Posts Tagged history

Vintage US Crop Corps poster

So there I was, stunned by the realization that I really, really just wanted to be a farmer.

It sounded idyllic.  Well, maybe not quite idyllic -– I had at least enough sense to recognize that farming the way I wanted to farm would involve a great deal of physical labor, long hours, and frustration with the weather and with pests.  I had a vision of a diverse collection of crops growing lushly to feed me and my friends, with enough leftover to sell for income, but I had no illusion (from my own gardening experience) about how much work would be required to turn that vision into reality.

And did I mention the physical labor?  I’d worked in an office, parked in front of computer, for eight hours a day, five days a week, fifty weeks a year, for the past eighteen years.  I had chronic back problems, weak ankles and wrists, not nearly as much stamina as I’d like despite years of walking.

In short, I was soft, and I knew it.  And my dream definitely required strength.

But I couldn’t shake it.  Yes, it would mean a lot of work.  Yes, it would leave me exhausted at the end of the day, probably without much energy to preserve the harvest.  Yes, it would mean making a lot less money.  But I wanted it.

I wanted to work in the fresh air and sunshine and, yes, even the rain, heaven help me.  I wanted dirt under my nails, as awful as it is to dig out.  I wanted the pleasure of growing a larger percentage of my own food –- and of having enough to sell, to replenish my own coffers.

I just had no idea how to do it.

During the summer of 2009, my desk job caused me so much more anger and anxiety than usual that I had to explore other possibilities.  I looked into the apprenticeships offered by OEFFA, though many offered a mere pittance for salary, and I reveled in the quiet and even the mixed results in my gardens.  Somehow, I had to find an escape route.

A friend suggested to me that instead of taking the apprentice route, I become an independent contractor with my own business.  This way, I could combine multiple jobs -– such as freelance writing and editing –- with the farming and ensure a better balance of income.  This offhand comment became the revelation that lit the path for me, and I started to pursue the possibility of self-employment, something I had dismissed times before because it just didn’t seem right for me.  This time, it clicked.

As the saying goes, when the student is ready, the teacher appears.

I wanted to work with a farmer in the immediate area, and I had narrowed my initial options to three farmers I knew to varying degrees.  One had a handful of children plus in-laws who helped on the farm, and she wasn’t sure that she would have enough for me to do or would be able to pay me regularly.  One was enthusiastic but couldn’t pay me at all.  And one -– Dave -– not only said he needed an apprentice for the following year, he was ready almost immediately to hire me, and he would pay me a reasonable wage.

I had come to know Dave through meetings of the local OEFFA chapter, and I could see that he was respected as a leader.  We came together to help start Local Roots, and I soon learned that he really was worthy of that respect.  So when it looked like I’d have the opportunity to work with Dave, I knew everything would work out fine.

I spent four months setting up my business, lining up work, and cleaning up projects at my job -– and at the start of a new year, I resigned from my job and looked forward to starting out on a new path in life.

Look out, Farming, here I come.

Across Northeast Ohio, sprawling metropolitan areas give way to lush green woods and rolling acres of farmland.  I grew up here, in a suburban neighborhood west of Cleveland, always within distance of the classic amber waves of grain.  Barns, silos, pastures, animals, and tractors dotted the landscapes I traveled around the county with my parents.

Neither set of my grandparents owned or ran farms, though the generation before them did.  My parents grew up with extensive home gardens and the occasional chicken, and they carried that practice of growing their own food into their own homemaking, teaching me at an early age how to plant and weed and harvest.  In the summers, my schoolteacher mother would take me to local fruit farms where we would pick strawberries and blueberries, and we would return home with our bounty, ready to freeze some and to turn the rest into jewel-toned jams.  Come late August, my father would lead the charge in canning tomatoes for our winter pantry, and several packages of sweet corn would end up in the freezer, satisfying a little girl’s appetite.

Food, then, has always been an important part of my life, and I’ve been gardening and preserving the harvest for the better part of four decades.  Farming is not my birthright, nor does it run strong in the family bloodlines.

Farming, though, is where I’ve ended up.

More than five years ago, I embarked on a journey of personal discovery, if you’ll excuse the slightly touchy-feely turn of phrase.  A handful of events came together to challenge my view of myself and of the world, and I immersed myself in environmentally-oriented readings.  (I’ve always been a bookworm, and the introduction of an intriguing new topic tends to lead me to the library shelves.)  Many of those books explored the role of agriculture in the global environment, and everything seemed to indicate that though the vegetarian diet I had chosen years before was a good start, my need for food would be more sustainably met by following a local diet.

This didn’t seem too far-fetched to me: after all, between the home garden and the farm visits with my parents, I knew how good local food could be.  But the more I wrote about it at my original blog, the more I realized there were gaps.  Being a baker, I wondered how much flour or other ingredients I could source locally?  What about the dried beans so commonly used by vegetarians?  What could I, in fact, find?

The local farmers’ market reassured me on many items.  Honey and maple syrup appeared in abundance, nuts occasionally found their way to the market, and a local miller brought bags of flour and cornmeal and oats for a couple of years.  I began talking to the farmers to find out what else they grew or if they knew of anyone else who might be able to supply certain foods, and my enthusiasm for what I did find somehow endeared me to several of them.

At first, my questions to the farmers had to do with my own eating, but eventually I started turning to them for advice on growing or ideas for future crops of my own.  Each new bit of information opened a little window onto the farming life -– and fascinated me.  The more I learned, either from them or from my books, the more I wanted to farm along with them.

Farming couldn’t possibly be a valid career move, though, right?  Who in their right mind would choose to work at such a physically exhausting job, subject to the caprices of weather, and get so little monetary return for it?  I honestly didn’t think I could afford to farm, but I continued to talk with the farmers, and talk gradually turned to occasional offers to help.

By the time 2009 was well underway, I had found myself not only joining the Ohio Ecological Food and Farm Association (OEFFA) to learn more and to connect with more local farmers, but I also became deeply involved with the establishment of a year-round farmers’ market (Local Roots) -– and through that, had found more room (at a new friend’s homestead) in which to grow dream crops such as grains.

My learning curve continued to swell as I gathered more information and asked even more questions, and my group of mentors gave me the encouragement I needed to try new things.  As the season progressed, the urge became undeniable.

I wanted to be a farmer.