Project Homestead

the carrot experiment

We wanted to grow herbs, greens, beans, peas, tomatoes (of course), pumpkins, and squash. But, most of all, we wanted carrots. Small "candy" carrots. Stubby carrots. Sweet, right-out-of-the-dirt jewels of the earth. But we put them in an experimental spot, bathed in sunshine in the spring but a bit too shady, come summer. Then, turtles spied the freshly turned dirt from the pond below and decided the carrot beds were the perfect place to bury their tender eggs. As always, they were promptly dug up and eaten by someone else.

The result? A few spindly reminders of our need to relocate our crop next year. The upside? Owen considers the sweet carrot above the "perfect" size for a nibble-on-the-run. If not carrots, at least I'm growing optimists...

behold: the coop!

Our most ambitious building project to date is finally finished. Michael decided to design it himself, and we put it together using free time on evenings and weekends—with two little ones "helping." (Good thing we started it in September.) The chickens seem to be settling in well; they're warm and dry and enjoy lovely views of the pond from the roosting spots we never imagined them using up in the rafters. Until yesterday, the coop was cloaked with a tarp to prevent rain from entering at the peak, until Michael installed the tricky metal roof cap. Lo and behold, it went on without a hitch. The gleaming galvanized roof brings a smile to my face whenever it catches my eye. And, as the rain pours down today, we breathe a sigh of proud relief.

Now, on to the next project...

counting my blessings

Our land may be hilly, largely forested and hard to access. But we have a few things going for us: privacy, bountiful sunshine, watery reflections all around, a coastal microclimate. We have fertile ground, thanks to decades of shed leaves and pine needles that have naturally mulched and improve the soil. And then there are several established crops. None are so abundant that we have enough to sell yet, but at least two—blackberries and apples—are plenty for us. We’ve thinned, pruned, harvested and coddled our wild berries and established apple trees. And they’re paying us back with better crops each year.

When I look down from the house to the pond’s edge, where the cattails stand guard and the wood ducks poke their tails above the water in search of food below, I can’t help but have a sense of wonder. Finding a place to call home, after a lifetime of moving and resettling, of exploring and adventuring, is a comfort like no other. Knowing that we will spend the rest of our days pouring compost into this soil to coax fruit and vegetables out of it fills me with delight. That food will help fill up my family as my boys grow and lend their strong hands to the work. I am so thankful. I’m at ease.

And yet, I can’t help thinking how desperate I am to have the “tractor man” come and smooth out my new garden plot, rip out our dying, prickly junipers and grade our backyard so water isn’t always finding its way into our basement (if only he’d call us back). Even if he did, I have beloved distractions of my own. I realize that when raising children and vegetables, children always come first. Rome wasn’t built in a day, I remember an old farmer telling me once. True. Nature moves at her own deliberate pace. And, lucky for me, the work will be there tomorrow. For those of us grounded in a patch of dirt, patience may be our gardens’ greatest gift of all.

feeling the burn

Primal instinct compels us all. Food. Shelter. Water. Fire. The last of these is a true joy of living in the country. Our local fire department allows burn piles when the air is calm and two adults can watch them. And when we’re tired of the detail work of building or harvesting berries, a good burn pile is the only cure. Having spent weeks piling brush and dead branches into a tucked-away corner of land down by the pond, it’s time to light the match.

It’s fun to watch—we bring down camp chairs, water and sandwiches, and settle in for the day. When he’s not raking the bed of coals back into the fire, or cutting down dead limbs nearby, or stoking a lazy blaze with the leaf blower, Michael sits and watches. “It’s a guy thing,” he says, when I ask why he loves these days so much. Dirty, mindless and purposeful. Primal, even.

The last time we burned a big pile, Owen, now 5 1/2, worked with his dad. Michael had raked a small pile of coals over to the side of the dwindling fire. Owen fetched sticks and fallen branches all around him and added them to his pile before raking the coals toward the center. And, when he got hot, he took off his shirt and sat in a camp chair beside his dad. At one point, he sat still for a while, mesmerized by the flames like I remember doing as a child. Then the words came to him: “Mama, the fire climbs up the sticks like the scarlet runner beans twirl up their teepee.”

“You’re so right,” I told him, rubbing his warm back. “It is a beautiful thing.”

an apple only a mother could love

The trees were here, perhaps planted by a passerby when horses and wagons travelled on what was once a dirt road. Now, it’s flat grassland. And on its edges sturdy apple trees lean toward the big pond as if reaching for warm sunshine and a cool drink. Maybe they were dropped by a bird who’d visited our neighbors' old orchard. Or it could have been the family who built our 60-year-old log cabin with their own hands, the notion I lean toward as I watch the boys clamber up one and shake down a few of the rosy, bulging fruits that weigh down its branches with the promise of good eating and apple pies (that I don’t yet bake). Even the fruits that aren't as sweet are useful; I can always make cider vinegar and applesauce.

Free organic food for the taking, from our own land, is impossible not to enjoy, no matter how humble it looks. Case in point: the apple above is from our “best” tree. (I’m still waiting for Fedco's John Bunker, the apple guru of Maine, to help me identify it and others here.) That would be helpful, in case it’s a variety that stores well or, even, improves with age. Lineage aside, its warts and dents and ruddy “rusting” are all part of its charm. I adore it for its juicy, sweet flesh. Its solid consistency. Its sheer size. And the fact that it’s HERE, with no hand or help from me.