of the 2000's, 2006.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia9FbiR55EdyY5WlBtEaU7r4iPZ3usTPm3TeB9DGMEsNZ-e-Y_zCL7ZX2N7X19rURHqWt0cATI_6fWZCBeEni_nsTC6kGKPbKaHtNRcqfVrkQyJkfzFd3tiPrGOTFSCt0-ZVsTgJRfObg/s1600/IMG_5683.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia9FbiR55EdyY5WlBtEaU7r4iPZ3usTPm3TeB9DGMEsNZ-e-Y_zCL7ZX2N7X19rURHqWt0cATI_6fWZCBeEni_nsTC6kGKPbKaHtNRcqfVrkQyJkfzFd3tiPrGOTFSCt0-ZVsTgJRfObg/s320/IMG_5683.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663430779363254386" border="0" /></a>And surely by a long shot. Two hurricanes and many thunderstorms later, the tropical summer fatigue has now invaded even the autumn. Stealing my favorite season's cool lucidity and replacing it with dank mugginess. Bah. Humbug.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlE697nZQYlFW5vdK-6w25nHHsERH0rgLNJp1nhMTEUk8klT_ahPZQUv8mkSeivpyGeKsxvawOhsofPCAqJqLx_ulG4llaPN7NbBMNcMRkhGBNnXEUTtyFbpvWcKiBWZZxtoo8lPwzpG0/s1600/IMG_5661.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlE697nZQYlFW5vdK-6w25nHHsERH0rgLNJp1nhMTEUk8klT_ahPZQUv8mkSeivpyGeKsxvawOhsofPCAqJqLx_ulG4llaPN7NbBMNcMRkhGBNnXEUTtyFbpvWcKiBWZZxtoo8lPwzpG0/s320/IMG_5661.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663430772615266562" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhTZVdjAQ6qOEHRsLZuc0ekxUHPiQZktDqdqWTc4u7WOGfUpi6Tm5fRznhILLDI_h-UhyphenhyphenHNC6iaN1O-JOmrPdQNA0xlvITVBvDCLwJaykqAqemY54NN6YlH9WOIZpyBWnTwn5OtHBIQSM/s1600/IMG_5778.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhTZVdjAQ6qOEHRsLZuc0ekxUHPiQZktDqdqWTc4u7WOGfUpi6Tm5fRznhILLDI_h-UhyphenhyphenHNC6iaN1O-JOmrPdQNA0xlvITVBvDCLwJaykqAqemY54NN6YlH9WOIZpyBWnTwn5OtHBIQSM/s320/IMG_5778.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663425278204985906" border="0" /></a>For what it's worth, let us look back on some of those few sunny days of July and August and remember that before the rains came we thought we'd headed into a down right drought of a summer season. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPES0kjKBkks1B0-J0Z6eJonnWVcJtKEe_-wPMPkrEu7crcyTIQ_62aSAPaXVtQJTfTsHePFosU5w_jfOSssUv_u64mP-I_1ETRISnskskrfCNkwr9aGhWO_Sjm4WEd6pEsvS5ACWCJcY/s1600/IMG_5805.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPES0kjKBkks1B0-J0Z6eJonnWVcJtKEe_-wPMPkrEu7crcyTIQ_62aSAPaXVtQJTfTsHePFosU5w_jfOSssUv_u64mP-I_1ETRISnskskrfCNkwr9aGhWO_Sjm4WEd6pEsvS5ACWCJcY/s320/IMG_5805.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663425578914467762" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Ah but such is the fickle weather and her daughter Nina! Thank you summer for your Cercospora and for your theft of the second half of the tomato season and lastly your mildewed blankets that ended the lives of many a winter squash and harvest pumpkin. Be gone and don't come wafting through next year!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ-m0tW8yF27MRqFjlyGGzQSE3c83gTEDev6XAz7On6NQhfUZkrsBN3vt1tH9kZu0QlsG8Geak5Djmg9qfMfpB7yconJgnlOU1hwGvkYXtoIp6sv9T4nFQuEeZzwKMDWOMYzei8arS1rY/s1600/IMG_5694.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ-m0tW8yF27MRqFjlyGGzQSE3c83gTEDev6XAz7On6NQhfUZkrsBN3vt1tH9kZu0QlsG8Geak5Djmg9qfMfpB7yconJgnlOU1hwGvkYXtoIp6sv9T4nFQuEeZzwKMDWOMYzei8arS1rY/s320/IMG_5694.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663425571932925026" border="0" /></a>wayne millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10312383040250353339noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6224466083225601126.post-85464979227219497282011-06-11T06:02:00.000-07:002011-06-11T07:42:11.098-07:00Art in Tamaqua, PA<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLT3qeOTJFCMejBU64YV6Cr6JPDPYWd6gDWrYQznkHk5t-JRkQ7mU-0w1K40xi4xoyd-UodJRZLZ2kyrixvnFvzFHmkigtSm_nC9S_K0seLbB8C3JA_vtZ_u37fnFg7CjEWeYPPa20e7s/s1600/fish.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLT3qeOTJFCMejBU64YV6Cr6JPDPYWd6gDWrYQznkHk5t-JRkQ7mU-0w1K40xi4xoyd-UodJRZLZ2kyrixvnFvzFHmkigtSm_nC9S_K0seLbB8C3JA_vtZ_u37fnFg7CjEWeYPPa20e7s/s320/fish.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616967366078822146" border="0" /></a><br />John O' Hara leans heavily on the town of Tamaqua, in the coal region of northern Pennsylvania, for the literary backdrop of his novels. While never surpassing his use of the fictional Gibbsville aka. Pottsville, "Taqua" looks like a miniature version of Pottsville. With an old train station at the center of town and a red brick flat iron building just off to the right of the convergence of rt 209, rt 309, and Broad St., the town is an atypically historical one. Indeed, as one drives through town its almost as if all the buildings, parks, and churches are life-size train set models.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqcBoqIoS4JQwgpLiuQwMF5jaI8pW5KekWzEGEsjEZhjL7Ks2wbK_wSz3wKKt6CO_Ht19fhocoN-jYsBloNZBog5czAdU-tM2eBNcBpIr69-7iQySCF7TqpwawojNHsfXGqPNgbyYPxEI/s1600/photos.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqcBoqIoS4JQwgpLiuQwMF5jaI8pW5KekWzEGEsjEZhjL7Ks2wbK_wSz3wKKt6CO_Ht19fhocoN-jYsBloNZBog5czAdU-tM2eBNcBpIr69-7iQySCF7TqpwawojNHsfXGqPNgbyYPxEI/s320/photos.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616967362918759298" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5jumpOi5W6Dfe1kAUaeqJyVhOJbuI20Osvp9C1ZTJyyBhZ5D3IAWwzciNTeuc21GHo31oG9LqaxABFzRVL8JMdLDtl88sSfRAIUBvd4rCnCW6FQi7dUZzvn9Jbzj_zlS-1_zej26HB1k/s1600/robyn.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5jumpOi5W6Dfe1kAUaeqJyVhOJbuI20Osvp9C1ZTJyyBhZ5D3IAWwzciNTeuc21GHo31oG9LqaxABFzRVL8JMdLDtl88sSfRAIUBvd4rCnCW6FQi7dUZzvn9Jbzj_zlS-1_zej26HB1k/s320/robyn.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616967352230980114" border="0" /></a><br /><br />A bunch of us drove up to Tamaqua from Berks and Schuylkill Counties to celebrate the work of our scene's much beloved 'patriarch' at his gallery opening on Friday night. He had told us many anecdotes of Tamaqua's St. Patty's parades and night time haunts. It's plethora of gin joints, speak easies, and old time neighborhood bars that hadn't really changed since Prohibition ended. But this night wasn't centered on spirits of that sort as much as on the art work of three generations of the Rimm family. Hailing from Hometown, a small suburb of Tamaqua, Mr. Rimm Sr. and his wife, their two sons, and, if only represented in her bright orange paintings, one granddaughter, were all in attendance. We strolled around the gallery in among the wooden blue fishes, priests, naked women, and suns, that hung in the form of 'dream' mobiles. The sculptures seemed like they could only have been made by this particular artist. Having known him for years I could see his whole personality in the objects. This is folk art, I thought. Icons of Michael Rimm's mindscape. On the walls were black and white photos of street chess players in Reading, Pa. Old trucks and fall foliage montages with trains on sky high tracks passing through the leaves. Couples sharing laughs and moods in the night. Life shots of the region.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCssOhzlvS_0RT6UujQG7d1vf6eXDhx6MOQlbZpTZ5cjgFtpz9c-OSeXHMG0FzD5GsSn_eY3R62f1Yeph-mBq7sI44muGHMiyHa_jPK9ci1-zOx-fYiAKXIuvYCbfcYtQTI6jnv8csocQ/s1600/buffet.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCssOhzlvS_0RT6UujQG7d1vf6eXDhx6MOQlbZpTZ5cjgFtpz9c-OSeXHMG0FzD5GsSn_eY3R62f1Yeph-mBq7sI44muGHMiyHa_jPK9ci1-zOx-fYiAKXIuvYCbfcYtQTI6jnv8csocQ/s320/buffet.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616967348608501202" border="0" /></a>In the back room were most of this family communing together, their heritage oozing from their bodies in smiles and good conversation. I spoke with the elder Rimm about last deer season and the most perfect buck I had ever seen. The delicious flavors of halushki, macaroni salad, angel food cupcakes filled with white icing, and ham sandwhiches to wash down with red wine. Everything so simply laid out for the guests with the subtle care that seemed so much a family affair. We were partaking of this cultural line. Soaking it all up in the old Polish, Ukrainian, Catholic coal town that time may have forgotten if it weren't for the arts that now had to supplant industry for the peoples' life blood.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwgx2jlx3KJMf_b-SpSa9u99Fsan2j1AYU-QG3Pb68h5M9AyAZjCK5-hKpMFoKxnGn88R2AjAQDIXLWNVE3XkCiOiC7c3eVSQfyaQHJU3AbyBucV5_yMXLS9JyAjbc7PF3QzOjzEFVxyw/s1600/mike.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwgx2jlx3KJMf_b-SpSa9u99Fsan2j1AYU-QG3Pb68h5M9AyAZjCK5-hKpMFoKxnGn88R2AjAQDIXLWNVE3XkCiOiC7c3eVSQfyaQHJU3AbyBucV5_yMXLS9JyAjbc7PF3QzOjzEFVxyw/s320/mike.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616967345182799170" border="0" /></a>wayne millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10312383040250353339noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6224466083225601126.post-68599717819457040442011-06-10T04:18:00.001-07:002011-06-10T04:46:24.687-07:00Salad Days<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8mh_4YQ7-AtrNg6Mh-zioEyPIslFQW1mCruzGrfp-bNkDwr1a2przKzv66hyphenhyphen78-MpdQ4JPaHmItNJjQKYCevdPyaO2woaXL1uMKDIwlWIAFYlXK0h5fetbv389zpPOkpYT0QWG95_QBM/s1600/IMG_5174.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8mh_4YQ7-AtrNg6Mh-zioEyPIslFQW1mCruzGrfp-bNkDwr1a2przKzv66hyphenhyphen78-MpdQ4JPaHmItNJjQKYCevdPyaO2woaXL1uMKDIwlWIAFYlXK0h5fetbv389zpPOkpYT0QWG95_QBM/s320/IMG_5174.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616553710225983810" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKAb-l4Leic78WGilzNdW6fNFIqyeTJfB1H4lxpzDVB3FPRAq5nCT5glCGJZUqiAA_hKkRn9GTyvGGWUTOm3hgjt0nnTQJp6t7HIHH44XtPNAzNsDJnoS5tLzQpenAC7JPBqbgVwTwuNE/s1600/IMG_5176.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKAb-l4Leic78WGilzNdW6fNFIqyeTJfB1H4lxpzDVB3FPRAq5nCT5glCGJZUqiAA_hKkRn9GTyvGGWUTOm3hgjt0nnTQJp6t7HIHH44XtPNAzNsDJnoS5tLzQpenAC7JPBqbgVwTwuNE/s320/IMG_5176.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616553700909626098" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUuwjr9hjx8M4iVYHP2jhU1peJA4p5y2-t5uJTc4GYi0VBVOiE6KAPU3EBJgNtd2auePFUvjIFYRg-9S4PsG0Qa0Zn-tOiB7iAK1zGbr1jocENzV5aRxFz2_KkJXgil7XzRgoixfLlJWQ/s1600/IMG_5170.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUuwjr9hjx8M4iVYHP2jhU1peJA4p5y2-t5uJTc4GYi0VBVOiE6KAPU3EBJgNtd2auePFUvjIFYRg-9S4PsG0Qa0Zn-tOiB7iAK1zGbr1jocENzV5aRxFz2_KkJXgil7XzRgoixfLlJWQ/s320/IMG_5170.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616553720878990530" /></a><br />I went up to turn the water on at 5:30 am. This had become the usual routine. There hadn't been any rain for about three weeks. To say nothing of the August-like temperatures of high 90's in this first week of June. My vegetables, especially the salad greens, were surviving on a daily (and often nightly) dose of sprinkler and drip tape action. After making sure the potatoes were indeed getting a drink, i kept walking passed the deer fence to the edge of the woods. I stopped suddenly as i heard that familiar rustling of ground cover, not too far from where i stood. My heart beat faster and i tried to stay as still as possible. I knew they were there. One of them at least. As I stood there, filled with an excitement that never tires, waiting to catch a passing glimpse of the wood's most magical of creatures, i saw a white flash. I always seem to catch that first. The white tail of the Pennsylvania doe. Flickering upwards as they shift their bodies spasticaly, deciding if to run. They always run when spotted by a human. The question is how long will they tarry before leaping into action, stealthly and sleekly darting away from the outsider.<br /><br />I had put the fence up because, like most vegetable growers, i did not want to see my potential profit eaten up by any of the various gourmands of the outdoor world. I even attached a low strand to deter groundhogs and racoons. For months now it had seemed to work. I thought of all this strategy as the does took their leave and i began to cut mesclun mix for the fifth week of the season. I'd be up over 20lbs if the stuff this week. Did they know what was just beyond their realm, waiting to be devoured just beyond two strands of easily passable rope fence? Had they touched their noses to the strands, as i had hoped, and gotten enough shock to create a different path around my acre? I cut and cut and figured i was lucky so far. Lucky to have had Kim to erect this light but sufficient boundary for my lettuces, mustards, and spinach. Lucky so far. But will they realize eventually that the strands are a mere 3 feet apart and only just over 4 feet high?wayne millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10312383040250353339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6224466083225601126.post-53023005945684922482011-05-03T06:08:00.000-07:002011-05-03T06:44:55.445-07:00Kutztown Bloc Party with Total Quality InstituteIt felt like Spring had finally sprung down on Main St. USA. Complete with a climbing wall and live music. I drank a chocolate shake and watched kids run around with painted faces. Oh, and some band spewed noisy, angsty, dissident garage rock that reminded me of The Minutemen or Television or The Talking Heads perhaps. The clouds hung low but spirits were up and the gray fuzzy back drop held community out there, on the ends of great tentacles, invisibly flapping from their origin in 1979 London or New York. A fabric affair sans leather. Or, so to speak.<br /><br /><object style="height: 390px; width: 640px;"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ezTKfueRfas?version=3"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ezTKfueRfas?version=3" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="640" height="390"></embed></object>wayne millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10312383040250353339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6224466083225601126.post-28192767591615715762011-05-01T07:01:00.001-07:002011-05-01T10:53:05.789-07:00May Day<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9KtzF3R3f8djLOXL7D-ePH5U90rdWzvXzKniJRM2BqRVoUaktEPuomOXEUl9TwOrr8d6GL9wOxeavrlTjmDGM2ASSCLOWVGyFWWQyUTVqJbNBOBkT1nHQVjF69YZOKDqP5VbH21y9lNA/s1600/morels.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9KtzF3R3f8djLOXL7D-ePH5U90rdWzvXzKniJRM2BqRVoUaktEPuomOXEUl9TwOrr8d6GL9wOxeavrlTjmDGM2ASSCLOWVGyFWWQyUTVqJbNBOBkT1nHQVjF69YZOKDqP5VbH21y9lNA/s320/morels.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5601775802376778418" border="0" /></a>Not really knowing the history of this holiday of yore, suffice it to say that I've seen the excellent and terrifying 1970's version of the film <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Wicker_Man_%281973_film%29"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Wicker Man</span></a> and read enough Wiki entries about children dancing around the May pole to get the gist of it. So. . . guess that makes me somewhat of an expert on pre-christian European folk religion, right? C'mon, it's the information age. You don't have to know what you're talking about. Just say more. Oh, and definitely put it officially ONLINE!<br /><br />To this newly solo, sole proprietor, on-his-own, little guy farmer, the first of May means that yesterday, the last day of April, not everything got done. Was it ever any different for any farmer anywhere, big or small? I've got a wee patch of vegetables that I'm calling <a href="http://www.localharvest.org/epic-acre-farm-M44413"><span style="font-style: italic;">Epic Acre Farm</span></a>.<br /><br />It's just that. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4cZLHP3DndFHwazX6fbukhKzHcjcKsx9-dpt13Xvyhl0WeXf1JadNCtDedpp64897H7WHynutHFZGNXbRN6507Ane7yNLkSGDV_89Z7ezCT1x5d1yLxRq4dJUP7PtHxhX1AL78GlJCD4/s1600/acreview1.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4cZLHP3DndFHwazX6fbukhKzHcjcKsx9-dpt13Xvyhl0WeXf1JadNCtDedpp64897H7WHynutHFZGNXbRN6507Ane7yNLkSGDV_89Z7ezCT1x5d1yLxRq4dJUP7PtHxhX1AL78GlJCD4/s320/acreview1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5601777415529321170" border="0" /></a>About an acre on my home property that I figured I'd max out and produce for a market since I was planning on growing food here anyway. There are also some beautiful apple trees (<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morels">morels</a>!) that are in dire need (did I just say dire?) of pruning, a couple little pear trees that are in full, white flower bloom, and about an acre and a half of woods in addition to the "epic" acre of growing space.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3LGqQvqITOgIKGbUKU_i6ohFligtS277dcEFKyJa1Tmy6A3jSuVWpxBMI3mIyGXvdDCgr9mNS25wSq7hitNqDYIdhknc2RfKwSsFK1HQ-YJS8JQinT90xWNlo1OahNOXQv7y0d03fOo4/s1600/tree1.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3LGqQvqITOgIKGbUKU_i6ohFligtS277dcEFKyJa1Tmy6A3jSuVWpxBMI3mIyGXvdDCgr9mNS25wSq7hitNqDYIdhknc2RfKwSsFK1HQ-YJS8JQinT90xWNlo1OahNOXQv7y0d03fOo4/s320/tree1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5601777414757102482" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8H4BxrnPfDTTKj83WPWkvOlohPD7ZVG8f7RKyaesQP6aRjfzl647mr6-eHFw34j9nISkGPuEmAb4k9Q8ZPu7711mpyIxLxNtRe1LUxPmxYlKNoxzQsXLwTYkX6ZN_LH1EK_sqRwVrNc8/s1600/appleflower.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8H4BxrnPfDTTKj83WPWkvOlohPD7ZVG8f7RKyaesQP6aRjfzl647mr6-eHFw34j9nISkGPuEmAb4k9Q8ZPu7711mpyIxLxNtRe1LUxPmxYlKNoxzQsXLwTYkX6ZN_LH1EK_sqRwVrNc8/s320/appleflower.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5601778268023302658" border="0" /></a>Having gotten the "yard" mowed - that is, everything else green that doesn't constitute woods or grow space (thanks, Jen) - the beets and radish in the ground, the deer fence started, the trees cut or limbed outside the to-be-fenced area, earlier radishes hoed and covered and the last of firewood trees felled, most of what I wanted to accomplish in the last two days of April got done. Now it's May. Oh joy. Oh more to do.<br /><br />May 1st happens to have dawned on a partly sunny, beautifully cool, mid 50's morning here in the southeast of PA. But before I get to the block party downtown to check out my friends <a href="http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=380734112304">TQI</a>, I've got to get the rest of those loose ends from yesterday tied up. It's Sunday, the old order neighbors I have would say a day for rest and church. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMC9TtLmnWCHjSc3VSx2i5p6RYGxypEyvpghMvZJZbp4oQiyDLPrg8C6c38H4lTRlQ70yS4ShF3yK3i7RsXRG_Lkiy2OjB4Y4RiSoNMCkrhkyoOW9M32XL1oEFyanT0IJURmQbXHXv70o/s1600/plowedground.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMC9TtLmnWCHjSc3VSx2i5p6RYGxypEyvpghMvZJZbp4oQiyDLPrg8C6c38H4lTRlQ70yS4ShF3yK3i7RsXRG_Lkiy2OjB4Y4RiSoNMCkrhkyoOW9M32XL1oEFyanT0IJURmQbXHXv70o/s320/plowedground.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5601777422807240642" border="0" /></a>But as a small farmer (I would use the term market gardener, but then, I guess I'm just stuck back in the 90's with <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Backyard-Market-Gardening-Entrepreneurs-Selling/dp/0962464805/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1304263315&sr=8-1">Andrew W. Lee</a>) I don't have the minions of extended family hands to pitch in throughout the long growing season's work load. No kids. No cousins. No Pop with endless acreage and know-how and tractors. Nope, just me and sometimes my partner to remember the details and hoe the rows. And of course, in my case, good neighbors that'll swing up the hill just in the nick of time (again those oh so solid old order people), between endless April showers, with their three bottom and plow the rest of my field.<br /><br />And then there's the friend who is helping with the deer fence. And the other friend who helped log the first big tree I felled two weeks ago. And of course the <a href="http://www.localharvest.org/eckerton-hill-farm-M29899">former boss</a> who called and said I'd never get those clods broken up if he didn't bring the tractor roto-tiller over on Sunday and. . . wow. I guess I'm not really alone in this endeavor after all. All these fine people, eager and willing to lend two hands. Whether out of friendship or a simple common interest in rural life and activity. Being outside. Seeing the dogwoods bloom in May. Spring movement. Awake again.<br /><br />I'm gonna put beets up for winter in the cold cellar room anyway so why not grow a few extra to take to market? At least that's what I keep telling myself when I get that first taste of being a bit overwhelmed with my Epic Acre.wayne millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10312383040250353339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6224466083225601126.post-25636692385802939252011-02-23T21:47:00.000-08:002011-02-24T20:03:40.851-08:00Shamans Among Us<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXspKI1vlGcS2Gu2rUSoEBj_8ntxY506yHQwYiQhhN4eSgiqwCCivuAtsK9KJSK6ZjOOXxzAZz6EAQ4eL4r9KnwsucCHKejrtKfhKRKLtwowkctfIDYxvcOJTIapO_GRQNRqE9a9wdsJA/s1600/shamansblog+002.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXspKI1vlGcS2Gu2rUSoEBj_8ntxY506yHQwYiQhhN4eSgiqwCCivuAtsK9KJSK6ZjOOXxzAZz6EAQ4eL4r9KnwsucCHKejrtKfhKRKLtwowkctfIDYxvcOJTIapO_GRQNRqE9a9wdsJA/s320/shamansblog+002.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577139378326503986" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7IxIKbLskAm8EowWPfIjlC5-JN13nzdnkZV7MdloDqF59G7S-X66oJRq7ezTyJgcuvgSa3qzGx1HPU4Brbe5cyVEBmpemfji4VZ6liYYSasGsAVS2N3ATPSt1xVn-I6amqQZ0h09MICc/s1600/shamansblog+004.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7IxIKbLskAm8EowWPfIjlC5-JN13nzdnkZV7MdloDqF59G7S-X66oJRq7ezTyJgcuvgSa3qzGx1HPU4Brbe5cyVEBmpemfji4VZ6liYYSasGsAVS2N3ATPSt1xVn-I6amqQZ0h09MICc/s320/shamansblog+004.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577139217035371458" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />What kind of musical artist creates a mood in sound? One might say that all art carries a mood and that surely all music too, speaks with a sensibility of some kind or other. But the artist that seeks to evoke a truly ambient sound that summons the spaces between soil and air, breath and life, water and sun, light and dark, frenzy and contentedness, or melancholy and ecstasy, reaches beyond the obvious. The obvious, spirited, foot stomping gaiety of an Irish jig or the back beat groove of rock n' roll, while commanding a listener to their crescendos, may lack the ethereal subtlety of sound art. Even when the art bleeds itself ever so closely to the brink of pop. Thanks, to an on and off again friend and long time acquaintance from up northeast PA way. Cheers to him and his lads who gave us a February Sunday of afternoon splendor in the city of brotherly love. Music to while away the hours and dream in deep beauty. All hail the Sun King. Long live Lewis and Clark.<br /><br />I cruised down Rt. 76 along the Schuylkill, my soft mind buzzed from the previous night's pints and filled with local inspiration, and turned up the radio when I heard the familiar voice mention her guest, author Sherman Alexie. I had been thinking about this present digital age with its virtual creations and social networks for months and wanting to say something. But I kept coming back to a phrase from my youth. It was a bastardization of the Exploited's cry, <span style="font-style: italic;">facebook NOT punk</span>! As the modern-day Native American prophet laughed and described himself as "politely arrogant" to the radio show host, I became energized and all ears. "We are animals. Could anyone imagine a pack of wolves living on the internet? Ha! Ha! Imagine trying to live on the internet! This can't be!" Spot on.<br /><br />After the interview, the radio turned to another artist of letters. Is it Maya Angelou's deep well of humanness that makes her black voice so steady, clear, rye, classical, and intoxicating? Surely she has the wisdom of age if not also the ages in her smooth mountainous tones. The way she said the very word poetry. Stretched it out, as if over a calm sea. Lolling and rolling. Speaking of her people's month of remembrance and bringing to mind the standard slave hymn Roll Jordan Roll. An antique quality in the fragile cadence, every syllable enunciated and timed with rhythmic perfection. To you, deep woman. Shamaness. Truth giver. Let us always have time for reflective thought.wayne millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10312383040250353339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6224466083225601126.post-52700366964177376722010-10-28T15:47:00.000-07:002010-10-28T16:09:12.755-07:00October Mystics<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4KHrcFqwhQ5y_NeOKqlMg_fXSqn-tDJ_S3KArKBbJ27OtIzQmV2cWieRZ76y9h0PSQ_aPSZg4MOcLnVDEJLEz1EbbvVZe6F0c0P_rsOGu995kcPhyphenhyphendibwjNaeRuJx63dYfE22KdDeFHs/s1600/autumn1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4KHrcFqwhQ5y_NeOKqlMg_fXSqn-tDJ_S3KArKBbJ27OtIzQmV2cWieRZ76y9h0PSQ_aPSZg4MOcLnVDEJLEz1EbbvVZe6F0c0P_rsOGu995kcPhyphenhyphendibwjNaeRuJx63dYfE22KdDeFHs/s320/autumn1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533237794908516946" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6iK04e1OGobn7V3QiLjlxogG5aL5N3lcNary1GGWxHhQzgvU7i10OmA_Ke-Bym9ozzo3pXMr5E6AszrWelR5cnTL6fZZS5lcFP7kmhhVePmEZETaAv246sfSjThvO8tXRPNV-hSis03Q/s1600/autmn5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6iK04e1OGobn7V3QiLjlxogG5aL5N3lcNary1GGWxHhQzgvU7i10OmA_Ke-Bym9ozzo3pXMr5E6AszrWelR5cnTL6fZZS5lcFP7kmhhVePmEZETaAv246sfSjThvO8tXRPNV-hSis03Q/s320/autmn5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533233614123635362" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpafeJJW4-nz-hQFVDjuL1_mhS7x9N53faIdS7SDQBCQCdKV77is_00u6dB3Zrsm9_Atb_CH8LF-srD2Xu3nI5KX9ulK3_bP3oTeCBvxwxvet-46OlBfMfgJnyusPR-flvBJCk8k7vAoo/s1600/autmun7.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpafeJJW4-nz-hQFVDjuL1_mhS7x9N53faIdS7SDQBCQCdKV77is_00u6dB3Zrsm9_Atb_CH8LF-srD2Xu3nI5KX9ulK3_bP3oTeCBvxwxvet-46OlBfMfgJnyusPR-flvBJCk8k7vAoo/s320/autmun7.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533233607122376370" border="0" /></a>"A Vagabond Song" by the Canadian poet <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1288305882_0">Bliss Carman</span>.<br /><p><br /></p> <p><em>There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood--<br />Touch of manner, hint of mood;<br />And my heart is like a rhyme,<br />With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.<br /><br />The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry<br />Of bugles going by.<br />And my lonely spirit thrills<br />To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills. </em></p> <p><em>There is something in October sets the <span style="border-bottom: 2px dotted rgb(54, 99, 136); cursor: pointer;" class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1288305882_1">gypsy blood</span> astir;<br />We must rise and follow her,<br />When from every hill of flame<br />She calls and calls each vagabond by name.</em></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhshXA4wKtOpryYLMXJTbqWNEoA3TdqgFdzfFXhbVKuyXIdUNNMyqtJnIaYrhfaUBdqCPnNdMnq7PnJS3sFdiyxNXdkl0QI3LfRVCJiTfDdnP5GP8Vv2Gge-5_nh5u0nbs-ce-cieY0YuM/s1600/autumn3.jpg"><br /></a>wayne millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10312383040250353339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6224466083225601126.post-89854564210627535802010-10-19T04:52:00.000-07:002010-10-21T13:27:42.647-07:00Faces of the Farm<object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/E8MwmZdDLAU?hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/E8MwmZdDLAU?hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br />Well, here we are. Autumn has descended in all its glory once again and nary a word of praise to that special day. September 21. The beginning of the cool down. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDu_vp90gqGd9FvrWFTmctrhth7Qd2uQbJPe9UGT7UNEa97wHgY6eri-Zvr-YLdIHOZm7BpvXG77nioZLwKhe3-H4Q5DvPqnxvLDfuu2NtFWmVhYWyE_G_7hrlI___aZVIGEym9xHBEEY/s1600/nevinandtim.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDu_vp90gqGd9FvrWFTmctrhth7Qd2uQbJPe9UGT7UNEa97wHgY6eri-Zvr-YLdIHOZm7BpvXG77nioZLwKhe3-H4Q5DvPqnxvLDfuu2NtFWmVhYWyE_G_7hrlI___aZVIGEym9xHBEEY/s320/nevinandtim.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530491566357073154" border="0" /></a>The start of photographic evening light and contrasted cloudy days. Breaks of sun are stunning. The haze of summer's humid malaise has officially ended. Variety has returned to the farm's daily tasks.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNT6LuYE5dJJUl6RmY6tA0z3Un2zT_u2j_Gc3bYwGXH0yS5tdY6G5leB71aYIGh6gCHvOaayhPLRmXs8ieK9iFZHqz82rCUslAlC2_BVwTNEryle30070MuIiMZz2j7M_qCbnabaATAhE/s1600/paulandannafall.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNT6LuYE5dJJUl6RmY6tA0z3Un2zT_u2j_Gc3bYwGXH0yS5tdY6G5leB71aYIGh6gCHvOaayhPLRmXs8ieK9iFZHqz82rCUslAlC2_BVwTNEryle30070MuIiMZz2j7M_qCbnabaATAhE/s320/paulandannafall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530491578473657010" border="0" /></a> The nightshade mono-frenzy has been quieted, if only somewhat. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN_umNQ8a4I7hd92TitVO46ev-h1PrFfKk2_K-CbfAoLOMl-B9fbVTw1HCr9yqNtQPVRSbvDST0MPZRpRULU4-PG7qjKnL5JOFKpQwB-s-z42FlX33-AA21dKBN2wS6o2G5OOWoh3tTz4/s1600/anniefall.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN_umNQ8a4I7hd92TitVO46ev-h1PrFfKk2_K-CbfAoLOMl-B9fbVTw1HCr9yqNtQPVRSbvDST0MPZRpRULU4-PG7qjKnL5JOFKpQwB-s-z42FlX33-AA21dKBN2wS6o2G5OOWoh3tTz4/s320/anniefall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530491571415644882" border="0" /></a>And we persons have also been able to catch our breaths, reap the edible harvest, and raise our glasses high in the crisp autumn air.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1clmzUd7D7LRVLPzd0PQm0lyhyQ89Z9mo2Bw5CYLCJZqNR5GoIjqoOu_yZUgZ7PHWrBr5nYSvT-Jap7sggV3ziv1tggb6lLcOC401g78QvSDhKMGV2eiH-E6cEkt4AdJ7u12U2aKYpOE/s1600/fallsquash2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1clmzUd7D7LRVLPzd0PQm0lyhyQ89Z9mo2Bw5CYLCJZqNR5GoIjqoOu_yZUgZ7PHWrBr5nYSvT-Jap7sggV3ziv1tggb6lLcOC401g78QvSDhKMGV2eiH-E6cEkt4AdJ7u12U2aKYpOE/s320/fallsquash2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529898623517219538" border="0" /></a> It's time again for heirloom winter squashes like the golden hubbard which dates back to colonial times in America. Time for the endless dishes of brussels sprouts, bacon, and apples. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy9Hf0AkkJuOVlNlIB-cavjDdv6pYBrkklmr50vHpjx6BreXlmSwocyvJXuxS0pi2DCKORL221R3ICPgZy3jUvYLBQyldG5ZU4RZ6MHQYYZLx-gP_-DnmNOSFoyp_YOyYFJe6_fwuuFtM/s1600/fallsquash1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy9Hf0AkkJuOVlNlIB-cavjDdv6pYBrkklmr50vHpjx6BreXlmSwocyvJXuxS0pi2DCKORL221R3ICPgZy3jUvYLBQyldG5ZU4RZ6MHQYYZLx-gP_-DnmNOSFoyp_YOyYFJe6_fwuuFtM/s320/fallsquash1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529898562731708530" border="0" /></a>Time for pumpkin pies and apple quince pies and venison. Time for cardoons, if you have the patience to peel and wash and chop and peel and wash and chop and. . .really, who doesn't love a giant thistle!? Time for cider pressed locally, if you're so lucky. Time for chevre toppled high on fresh salad greens. Did you get that Claytonia and spinach seed in the ground yet? Time to get all that summer rain that never came. Yes, yes, we know. We need it. I'm not sure I need it putting a damper on my favorite month! Slow down food. Wait. Slow down fall. Let the leaves always be red, orange, and yellow. Let there be plenty of daylight hours but still a good full evening for revelry and reflection.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlR-ivcHGWK4moNHge9DYpNOi6nVU9Z62HHBuBeuY3wgqY0KeeohrTDn9c7CgIHinRL1zMyD94qav-m6hdEYsiERRmFwYbSTt2OMdNMzjyeci3X9MKzcdBxQcHiX1J4qw1-PXOrGng61c/s1600/IMG_4228.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlR-ivcHGWK4moNHge9DYpNOi6nVU9Z62HHBuBeuY3wgqY0KeeohrTDn9c7CgIHinRL1zMyD94qav-m6hdEYsiERRmFwYbSTt2OMdNMzjyeci3X9MKzcdBxQcHiX1J4qw1-PXOrGng61c/s320/IMG_4228.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530491580422141458" border="0" /></a><br />Halloween is on the nigh. Spirits are confused and scattered in the night breeze.<br /><br /><br /><br />Faces from the farm are starting to look at once back to the season that has passed and adelante hacia que el futuro que viene! De repente!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />There's a mystery in the air once again.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDm51k5TXwMHeRZXPzTpg0HMIZU3eKOOJqxTpKrFk_WDKYDfYKZlxLdhhJQ40w5Ya_cEwaiT0fYfhO2e40cidoU-fmiwke_Ie7OORNySdeNucNO8u6cpP_yApgsmls5Gb1i3uG8XMhQHg/s1600/appletree1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDm51k5TXwMHeRZXPzTpg0HMIZU3eKOOJqxTpKrFk_WDKYDfYKZlxLdhhJQ40w5Ya_cEwaiT0fYfhO2e40cidoU-fmiwke_Ie7OORNySdeNucNO8u6cpP_yApgsmls5Gb1i3uG8XMhQHg/s320/appletree1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529898553928545874" border="0" /></a>wayne millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10312383040250353339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6224466083225601126.post-48486993315398910522010-09-05T08:24:00.000-07:002010-10-19T04:51:39.382-07:00To eat or not to eat: Year three of Ouststanding in the Field at Eckerton Hill Farm<span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span>It was like black fly season in New Hampshire except that it wasn't flies that were hovering around everyone's faces and biting their arms as they picked cherry heirloom tomatoes.
<br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span>It was gnats. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIDSE1SwjhpJP0IDKvAep4JxGGiv6m4eXPj3VbY485pN4GgPNqNqDdF2JN6lCb2lj0WfTEX4sHwFph_K5g1jTR4ElbcFs5oTblK-FbxfLFLIU6KZC1jrQxFsfbe6a3T-0rsIGubta8NGY/s1600/demoses.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIDSE1SwjhpJP0IDKvAep4JxGGiv6m4eXPj3VbY485pN4GgPNqNqDdF2JN6lCb2lj0WfTEX4sHwFph_K5g1jTR4ElbcFs5oTblK-FbxfLFLIU6KZC1jrQxFsfbe6a3T-0rsIGubta8NGY/s320/demoses.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513473223536492530" border="0" /></a>Gnats that wouldn't go away until we got some rain. The fields were drying out quickly now as I looked up at Sasquatch's profile.
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<br />"I should have made that brace look like a penis," Eric said, remarking about the distracting black arm that held his newly created Big Foot likeness onto the hillside where tonight's "Outstanding in the Field" dinner would be held. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR1uW4ADMXaXHnurH46jocf6QGhE_pmsAdjA__dYJsQHxffGLW2LBT_S9dolk1qMZOcDcM532Fj9Udyc01dEpA6AQUQ-L0CZwFaw1fRuwuRWazCD9twWZ83CCMqe0yMXyURmp6F0dQEJg/s1600/bigfoot.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR1uW4ADMXaXHnurH46jocf6QGhE_pmsAdjA__dYJsQHxffGLW2LBT_S9dolk1qMZOcDcM532Fj9Udyc01dEpA6AQUQ-L0CZwFaw1fRuwuRWazCD9twWZ83CCMqe0yMXyURmp6F0dQEJg/s320/bigfoot.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513473223878943906" border="0" /></a>We all rushed <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipcxHeMFQJTNHC2IlwHnE0C064OU-Z-Fma9XmfINU4nMG5IoEe8ijFVkCyU3OKqS5feUyB_Xcub7_w6QtzR4KZp-vYyDBIcZ7S0w9xG8Zdf_5qxFnMJLvlXG6THkwZsetAN6GV3i518gA/s1600/saskwach.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipcxHeMFQJTNHC2IlwHnE0C064OU-Z-Fma9XmfINU4nMG5IoEe8ijFVkCyU3OKqS5feUyB_Xcub7_w6QtzR4KZp-vYyDBIcZ7S0w9xG8Zdf_5qxFnMJLvlXG6THkwZsetAN6GV3i518gA/s320/saskwach.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513478479982919122" border="0" /></a>around after picking to clean up the farm as much as we still could before the 160 dinner guests arrived. We had to get that Hino truck loaded by 3. Hadn't that been what Tim said?
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<br />Who's gonna eat? Who's gonna get to go to "Oustanding in the Field?" Who benefits from the event anyways? Why would any farmer even participate? Who is Jim Denevan? How come the people who raised all the food aren't sitting down at the table? It seems crazy doesn't it: $180 for a plate of food and some wine? You mean it's not FOR your farm?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtEFslwOWwvfeb0Kw2gbkY7OpjCsPs-06wztn7sSTWO2GRWQ2ochsiRKxlX8G807iDa7UwSm5L0tZK_3MuCPxJWx7bGBG7igjWzMOxYWZZfFh-W8J8TULs7Ok0y7M0-cBuel_0J4cZUro/s1600/janelle.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtEFslwOWwvfeb0Kw2gbkY7OpjCsPs-06wztn7sSTWO2GRWQ2ochsiRKxlX8G807iDa7UwSm5L0tZK_3MuCPxJWx7bGBG7igjWzMOxYWZZfFh-W8J8TULs7Ok0y7M0-cBuel_0J4cZUro/s320/janelle.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513473216297551778" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwGvUXdHfh36jdJmtIv7bSNLJvbzzWvLgQ9beDKhaPNRaNYFrVKyLihJjvFIM4ZqkaR3mVYEvIjp473533Ko0zfhs_RkQ_x-M6a4YgAXWWWl9egHda2Aviz_0_BMffg1VWCG5dI0UYtf0/s1600/lunch.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwGvUXdHfh36jdJmtIv7bSNLJvbzzWvLgQ9beDKhaPNRaNYFrVKyLihJjvFIM4ZqkaR3mVYEvIjp473533Ko0zfhs_RkQ_x-M6a4YgAXWWWl9egHda2Aviz_0_BMffg1VWCG5dI0UYtf0/s320/lunch.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513790162354764594" border="0" /></a>
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<br />All these questions that raise issues that seem to raise more questions surround the fine dining <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Q5WM-RK3W2YBewR928RMXQXRG6pAt5ym1o2zSvcUPni1GhTq8iygaChfSkw7hkMvzMS5ORi9bvmSZvTmqhPoX9Vb1bCTTQ0tJnDVBhIZrvwC5g1LQTDrxM66XSKm6wJX2-vW3PyHfCA/s1600/table.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Q5WM-RK3W2YBewR928RMXQXRG6pAt5ym1o2zSvcUPni1GhTq8iygaChfSkw7hkMvzMS5ORi9bvmSZvTmqhPoX9Vb1bCTTQ0tJnDVBhIZrvwC5g1LQTDrxM66XSKm6wJX2-vW3PyHfCA/s320/table.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513472211077114914" border="0" /></a>experience known as "Outstanding in the Field." Not to be confused with Out standing in a field of clover or tomatoes or corn or wheat. No, to be sure, the conceptual dinner highlights those unique farms and producers that have stood out in their communities as exceptional. An artisanal cheese maker who has succeeded in creating aged cheese exactly as it has been made for centuries in France or Italy. A tomato grower who has succeeded in raising the heirloom nightshade's reputation to that of the most refined grape varietal in Tuscany or Bordeaux. Those farmers who have turned hobbies into long reaching (or very short reaching!) businesses and then turned that experience into memoirs. Food is life. Life is food. Couple it with wine, sit outside to dine, bring the pea from the tomato twine strung vine to the
<br />plate where it may swim in a locally caught smoked trout's brine.<object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/pJM6rq7yPEE?hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/pJM6rq7yPEE?hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1h8KkPRuEhlZIQwS_f39g0qk8WYRtz2RkgBX1lmEJK1loca2XZFMufMR3V1FNjxKP-3w-9QAfuz7p1NnP8Y9wgpEGk5u8WpH3ZxMrMUi42sBhVsPn0OyroYpsSf3wiS2NJCDuzn9Vhyo/s1600/cooks.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1h8KkPRuEhlZIQwS_f39g0qk8WYRtz2RkgBX1lmEJK1loca2XZFMufMR3V1FNjxKP-3w-9QAfuz7p1NnP8Y9wgpEGk5u8WpH3ZxMrMUi42sBhVsPn0OyroYpsSf3wiS2NJCDuzn9Vhyo/s320/cooks.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513472962396407090" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5fcG86ONbwng8FID3LQRZdwmVN_sqgFIncMD01_tP8ndCN2uDWjkcrXP4h0g8tnHdwkhNW9okvOi9bUz-OAuOzVGpO_WNCkmNwtyXzGuHMM8Uanz45GERN9EMmIeqvP7YH0h7aJQLAwU/s1600/erin.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5fcG86ONbwng8FID3LQRZdwmVN_sqgFIncMD01_tP8ndCN2uDWjkcrXP4h0g8tnHdwkhNW9okvOi9bUz-OAuOzVGpO_WNCkmNwtyXzGuHMM8Uanz45GERN9EMmIeqvP7YH0h7aJQLAwU/s320/erin.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513472954775365202" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiasCGmEzXLk2naI8H7oTepezIJOuPWc0yHwupWBW4_rUuRfZmzG3jVDRTnNq-CCkl_2-d-VUHCT0GUfPyfaL_1UAXyYuVvJ1hOOpy96oX_zXgKo-5FlsCF9JFOKMxWc1bZwoKz0sYfJRU/s1600/lee.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiasCGmEzXLk2naI8H7oTepezIJOuPWc0yHwupWBW4_rUuRfZmzG3jVDRTnNq-CCkl_2-d-VUHCT0GUfPyfaL_1UAXyYuVvJ1hOOpy96oX_zXgKo-5FlsCF9JFOKMxWc1bZwoKz0sYfJRU/s320/lee.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513472592443834226" border="0" /></a>
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaTg4U5FSQU7gDA5s0fwmW8KBnGjf9EU-8nh3cNhlWIlKRyKUOEgCWzzFdBPnMEesDtfL5a_2BKxBRZupFTQuwRGS8tXJryTBLsazNMm-d3tj4imYdA2tfJrSc6EIiRfnFFw-8FhDP8I4/s1600/people2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaTg4U5FSQU7gDA5s0fwmW8KBnGjf9EU-8nh3cNhlWIlKRyKUOEgCWzzFdBPnMEesDtfL5a_2BKxBRZupFTQuwRGS8tXJryTBLsazNMm-d3tj4imYdA2tfJrSc6EIiRfnFFw-8FhDP8I4/s320/people2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513790149152637794" border="0" /></a>
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<br />It's about the experience of sitting down with many at sunset, overlooking one of the participating farmer's fields--or a rooftop in Manhattan, or an ocean cliff--and delighting in some of the farmer's ornaments that now decorate the plate in front of you. Enjoying the conversation with those that have traveled from near and far, possibly getting a glimpse of what food prepared directly from the proverbial "back yard" or stable would taste like if you could produce it yourself. If you could join in the process of growing or milking or butchering your own sustenance.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7ZwjvMR4KYitFRSHNsxjEbnD-tFjyvp3SGRYAXbWnDIVDy1fkMW32IWuxCRU5K7ZzUwp6j4dG6GGZz4Wd_izoIitmkCf8z0lb9l3XxeZyMo1rOQ5G5x53j_cuVsRRQVyrxspPwUAVXsw/s1600/sunset.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7ZwjvMR4KYitFRSHNsxjEbnD-tFjyvp3SGRYAXbWnDIVDy1fkMW32IWuxCRU5K7ZzUwp6j4dG6GGZz4Wd_izoIitmkCf8z0lb9l3XxeZyMo1rOQ5G5x53j_cuVsRRQVyrxspPwUAVXsw/s320/sunset.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513472176975933282" border="0" /></a>For a somewhat hefty price tag (what people spend their money on is so relative?), this visceral taking-it-all-in experience on a farm is a co<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6z0dhGOdpMg35xrd8DRGL8AFn4lMmtSa9TkmL5hmoKBWQMcQmL8iCx8OxyTgus2ay-_a4ybyibYDhogY9LTBLRYAdmj6Kcx4OjPcaZ8lrXDYUYPOrfXnSfFv7-goUtFNFIVUOzWt3lFg/s1600/people.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6z0dhGOdpMg35xrd8DRGL8AFn4lMmtSa9TkmL5hmoKBWQMcQmL8iCx8OxyTgus2ay-_a4ybyibYDhogY9LTBLRYAdmj6Kcx4OjPcaZ8lrXDYUYPOrfXnSfFv7-goUtFNFIVUOzWt3lFg/s320/people.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513472584542237170" border="0" /></a>nnection to something ancient.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid1gAgoCctGNrZ2D7DRFlHIYb0fl1aqGX6CmUv3X9GNdHtaV_QUzdYZlR0oROg2AXOORDgDjBAkdXi_yjBUMXcenWmGDv2-W0EzrbcFEZ9Y6WhjQxtKIl8KpZN7vTyffTcaU5vdrGOz4g/s1600/ash2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid1gAgoCctGNrZ2D7DRFlHIYb0fl1aqGX6CmUv3X9GNdHtaV_QUzdYZlR0oROg2AXOORDgDjBAkdXi_yjBUMXcenWmGDv2-W0EzrbcFEZ9Y6WhjQxtKIl8KpZN7vTyffTcaU5vdrGOz4g/s320/ash2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513472201021137778" border="0" /></a> And to its adherents it seems well worth every penny, however much storing up of those pennies has taken place in order to attend the event. A direct connection to the land and agricultural context from which their plate of food comes from.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTJB6GQ6q1kbC5fGkyNzMuWLgAZFVDpXzOdIr84y25ngIzliCz6Rj_J3goEGiu9QVA98hgQJTTgNzGnRDCzOjXiYf3JizA4tMEboIGdHdEs7gtb7xcnyhJS7Cj0tccRgh66LJZmsyORFc/s1600/layout.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTJB6GQ6q1kbC5fGkyNzMuWLgAZFVDpXzOdIr84y25ngIzliCz6Rj_J3goEGiu9QVA98hgQJTTgNzGnRDCzOjXiYf3JizA4tMEboIGdHdEs7gtb7xcnyhJS7Cj0tccRgh66LJZmsyORFc/s320/layout.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513472597620794898" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP6QlWWs3uaU23oT9D2IfOYj5YolB0-vhV9Nd2Wnc9DBFX-P32wiR7vjkNFNf-NqDGIcAzSIyAIRWTR9UGCyOKbiZ1eAVekMaTZDVs1GsN-xgJfIEiPhq3cun8rW4RFVKz60mDWFiLSIo/s1600/ash1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP6QlWWs3uaU23oT9D2IfOYj5YolB0-vhV9Nd2Wnc9DBFX-P32wiR7vjkNFNf-NqDGIcAzSIyAIRWTR9UGCyOKbiZ1eAVekMaTZDVs1GsN-xgJfIEiPhq3cun8rW4RFVKz60mDWFiLSIo/s320/ash1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513472207572961970" border="0" /></a>
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<br />After loading the truck for market, some of us hung out in the old farmhouse kitchen with the crew from Bolete restaurant--Bethlehem, Pa--and tasted mini BLTs made with cornbread buns, heirloom tomatoes, sweet beet tartar and bacon. The tomato water with basil in little plastic shot cups, neatly lined in rows waiting to go out to all the paying guests. This was the authentic experience before the encore.
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<br />Those of us who had grown the tomatoes sampled pork belly stuffed in mini bell peppers before they left the workers' kitchen. This preamble melding of people who had produced the food and those who would shape it to creative levels of taste and appearance was a nice beginning to what would ultimately be a fine end-of-summer evening time had by all. The end to the means of long hard months, weeks, days, and hours of work. A summer finish line and autumn entrance inspired by Jim and his crew of merry pranksters who had also loved and labored long over their creation. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV79sZUzQgvCu1VWDPcHNl22EU4lxX9UsULVf9xVvTtMaE7jvZsUk2B1APhWUquktAazhRYyy8kqwEYF-0Ec2tR3B42e_BJnzslCGV0W4AyMhB7iKLBy6SZe3fBMR-60Q0x6OjiCLDHq0/s1600/sunset1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV79sZUzQgvCu1VWDPcHNl22EU4lxX9UsULVf9xVvTtMaE7jvZsUk2B1APhWUquktAazhRYyy8kqwEYF-0Ec2tR3B42e_BJnzslCGV0W4AyMhB7iKLBy6SZe3fBMR-60Q0x6OjiCLDHq0/s320/sunset1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513472185089358402" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg8tq1XeW_5xbCtps2iE0LQyrgu_32UccFx7XMr7iOKFxMnuZdVuu8wSV_vwhpQFvPwwuKe51UG_T70N2VkGMSnxWoukONwJ5J9-lpi_qwGVrPt2cqeAb88PvL4lhBMisN14naOs2wciU/s1600/jimd.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg8tq1XeW_5xbCtps2iE0LQyrgu_32UccFx7XMr7iOKFxMnuZdVuu8wSV_vwhpQFvPwwuKe51UG_T70N2VkGMSnxWoukONwJ5J9-lpi_qwGVrPt2cqeAb88PvL4lhBMisN14naOs2wciU/s320/jimd.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513472597934419362" border="0" /></a>wayne millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10312383040250353339noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6224466083225601126.post-37630221898180726282010-07-29T18:22:00.000-07:002010-08-16T18:56:17.488-07:00Tomato SagaIt's more like a rush-in than an ease-in situation. Every year the workers secretly pine and dread that gushing forth of small, medium, and large love apples. Red ones, purple ones, green ones (with yellow stripes), brown ones (with orange stripes), pink ones, peach fuzz ones and so on through the long list of heirloom tomatoes that have been planted, hoed, mulched, staked and strung by the end of July. Many hands to make them thrive. Enough water, but not too much. Shudder to think of it. Too much rain. No, no, no that just won't do. C'mon Universe. Send us a line. A small thread to pull us through the faintest crack in the void. Let us get through just one more season with our tiny speck of purpose. Our tomato agenda. Open up just one more of the billions of energy fissures and give us our three months.<br /><br />Hot. Dry. Disease free. And so many. Another year in the saga that continues to demand, deplete, yet somehow (the sun also rises. . . and how it does) replenish?, the energy of the Sun to all the hands that are painstakingly on deck. This is an all volunteer army mind you. There are no horror stories of bonded workers, indebted and unable to free themselves from tyrant Florida orange growers. This farm pays way better than that, the picker and packer may remind themselves in the 95 degree heat and humidity while groveling over the soil, searching at the bottom of an Black Prince plant to discover the ripe brown fruit wating to be picked just inches from the ground. What is the essential call? Or rather, what is the drive that keeps some of the these humans reporting for tomato duty year after year? Is it familia? The big picture perhaps? Adventure for the seasonal, just- out- of- college agri-Cultural dreamer? What a difference a day makes they say. But what difference is there in the entire month of July when all the days run together in a haze of sun, sweat, mashed tomato juice, green-to-black tar under the nails, slow frenzy, frantic sameness, long push, Mack truck, highway without rest. Pick em', pack em', get em' to the market on time. Small scale farming in a giant way. A Green Giant slicer way to be exact.<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/9C0ZC2eEBZs&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/9C0ZC2eEBZs&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/7B4Wy8Pw638&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/7B4Wy8Pw638&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/8PYAhZ7Lr1g&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/8PYAhZ7Lr1g&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object>wayne millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10312383040250353339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6224466083225601126.post-81033821047011946092010-07-02T16:47:00.000-07:002010-07-02T18:18:42.637-07:00Get on Your Knees<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmElcMQcybbcaYe-QnRpNI7eMwuxpf3XMQNAsY9KY09CGhllHs8tnAJOdFqGkXvdywpFmxPahgRXzdKWVP-b7-iE6azB9RnSrh9cmrglC3b08gettLX1b7RP1qDXfknvM6DTrVnH_9s0Q/s1600/black1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmElcMQcybbcaYe-QnRpNI7eMwuxpf3XMQNAsY9KY09CGhllHs8tnAJOdFqGkXvdywpFmxPahgRXzdKWVP-b7-iE6azB9RnSrh9cmrglC3b08gettLX1b7RP1qDXfknvM6DTrVnH_9s0Q/s320/black1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489480163049768722" border="0" /></a>There are all kinds of ways to fight weeds on an organic or sustainable farm. There's the plant cover crops year after year suppression method. There's the fight 'em when you can (hopefully with tractor cultivation!) method. There's the get 'em before they get you method which usually involves cultivating (fancy word for weeding) by hand. And then there's the combination of all three which is most common. Any way you shake it, if chemical weed killers are not an option, you're gonna get on your knees at some point in the growing season. I mean down on all fours, hands and knees, low and crude, in the soil. . . ummm. . .yeah. . . dirt.<br /><br />But how else could one really get the feeling of communing with the earth, right? What better way to get to know your mother. And that's why all the people who farm 'close to the earth' do it, right? Just another season, living outside, breathing in the fresh air, busting your ass! But really, it's mostly just the month of June that makes you submit in such an elemental fashion. I'll always remember watching the film Malcolm X by Spike Lee. Denzel Washington, who plays X in the film, is told by his mentor in prison, "To become a true Muslim, you have to submit." Farming is like Islam: one has to submit. I'm not even sure that's where I got the line that I say jokingly from time to time, no doubt unintentionally making some that hear it cringe, but there's something there that rings true when I think about the practice of old fashioned farming. Farming is like Islam, or some kind of orthodox religion. And June is unique in that no other month demands more of your most basic physical and mental submission. This is not a job. It's a lifestyle. It can break you with its repetition and seeming mindlessness, but also build your intimate acquaintance with the machine that is your body by forcing that machine into all kinds of repetitive contortions. And once you become aware of the ends and not just the means, the project's or day's goal, and not just its immediate sense of "damn I'm tired," things start to make some kind of sense. The big picture unfolds. Is weeding spiritual? Depends on who you ask.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjSRkzc-zI3ARkcA4XLHc4nmx3qFo743CaNz1BNo3v-ZEvX9r-qR-IEsNHLhFHDcyZBgUZ20l10AHVftUyGLBxMOY-EnXNc1BtEdIwXd5WVdWTdqlya6IDsyFkxFy4jU7haMzznhrGifc/s1600/black4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjSRkzc-zI3ARkcA4XLHc4nmx3qFo743CaNz1BNo3v-ZEvX9r-qR-IEsNHLhFHDcyZBgUZ20l10AHVftUyGLBxMOY-EnXNc1BtEdIwXd5WVdWTdqlya6IDsyFkxFy4jU7haMzznhrGifc/s320/black4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489480147894845746" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Of course June isn't just hand weeding tomatoes for hours on end. There are also the days of harvesting those peaking peas, perfect first week black raspberries, new potatoes, and fava beans by the bushel. All varieties of religious experience await the field hand when sweating through a balmy 80 degree late morning or sleepily enjoying a rare September-like evening's crystal clear twilight and calming cool temperature. While the last of the carrots, beets, and lettuce are picked, the zucchini is pouring off the plants and the first cherry tomatoes are promising both sun-drenched flavor and some much needed income for the farm. The tension of all those resources gushing like an oil spill, feverishly paced like heat through a winter's open window, will start to ebb as the tide turns and red will, with any luck at all, with many seasons to prove it so, fade to black.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi61V4ojD0C17-EdDAnvRI_pRELeRk_Qu6SvmOXEjK1jM0B7T_H_62rx1yy4Yq-6mndlH_9gRhuyXxzF6-3SweVFH9D7-i8MI5c6tTd1bpKNEk1vO0_P5v0qno0Rvh9HAVx5J5Mq66VXdU/s1600/black2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi61V4ojD0C17-EdDAnvRI_pRELeRk_Qu6SvmOXEjK1jM0B7T_H_62rx1yy4Yq-6mndlH_9gRhuyXxzF6-3SweVFH9D7-i8MI5c6tTd1bpKNEk1vO0_P5v0qno0Rvh9HAVx5J5Mq66VXdU/s320/black2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489480156851187634" border="0" /></a>As I carefully picked the black raspberries, trying to minimize the itchy scratches being left on my forearms, and to pick efficiently as possible (read: fast!), I thought about so much and so little at the same time. I talked voraciously with Prudencio about his experience picking in Watsonville, CA. 'por contracto' and how when he first picked the coveted fruit, he picked an entire quart before being reprimanded by his superior. 'Que estas haciendo!?' she had said when she saw that he was picking the berries in full ripeness. Why would anyone do otherwise? In Watsonville, however, the blacks are picked red so they can withstand the miles and miles of traveling to any of their many destinations across the country. How could such a delicate fruit that at any moment will squish between one's fingers ever survive the hard road to a supermarket shelf if it had actually been picked ripe? They could only be picked that way, with that backyard freshness, to be sold the very next day. The only thing better than having your own home grown food is to have it grown and picked and brought to you just the way it would be if you had picked it yourself. That's the taste of June. That's what it takes to get to the market on time. Itching, sweating, down in the dirt. But that's soil with a capital S to those of us who know it.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDmWmq4L_-OL3i7K1Iu7c9lXlzuCL02gK7nHqhSTuM1MDmcscXSQkyqs9090ctLOnes6p_Jfv76HzXvjCf1bt7tvdQg_yXG_0HP97whI76j2cAoMrU1UBpF6MF4-t1CUP9ipWAqboGscI/s1600/black3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDmWmq4L_-OL3i7K1Iu7c9lXlzuCL02gK7nHqhSTuM1MDmcscXSQkyqs9090ctLOnes6p_Jfv76HzXvjCf1bt7tvdQg_yXG_0HP97whI76j2cAoMrU1UBpF6MF4-t1CUP9ipWAqboGscI/s320/black3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489480151715930322" border="0" /></a>wayne millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10312383040250353339noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6224466083225601126.post-41839779546107856172010-06-13T07:26:00.000-07:002010-06-13T14:58:24.928-07:00Johnny, you're too bad<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEionLqS7vsWDmtXBpTtV_dZwVSoxO3JdM5jAM1P7gcExIosC5X2UtwZCDEbBgAoB5VjxFydSqQPxSA6b_OLgdNBORuW1FKhL7gPzfcWpyIl2fP-Wia6oNJxPdennN6To2_yq_Y3lAWnwQs/s1600/johnny1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEionLqS7vsWDmtXBpTtV_dZwVSoxO3JdM5jAM1P7gcExIosC5X2UtwZCDEbBgAoB5VjxFydSqQPxSA6b_OLgdNBORuW1FKhL7gPzfcWpyIl2fP-Wia6oNJxPdennN6To2_yq_Y3lAWnwQs/s320/johnny1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482364928739434754" border="0" /></a>"Do you have a sawzall?"<br /><br />"Uh. . . a what?"<br /><br />I immediately pictured the thing in my head, but of course, having never used one, doubted whether or not I was thinking of the right power tool.<br /><br />"Like, not one of the circular saws, but a long, skinny thing?"<br /><br />"Yeah, you'll probably want one for the wall."<br /><br />It was a typical market Saturday where I'd gotten back from NYC around 8 instead of the planned 6 and, of course, had other plans that were slowly getting pushed to the back burner because of the extra long trip home. I'd hit my head for the third or fourth time on the rusty metal swing door on the back of the truck and figured I'd better get a tetanus shot on the way home. Just to be on the safe side. Plus my wife and boss were insisting. There had been all that blood.<br /><br />Jonathan K. Slingluff was en route to Kutztown as I waited at the Emergi-Center in Allentown. He was gonna stop for gas and would probably get to to town right around the same time as me. Cool. We'd still make Home Depot by 9 pm. But wait, Sears came first.<br /><br />The plan was to go to Reading and buy all the manly power tools my Visa would hold in under an hour. Being a new home owner, these were required purchases that I had put off shelling out the cash for too long. Having always rented, the hundreds of dollars I'd kept wanting to spend (c'mon, I am a guy after all) on power drills, saws, etc. always seemed a little less important than whatever other expenses loomed on the horizon. I could always borrow those things, right? Not any more. With ownership comes, well, more f*%^ing ownership!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTQEEZNvWA57mN_OAx4wGTkhKIaWjuhJlHWxo3q2AkWCy9asouOBmco5gMu6M7jiPN0kK7xbDryy8qEwNtV6ohMNU812_PdSvopOcIe74zMVwib69dqJGYxXO_fkeMUawGYz6qbcYiu24/s1600/johnny2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTQEEZNvWA57mN_OAx4wGTkhKIaWjuhJlHWxo3q2AkWCy9asouOBmco5gMu6M7jiPN0kK7xbDryy8qEwNtV6ohMNU812_PdSvopOcIe74zMVwib69dqJGYxXO_fkeMUawGYz6qbcYiu24/s320/johnny2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482369869450780066" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Sunday morning came fast and after the first cup of coffee, John said, "You forgot to charge the battery." I'm a dipshit. Surprise, surprise. In my slacker defense, I thought, I had worked a 15 hour day, split my head open, and tried to sit at the bar for two, head hanging in my beer as my wife and friend of 16 years chatted. "I knew I forgot something," I replied to Johnny.<br /><br />At the house there were three major goals we wanted to accomplish. Sand the floors upstairs. That was Prudencio's job. I knew that was a given. Prude could not fail.<br /><br />Then there was the taking down of the kitchen cabinets and countertops. Most important in my mind was the Wall. Get that damn wall down. Fifties tightness be gone. We were gonna open that kitchen up. All modern and shit. Bring the OM. Bring the Zen. Clear the rubble and let Slingluff Home Improvement get IT ON!!!!!!!!!!!!!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Q8EQvcMOQC-wrEns9Z0roo0SDNtkZatwvPh27RPyCCiXrkQc5jSX9pNJPgqNSgg0c8PW7iaNQEk99t77qg2i3yPvc_kVMmyAysa4z3OZRvcu4OPmu68Jdj5Ax9MwJGVPeKgzoM_KVC4/s1600/johnny3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Q8EQvcMOQC-wrEns9Z0roo0SDNtkZatwvPh27RPyCCiXrkQc5jSX9pNJPgqNSgg0c8PW7iaNQEk99t77qg2i3yPvc_kVMmyAysa4z3OZRvcu4OPmu68Jdj5Ax9MwJGVPeKgzoM_KVC4/s320/johnny3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482364959967239330" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />He went to town. The little firecracker that could and could and could some more. Having grown up with a father who was a graduate of Williamson Trade School, most of his teen years had some kind of carpentry know-how going in one way or another. We always just thought of each other as punks and skaters, but old Johnny was handy too. Painting, carpentry, framing, hanging art. You name it, the guy can do it. I count myself lucky to have had him as a friend for so long. This is to say nothing of the other binds we've made over the years.<br /><br /><br />Two years ago this month he realized his life long dream of opening an art gallery in the city. The <a href="http://www.slingluffgallery.com/">Slingluff Gallery</a>, which started out as Studio 2728, sits right next to the M Room in Fishtown/Northern Liberties, Philadelphia, Pa. John and his wife Leigh always get some of the freshest young artists in the nation to show at their space. Today, however, it was all biz art. Art to bring the house a new vision. Art to open up the place and create a living space. Thanks, Johnny. "You know you're running and a scrubbing and a shootin' and a lootin' and you're too bad."<br /><br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwMNmUopH7nshSOiPO6Xz9YKTJyMSa3lDPPtJuXz5a1QEtekV7iL53KJ58Xdm4OblatK31YwleK_1rvZI0qOQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>wayne millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10312383040250353339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6224466083225601126.post-91340228089042943902010-06-06T17:38:00.000-07:002010-06-13T07:25:55.855-07:00In the heat of May<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb-7wpiUyIELS99kqYqyrANXdUjFeoAijjhXHQ6tqLpkNGxWEfBRgPuMGf4fOIGNuOUZYdMJuTG7zZ3Zm40UMFKJqwuBZ8zPbXZobiqZC_0BXnGlzKxropBkrqbFTLU6hsNL6tvQDGXAA/s1600/reina.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb-7wpiUyIELS99kqYqyrANXdUjFeoAijjhXHQ6tqLpkNGxWEfBRgPuMGf4fOIGNuOUZYdMJuTG7zZ3Zm40UMFKJqwuBZ8zPbXZobiqZC_0BXnGlzKxropBkrqbFTLU6hsNL6tvQDGXAA/s320/reina.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479843251138701010" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKngbkpVGV0qjj8xJ9btLk4uVwj3pKWKjC8trRRaXsyUUcRTkemXhyVN6TXW4oX5agm7DbbpnPy6w93AIj30MNmFibe3BcbgGAyzukMvUAREuC7TijRIvFs9Agk-vMENSzCgO-HIz9koY/s1600/lettuce2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKngbkpVGV0qjj8xJ9btLk4uVwj3pKWKjC8trRRaXsyUUcRTkemXhyVN6TXW4oX5agm7DbbpnPy6w93AIj30MNmFibe3BcbgGAyzukMvUAREuC7TijRIvFs9Agk-vMENSzCgO-HIz9koY/s320/lettuce2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479841960766902946" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizYryq9dEolOqa-fFwd6208Zkcs64Uac8w25w9nchk6XkKNJA1Ox_66Ht6QxchOBFW1uhbw5tkv9I5tBW4hq34P0tdYLhDFa0FebukRv5XdBCmqgRf4jD3krCGzK9xy6PJOpPDPfXlCy4/s1600/pea2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizYryq9dEolOqa-fFwd6208Zkcs64Uac8w25w9nchk6XkKNJA1Ox_66Ht6QxchOBFW1uhbw5tkv9I5tBW4hq34P0tdYLhDFa0FebukRv5XdBCmqgRf4jD3krCGzK9xy6PJOpPDPfXlCy4/s320/pea2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479841953374727938" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJcGfREYLTZz3L89APCONUphOGyLf_Ks-kUMVQY7-OWJWOYkT9HTkocAAY6ksg-nseOa1O4SgPBHmBmvIK47JWlINrgFVEphlhIJaJqfi_YyC31ZJidtVwcphrNDhhK7P9YIR1BiAOHDI/s1600/pealants.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJcGfREYLTZz3L89APCONUphOGyLf_Ks-kUMVQY7-OWJWOYkT9HTkocAAY6ksg-nseOa1O4SgPBHmBmvIK47JWlINrgFVEphlhIJaJqfi_YyC31ZJidtVwcphrNDhhK7P9YIR1BiAOHDI/s320/pealants.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479841950023824802" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcNXxZxxfM-xUZa-gFmQoqBYHX12aROxSpxn_s9sUrsoNp9wEfegZ596WnBarbmAJjsfGrZUUDj0H-gh-IwRahLy4AMxwJcPWsnfvoRydmgOX3yFkXWYtj9ekWczl8wUad9ydgZ-_Vaqg/s1600/mustard.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcNXxZxxfM-xUZa-gFmQoqBYHX12aROxSpxn_s9sUrsoNp9wEfegZ596WnBarbmAJjsfGrZUUDj0H-gh-IwRahLy4AMxwJcPWsnfvoRydmgOX3yFkXWYtj9ekWczl8wUad9ydgZ-_Vaqg/s320/mustard.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479841943550553826" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4poNIPOnEp6f5aKdTpQJrgwKhl5XFRRJk04vDIH8jtfwGmog32jMDVMPa51kKKzRSurve4D2KKqJKKE-hfNeGlNFcORxp4E6HokTCuYULyBvRmPzT4q0bASNfAUwFY6K2JCShMY1bdMo/s1600/rowcover2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4poNIPOnEp6f5aKdTpQJrgwKhl5XFRRJk04vDIH8jtfwGmog32jMDVMPa51kKKzRSurve4D2KKqJKKE-hfNeGlNFcORxp4E6HokTCuYULyBvRmPzT4q0bASNfAUwFY6K2JCShMY1bdMo/s320/rowcover2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479841193771356706" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1xCNMq9xjezdE-eA5DdQCjNs1-d5C5wo27u7nPHveNERNwSu1eCb9tEswvj5a6QR6lZIzO1CVS6x4a7F_b7dSsvvxqh2xjLQK9VK8oymMGDwfax9_lKZvjlB-UreoFa8Ea4y4B8V-CgQ/s1600/IMG_3825.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1xCNMq9xjezdE-eA5DdQCjNs1-d5C5wo27u7nPHveNERNwSu1eCb9tEswvj5a6QR6lZIzO1CVS6x4a7F_b7dSsvvxqh2xjLQK9VK8oymMGDwfax9_lKZvjlB-UreoFa8Ea4y4B8V-CgQ/s320/IMG_3825.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479843413550934034" border="0" /></a><br />Between the hail, 30 degree nights, and 90 degree days, May has luckily ended on more of a blessed than a cursed note. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6fvv4I9XUv4V4Q5P-H1ErQ8BnZmJLN983w7PwYoZZqUU0h_tZBIdKlTio6C_c7SyfUUPbz_yA6qTC21od4YEdLNEptiG8zkbQkQf4eByWo4vvktD7Wh70SW9qDgAYlqKiBpqgfCMWWV8/s1600/swisschard.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6fvv4I9XUv4V4Q5P-H1ErQ8BnZmJLN983w7PwYoZZqUU0h_tZBIdKlTio6C_c7SyfUUPbz_yA6qTC21od4YEdLNEptiG8zkbQkQf4eByWo4vvktD7Wh70SW9qDgAYlqKiBpqgfCMWWV8/s320/swisschard.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479842496390247570" border="0" /></a>Having harvested more than any Spring on record at the farm, the just-enough-rain for the month followed by dry, warm days fulfilled all expectations for Spring and got our minds away from that cloudy, not-too-distant memory of week long rains and late blight from last season.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzUoIL_7H1aVuqZIUHKiIuQONBC5ysIk_7f8-a01g0j5hMvwpRAoVCYuwB2vxI-9FAVejvsRo5Wxu4pwhBG2Ym_72H4TcWOoK3G5E9HFHpF4YzdyYBNAfIV2KXbgioXwQ11mWSdxYoQBs/s1600/fence2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzUoIL_7H1aVuqZIUHKiIuQONBC5ysIk_7f8-a01g0j5hMvwpRAoVCYuwB2vxI-9FAVejvsRo5Wxu4pwhBG2Ym_72H4TcWOoK3G5E9HFHpF4YzdyYBNAfIV2KXbgioXwQ11mWSdxYoQBs/s320/fence2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479841964063338130" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDtapDFFvYnt1opjXsQff65vXdBTRC_n57UIu9HZh4EACs5jBfakJL_LDnNK-1dBBMcF5xZQeAMulMbaenWA4vRcIg9RO5uXMpFH_Hv-vwpsXAZ0UVMQu-PywXJjP18y-ZPVJIxXePK8o/s1600/IMG_3857.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDtapDFFvYnt1opjXsQff65vXdBTRC_n57UIu9HZh4EACs5jBfakJL_LDnNK-1dBBMcF5xZQeAMulMbaenWA4vRcIg9RO5uXMpFH_Hv-vwpsXAZ0UVMQu-PywXJjP18y-ZPVJIxXePK8o/s320/IMG_3857.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479842513605676978" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Whooooooa now. Just wait one minute there, buckaroo.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Don't go getting all confident in the weather just yet. Wasn't it just last week that Tianna was sending out those apocalyptic warnings of "Late blight already in PA! Take action now before its too LATE!" Or something like that. Even James, who one doesn't have to take on faith the man's faith, knowing the guy is an old order Mennonite, laughingly told me that it all seemed a little premature. All this doomsday talk of late blight again this year. "If we keep having days like this," he said with the utmost ease and leisure, "any late blight will just be dying anyways." If only the rest of us had the rock of ages on which to rely. Surely it's just as good to have James Weaver to rely on?<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />He knew that 80-90 degree sunny days would stifle that nasty plague of potatoes and tomatoes.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVyImO8uRrtHOYkF-WBUbjLHEgCu2wEkDLq68AgNm0762cqRFGKHvaVQk5r1tCIbE-51chYhyphenhyphenSHHrOvzKmmUC1TPrn5JZYZN0veEsODTit6pgMKZS3iUCYNPeeneCjPk5l6ZCIv0jc0F0/s1600/IMG_3836.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVyImO8uRrtHOYkF-WBUbjLHEgCu2wEkDLq68AgNm0762cqRFGKHvaVQk5r1tCIbE-51chYhyphenhyphenSHHrOvzKmmUC1TPrn5JZYZN0veEsODTit6pgMKZS3iUCYNPeeneCjPk5l6ZCIv0jc0F0/s320/IMG_3836.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479842922619772914" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggxaQWKL1VA-uqYcVzJNYLcmN9qjakoNl4Ki50FFDpOcqxnra-tWL-C25WCKhyAbc_9mzDyEtXRgbGuslqZh1YNXsnQhL0s40qV934_SyZtODqKmLPIY4M6W1GcoM5OvmYNCxuvzmFVEI/s1600/IMG_3861.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggxaQWKL1VA-uqYcVzJNYLcmN9qjakoNl4Ki50FFDpOcqxnra-tWL-C25WCKhyAbc_9mzDyEtXRgbGuslqZh1YNXsnQhL0s40qV934_SyZtODqKmLPIY4M6W1GcoM5OvmYNCxuvzmFVEI/s320/IMG_3861.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479842508648471346" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge5p9sWxk4fAHTnVT7lkXDdOJrjgktDeKMO7Tpu2cgpO9FgMRK-Rj3p_ygaY07h50vcD6ITdpnfE7V5b9e9iO__97Xf0pZV5dN02lO_iGJDttz2mJlafX6b4H8QVqc71Iqdc9i_LhyphenhyphenALE/s1600/IMG_3832.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge5p9sWxk4fAHTnVT7lkXDdOJrjgktDeKMO7Tpu2cgpO9FgMRK-Rj3p_ygaY07h50vcD6ITdpnfE7V5b9e9iO__97Xf0pZV5dN02lO_iGJDttz2mJlafX6b4H8QVqc71Iqdc9i_LhyphenhyphenALE/s320/IMG_3832.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479842938011701426" border="0" /></a>And so just like that May has passed and June is upon us. The two week heat wave has lifted as of today and a glorious wind is brushing through the hardwoods making them sing that swooshing sound. What an evening when the haze is lifted and the clear blue pre-summer sky is lit by a dusk sun. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDTYo1A4LV0BsW4bQbPSUg6fkSqzEch4DAaHyRTiiDih-vpW_adNskOdRQzDIT1L-eQM7eLwBTzPDicm9Z4qkKHkMtOIgPJJN6vt9_3zURbH5fz_JSkL_gSJqpRrjXHrmLdAG2M5YEsF0/s1600/IMG_3828.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDTYo1A4LV0BsW4bQbPSUg6fkSqzEch4DAaHyRTiiDih-vpW_adNskOdRQzDIT1L-eQM7eLwBTzPDicm9Z4qkKHkMtOIgPJJN6vt9_3zURbH5fz_JSkL_gSJqpRrjXHrmLdAG2M5YEsF0/s320/IMG_3828.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479842941007743042" border="0" /></a>All Nature's silhouettes to be seen clearly again as if September was being foreshadowed. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0KEaChp3uRZjp05970Jk4mY0vi7UStn39Ky0VB0t8lvCUEYN4VLzY0Rl9Agq37KDgrzjORAbbuWh-zJ5QAcgY80XwcZ16qDoRTwQQ5z5392GEVzonBExsnb-x5rA1eQwjX-1knTTtocc/s1600/IMG_3834.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0KEaChp3uRZjp05970Jk4mY0vi7UStn39Ky0VB0t8lvCUEYN4VLzY0Rl9Agq37KDgrzjORAbbuWh-zJ5QAcgY80XwcZ16qDoRTwQQ5z5392GEVzonBExsnb-x5rA1eQwjX-1knTTtocc/s320/IMG_3834.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479842932093410066" border="0" /></a>But let's not get ahead of ourselves. There are still more peas, fava beans, carrots, beets, new potatoes, kales, swiss chard, radish, green onions, head lettuce, mesclun, broccoli, kohlrabi, and pac choi to pick. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN3X-JvyDzSqp3oXiyN8SOhOxviTljXtlOOIRKp3ChXDrJOVOlTDUCemtmtBzRtwXylPqojlm-iEYa894pTOJfx8Vpc5LPJfZ9oXMAdvUPEQ5EzQdmfmjDzCxf5bz8djDWgjTgwgOo-QY/s1600/IMG_3864.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN3X-JvyDzSqp3oXiyN8SOhOxviTljXtlOOIRKp3ChXDrJOVOlTDUCemtmtBzRtwXylPqojlm-iEYa894pTOJfx8Vpc5LPJfZ9oXMAdvUPEQ5EzQdmfmjDzCxf5bz8djDWgjTgwgOo-QY/s320/IMG_3864.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479842505234536930" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-p5OBuAodx3q6Fg-k8ZFHn8_JUQRH5_wcNwVBnVJ9aYGNx9_c2YLFZ8yM8dYvf3Jk1dAwqccb8nWc7qX1Da48QdA0fxnq8cxHZURLGDXDFdyF7aXk312gNoWlTzqPYAsAUzNP5HmioVM/s1600/IMG_3833.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-p5OBuAodx3q6Fg-k8ZFHn8_JUQRH5_wcNwVBnVJ9aYGNx9_c2YLFZ8yM8dYvf3Jk1dAwqccb8nWc7qX1Da48QdA0fxnq8cxHZURLGDXDFdyF7aXk312gNoWlTzqPYAsAUzNP5HmioVM/s320/IMG_3833.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479842929676408418" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />All is early this year. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI-LNs9BF7eaic6JbF4jbNaELShnXR-f6DQanUsNpBQxbxRoWxfZlDBZx5Ba7NJ6TAmf8_zaE8I-fslhvLch6NW015WpPv99kgjEpNSJN5PXWxTfq55HpeveoAfYEBMZdQdYkEjiEiYBs/s1600/IMG_3840.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI-LNs9BF7eaic6JbF4jbNaELShnXR-f6DQanUsNpBQxbxRoWxfZlDBZx5Ba7NJ6TAmf8_zaE8I-fslhvLch6NW015WpPv99kgjEpNSJN5PXWxTfq55HpeveoAfYEBMZdQdYkEjiEiYBs/s320/IMG_3840.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479842522037608482" border="0" /></a>Cold and wet be gone. Let us have the sun and just enough rain. Sans hail thank you very much. Let our fenced in 2 acres thrive. Oh my gosh, the customers will keep saying, how do you have all this already!?wayne millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10312383040250353339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6224466083225601126.post-28050241048021960592010-04-24T17:21:00.000-07:002010-05-02T07:02:32.415-07:00When you're all in<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2iYDZCLPeUva9D-6vRyprWnllPHDcC9k4OwR95CngMWolnHin0aDmiLbVm1-64QHAQjcl3sBJDr4z3rzOL1ZVVba3q6rGNSwlcI1vgB4Jcx1Zf5Wm7_Vg1hZHaaBTk2YPzK-rHYaCnGk/s1600/IMG_3288.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2iYDZCLPeUva9D-6vRyprWnllPHDcC9k4OwR95CngMWolnHin0aDmiLbVm1-64QHAQjcl3sBJDr4z3rzOL1ZVVba3q6rGNSwlcI1vgB4Jcx1Zf5Wm7_Vg1hZHaaBTk2YPzK-rHYaCnGk/s320/IMG_3288.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464053286992800802" border="0" /></a>Even people that have no real experience or knowledge of farming would probably, if given a few minutes to ponder the subject, come round to the notion that its generally a risky business. I've had the adage quoted to me on more than one occasion, "So. . . uh. . .that means. . .you're job is dependent on the weather?" This is usually said with a wavering<br />lack of confidence that could be interpreted as slightly sympathetic. It doesn't matter if it's a friend of 12 years or my father-in-law. The same sentiment prevails. In my mind they're<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZBAy_H_D7GojUfE6a8XgVitvqm86ygIE0muBk8LW7y1LTLEb8-gmfxncDmg1P_cRB6ubjbblwa5diXz7T3xC4rC4c9XPaqspBnS5bu7LiwaXh2bX6MaJrI4oJOcRGRNdT82U5M1XpEPE/s1600/IMG_3289.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZBAy_H_D7GojUfE6a8XgVitvqm86ygIE0muBk8LW7y1LTLEb8-gmfxncDmg1P_cRB6ubjbblwa5diXz7T3xC4rC4c9XPaqspBnS5bu7LiwaXh2bX6MaJrI4oJOcRGRNdT82U5M1XpEPE/s320/IMG_3289.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464053291639770994" border="0" /></a><br />thinking, "Man, sure glad that's not my job." To be sure, I do believe that the romantic notion of a yeoman farmer, out there every day, communing with Mother Nature (yes, that is there too) is also in most people's minds when I tell them what I do. But most of what <span style="font-style: italic;">they</span> know about organic agriculture comes from some vague pop-culture notions of some hippy, back-to-the-land movement. There's a chasm between the reality "on the ground" (cliche I know) of a farm <span style="font-style: italic;">business</span> and the latest New York Times example of a trendy sustainable ag. education/ non-profit farm. Of course there are those exceptional people who have spent time on a farm or who grew up on one. For those people the oft quoted phrase, "nothing so unpredictable as the weather," really hits home.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinv7zwjsCWJC0iPA-N6TAvHm8oKxOZ0fPExI0JlVA88Lp0nzKjV2pk3_-O1bV13o2Mz7kVmjCxPqFqi7BHDI_cDbENm9l2ieeMfra72UF4m2qG-6TapzsUEGWPugcqh8B8499Tne7MLT0/s1600/IMG_3310.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinv7zwjsCWJC0iPA-N6TAvHm8oKxOZ0fPExI0JlVA88Lp0nzKjV2pk3_-O1bV13o2Mz7kVmjCxPqFqi7BHDI_cDbENm9l2ieeMfra72UF4m2qG-6TapzsUEGWPugcqh8B8499Tne7MLT0/s320/IMG_3310.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464052091365878370" border="0" /></a><br />In southeast Pa the safe date to plant anything not hardy enough to weather a frost, be it light frost or hard frost, is after May 17. So of course the farmer I work for has chartered his own traditional ritual of planting the first batch of that most famous of all night shades sometime around April 25. To my memory, its been as early as April 18 and as late as early May during one of those soggy Springs that leave us scrambling to get out in the field. Oh to be tied down to the planting schedule of all those OTHER people!!!!!!!!! Bah,<br />humbug!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikdLo5t58hWNHJP56sayG7A38etS1Lk54YT-tnS259YtpRyb1Drw_kxnhkAReTRpub8mNFmnXpSO7ePfdeb3-fQtN2ffmf287YLnkgM2ErFLep_1yzleYhc_gnlgZ2GmPmtvUv-Od8cno/s1600/IMG_3297.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikdLo5t58hWNHJP56sayG7A38etS1Lk54YT-tnS259YtpRyb1Drw_kxnhkAReTRpub8mNFmnXpSO7ePfdeb3-fQtN2ffmf287YLnkgM2ErFLep_1yzleYhc_gnlgZ2GmPmtvUv-Od8cno/s320/IMG_3297.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464053840129322626" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeH0573cw82VHqaQI9FbgicqT9zFi1MzyQxXdFgTcP23w01nXn57l9f9jQlsWRAXgvN4nz8sJAAXuDlFtNNN8FwwJjHC1TCtjtAYttsszkHicTx24ew12OdMTM0l0pzjruyRBlpyR1hhU/s1600/IMG_3294.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeH0573cw82VHqaQI9FbgicqT9zFi1MzyQxXdFgTcP23w01nXn57l9f9jQlsWRAXgvN4nz8sJAAXuDlFtNNN8FwwJjHC1TCtjtAYttsszkHicTx24ew12OdMTM0l0pzjruyRBlpyR1hhU/s320/IMG_3294.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464052117328988354" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />And so here we are again on April 24 planting the first of 4 rounds of tomatoes. Nacho, Prudencio, Tim and I headed out after first battling with an unwilling PTO attachment into the newest of fields already packed with lush green clover that had been heavily composted and seeded the year before. Big wide swaths of green bush just charging upwards toward the sky, the perfectly round heads at the top shaded a slightly softer mint green color in their middles. The forecast was for plenty of sun today which we were assured would change in the afternoon when it was supposed to cloud up bringing rain in late evening. "Ah maybe they'll all just freeze tonight and I'll finally get out of all this," the farmer grumbled.<br /><br />It was a mainstay of the early Spring attitude. A kind of hard worn cynical defense mechanism against the daunting season's tasks that lie ahead. It was all so big and overwhelming now, this farming thing. So stressful. Why were we doing this again?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_t3dsUJZ4lTAjbcsBSO5RQTHE3u89LTH7fffDhP9MQWQVVPOIPBKrH4C3GJHPvQJvs4DF1zemgiAKN2Hb7HDlx3cFNNybcFEAxRq8rj9drBdn1JZssClIdxkeT5gG8vsFX4FsiE7eMI4/s1600/IMG_3304.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_t3dsUJZ4lTAjbcsBSO5RQTHE3u89LTH7fffDhP9MQWQVVPOIPBKrH4C3GJHPvQJvs4DF1zemgiAKN2Hb7HDlx3cFNNybcFEAxRq8rj9drBdn1JZssClIdxkeT5gG8vsFX4FsiE7eMI4/s320/IMG_3304.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464052102738354034" border="0" /></a> But the push in Spring was what got you back, at least in part. The awakening of all natural things again. The rain and sun. The energy of warmer<br />nights and almost hot afternoons.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Things had expanded at the farm, little by little, as was the case for every other year. This season had already seen the construction of a second greenhouse, the welcoming of two baby goats and a mother (doe) goat, a <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGnWo9lzb92Gr13R3bMj_lo8DZPJSr5eerWNRXERb98VvkO8EnD8_nI72L5oUEuMiFKyQTLDmR8sT8Jaw7P-RnSU4tdqjZvu0ixFY3Fpzxc5qyTuSXjggAKu6pE2D0CBoSv3HiuJtJfNk/s1600/IMG_3305.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGnWo9lzb92Gr13R3bMj_lo8DZPJSr5eerWNRXERb98VvkO8EnD8_nI72L5oUEuMiFKyQTLDmR8sT8Jaw7P-RnSU4tdqjZvu0ixFY3Fpzxc5qyTuSXjggAKu6pE2D0CBoSv3HiuJtJfNk/s320/IMG_3305.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464052100264643458" border="0" /></a>walk-in refrigeration unit, and an 8 ft. high deer fence that enclosed almost 2 acres.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOmFTyCME_4KTb447YajedtQ4Jw2iQW7YkwA8ipq88-EctkuKv5f66_JKWnv90fUJI5MF0xC2jPlFdmLadGCLUbr-xMgTNkAiVIwy1f4Z0yh3dCRC7qvZvCxk2vLNdzrDOe4opdgqmoOI/s1600/IMG_3299.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOmFTyCME_4KTb447YajedtQ4Jw2iQW7YkwA8ipq88-EctkuKv5f66_JKWnv90fUJI5MF0xC2jPlFdmLadGCLUbr-xMgTNkAiVIwy1f4Z0yh3dCRC7qvZvCxk2vLNdzrDOe4opdgqmoOI/s320/IMG_3299.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464052107482080018" border="0" /></a>The problem was that we still didn't have everything located at this epicenter. There was still way too much shuttling back and forth over the 14 miles between two other locations. There's that stress again. Who knew farming meant trucking?<br /><br />"This place is starting to look like a real farm," the farmer said as we surveyed the nearly 60 acres spread out in front of the tractor that we rode on to reach the tomato field.<br /><br /><br /><br />I had to agree. When you plant peas March 5 and over 5,000 tomato plants before May 1, the looming risk is both reviving and unsettling. Yet as always, after such a long winter's slow down, a kind of weight is lifted and it feels like time to move again.<br /><br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzrSmlv8ojVvZjS6MAf7KDWmCZ7rUbkMURq8pFBUqno5nPyxUg11qGEng-zlkysR8puGlkD0u0hQ0P2JNBR6w' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>wayne millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10312383040250353339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6224466083225601126.post-80737232982388547382010-04-11T08:59:00.000-07:002010-05-02T07:04:01.712-07:00Vineland or New Beginnings<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzL84bD89XvpGaBbJH32kjBDu8DQR_ZOayD5QSklbKY4ARpRCpePudueOy_MAMnVGIMc621bpzKWiFeGU14CJtS7bdYvMcE9jmQOAPBAznGad9sLi4ndnA8r6ysZII16dPf4WEm19_J4w/s1600/IMG_3188.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzL84bD89XvpGaBbJH32kjBDu8DQR_ZOayD5QSklbKY4ARpRCpePudueOy_MAMnVGIMc621bpzKWiFeGU14CJtS7bdYvMcE9jmQOAPBAznGad9sLi4ndnA8r6ysZII16dPf4WEm19_J4w/s320/IMG_3188.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459783593915515922" border="0" /></a><br />There's a term that floats around farming circles during early spring. Specifically, in the northeast, the term "mud auction" starts to roll off farmers' lips as well as adorn the front page of the Lancaster Farming News. This is by the end of March and all the way through long April weeks when the ground starts to thaw and the sky drops rain with more and more frequency. As one might denote by the second word of the phrase, spring is also time for auctions. Muddy ones. Of course nothing is as uncertain as the weather and anyone in PA knows that it may just as well be snowing as raining in March. Which would mean, most likely, on a cloudy day anyways, that the ground would still be frozen. And so it was when we traveled down past Philadelphia on rt. 676 and through south Jersey into the home of Jersey tomatoes and the flat-as-mid-west farm country known as Vineland.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGXAJB6lJD6cQcblk-jws7PVNRfjMFu6C-zfO8xQo5NpRjSerTjnkCd9Iy9pncujw6xsJmaZNrbhLCKrlR_XOJZMlWznmRxBBbjvWDmlwXSmBtqXANKq_S4gJ4RRit_Pt8XUzCrW-5tmA/s1600/IMG_3189.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGXAJB6lJD6cQcblk-jws7PVNRfjMFu6C-zfO8xQo5NpRjSerTjnkCd9Iy9pncujw6xsJmaZNrbhLCKrlR_XOJZMlWznmRxBBbjvWDmlwXSmBtqXANKq_S4gJ4RRit_Pt8XUzCrW-5tmA/s320/IMG_3189.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459781254956718210" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Like anywhere else in the country today, farms are being sold faster than they are being started or staying put. Vineland, NJ would seem no different. Just minutes from long swaths of strip malls, gas stations, fast food joints, and gentleman's clubs with names like Kashmir, the landscape really starts to open up and greenhouses of all sizes and shape can be seen from the road. Some still in use, while others sit long abandoned. Landscaping operations and farms intermingled with Subway and local garages. Fewer and fewer houses dot the narrow roads that once would've been nothing more than country lanes leading back to great homesteads that soaked up the sun through the damp springs and hot summers, ripening the plum and beefsteak tomatoes and pushing the Genovese basil into green bushes. An abundance of produce that would easily quench the yens of all Philadelphians living in South Philly's Italian market and the surrounding newly blossoming suburbs from Conshohoken to Willow Grove.<br /><br />Who knows when the Italians took over the rich soil of southern New Jersey. It had to be at least a hundred years by now. The auction on this day included any and all tools of the vegetable growing trade from tractors and tractor seeders to cultivators and transplanters, manure spreaders and mold board plows. As I stood next to the old (Italian?) farmer, I watched as he slowly dragged from his cigarette. He was listening to the auctioneer's streaming calls pleading with the crowd of 150 or more farmers and farm hands to please dig deep in their pockets for some of last year's hard earned profits. There was something about his casual stance and attentive demeanor that led me to believe that this had been his place. Had he no sons to replace him? Were they long gone from this life and onto law, medicine, graphic design, the city, bigger things and more profitable work? Hopefully he had just retired and decided to sell, I thought.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUx5zO8kIcqMsQY9Y1zQ8fHONlzoETvi7T6EB3k1QMqXJhp5WPUem4nWW1F17MgTPIRSbR27BIPysxbmwSHoQ8zN_5WZQOezoDVTgpDvmkSV9ZLzIEZ0LvrVk9Y0o2oJf8m-VDH3wn23g/s1600/IMG_3179.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUx5zO8kIcqMsQY9Y1zQ8fHONlzoETvi7T6EB3k1QMqXJhp5WPUem4nWW1F17MgTPIRSbR27BIPysxbmwSHoQ8zN_5WZQOezoDVTgpDvmkSV9ZLzIEZ0LvrVk9Y0o2oJf8m-VDH3wn23g/s320/IMG_3179.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459780423421837858" border="0" /></a><br />I kept scanning back and forth over the fleet of six Farm All and Ford tractors that had been neatly lined up in a row, waiting for some young upstart man or woman to take them out into the field and use them to ease some of the cultivating (read: weeding) burden that lay in the weeks and months ahead. With their belly mounts readied and small frames easily maneuverable between rows of broccoli, peppers, basil, corn, beans, or lettuces, their old age was not, as it may now be for the farmer who cherished them, a disadvantage. These were cultivating tractors. Pure and simple. Old American machines that aged like wine or cheese and only needed good upkeep and some grease to keep them running like it was still the age of the family farm. Across the parking lot were giant Case and International tractors that may have been used for bailing or plowing but these little red and blue guys had all the character in the lot.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ndsme09JYzMtxokwOp3FSf4xNK54rzr0aGG2c9nEfFSqsP-zZgO8Uys817JIUQcGcDkJMITiTvENhvi6LYN392i6ySDUs7h9p5_Z5fZCVNyjMPf4GrHUTqiURjbZiCxbf5DlWyP4ibY/s1600/IMG_3187.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ndsme09JYzMtxokwOp3FSf4xNK54rzr0aGG2c9nEfFSqsP-zZgO8Uys817JIUQcGcDkJMITiTvENhvi6LYN392i6ySDUs7h9p5_Z5fZCVNyjMPf4GrHUTqiURjbZiCxbf5DlWyP4ibY/s320/IMG_3187.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459780955471273042" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The sea of faces stared, the bodies slowly swaying and sucking down hot chocolate and food truck soup to stave off the steady cold breeze, as each tractor had its 15 minutes. The speedy voice of the auctioneer coming through the bull horn, seemingly never taking a breath, ending each soliloquy with "Sooooooooooooooooooold. . . . for $7500 dollars."<br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzilS_LpzJLEaAEGhhi9l3e35KmVYrwsKRbOJmKP3xHqe-6pPzWk5gQJANrZX2BUw7c6tpLNsLjaU6cY9nwJQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br />This was the highlight of the the afternoon. Most of the farmers had waited it out through all the implements on the other side of the building, had lunch, and then moved over, slowly amassing around the line of antique tractors. This was it. Buy now or forever hold your arm down while the rest of you fidgets and squints and nervously anticipates the frenzy that's just beginning all over again, the same as last year, with frozen mud.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">All copy and video copyright tmrg/wayne miller 2010.</span>wayne millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10312383040250353339noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6224466083225601126.post-89526318550985568252010-03-05T06:51:00.000-08:002010-03-05T14:25:46.601-08:00Beautiful Reverberations at Global LibationsOff the street, in from the damp pre-Spring air, and into the warm coffee house. Just in time to catch the last short set of the acoustic version of the band <a href="http://www.laovertoner.com/">La Overtoner</a>. I got a water to drink. The Stouts I'd had were settling just fine now. The ten other bodies buzzed around me, some listening, some talking shop, some promoting style, some trying to contain the caffeine vibe pulsating through their minds and veins. I sat back. The haunting music lulled me. The lyrical ride was on. Reverb to be had. Sweet Stout and dark night. Three minute dreams. Hushed winter.<br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dz7CTIMhR1xlH7eJ0VjBlk5lOr2puSs_dgztEULcSdepdni8pzE6U7m_-hK2sFrnEJ5IYGeTVEYm7VPvJIAhQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>wayne millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10312383040250353339noreply@blogger.com3