Everything All At Once

I pull every maple tap out of every tree in about an hour while the sun beats down into the leafless woods. Surely the season of sap and sugar has another week but I find myself pacing at the evaporator in this late March heat, thinking about the weedy garden – full of dandelion and pennycress – the hungry, hyper chickens – who enjoy eating dandelion and pennycress – the soppy green pastures filling with grass and clover, the pent up dogs, bored and mopey, the incoming lambs, not quite born yet, the unfinished farm stand, the nonexistent chick shaw, the unpruned fruit trees, the ungrafted apple grafts, the treacherous ticks, the bull thistle brambles, the peeping peepers. Oh, how loud the peepers peep! And I look over my shoulder to some birch trees and decide to tap some of them, just to see what birch syrup tastes like. Something ends and something begins; it’s everything all at once around here.

I chop some standing dead wood down and carve it up for next year’s sugar wood. My favorite distraction when analysis paralysis strikes: chop up firewood. When restless, find work to do. “And honey I know that the woodpile's low and you can't close the flue,” I sing along to the endless James McMurtry loop in my head. “So I'll split up a couple more cords 'fore the winter time's through….” My last batch of maple sap sours in the storage bucket from the heat wave. I take a whiff and flip the bucket with that Yankee disdain over wasted resources, yet with the hand-clasping glee of a child released from duty. It’s time to play. I glide down to the farm puddle to hunt for peepers and stare down the garden tarps blowing in the wind.

Wilder in his natural habitat

Muck boots on, the dogs and I traipse about the garden beds, digging up dandelion greens, really focusing on getting those roots out. White, fluffy Wilder eats grass like a sheep on the edge of the woods, collecting the brambles and ticks. My little black sheep, Pip, sits and stares at me with an intensity you only find in herding dogs, eagerly awaiting the moment I might put my shovel down and find a toy to throw for him to retrieve. Wilder finds a wet muddy hole and becomes a black sheep himself, a mud-eating grin on his doggy face. I wave to all the garlic greens poking out of their leaf mulch and toss some dandy greens, some roots, some chives into a big bowl for sorting. I spy lemon balm and catnip for later. The raspberries are shooting out new growth already, after a late pruning. My new blueberries seem to be taking. I cover them with wool for mulch and nitrogen. Back inside, the roots are washed and scrubbed and laid out to dry – future tea – while the greens are diced and put into the fridge for sautés and spring salads. I spray Wilder down with the hose, which he thinks is an enemy to be destroyed and he ends up muddier somehow.

a typical kitchen counter in SWF House

I try to take it easy when I can because I’ve caught some sort of spring cold. Everything all at once means the good, the bad, and the sniffles as well. My tea has mullein, elderberry, chamomile, ginger, yarrow, and coltsfoot in it. I’m shooting back shots of elderberry syrup, garlic honey, eating sixteen roasted garlic cloves in a day. Everything but the kitchen sink, though I’m tempted to try it at this point. Throw all that other stuff in the kitchen sink and take a big bite. The cough finally breaks after a week, mostly bothering me at night when I try to sleep – somehow I still have decent energy during the day. It seems that when a lot of people get sick, they are 75% down for a 3-5 days, but I seem to only feel 50% down for 7-10 days. That’s a tradeoff I feel okay with. I drive around with Karley when I feel a little better and I notice some coltsfoot on the side of the road. “I think that’s good for colds,” she says, so we pull over to read up on it. Why, yes, it helps loosen up mucus and it relieves dry coughing; it helps with sore throats; it’s historically been used for colds and other respiratory issues. But but but! The internet warns it can cause liver damage and is even banned in some countries! I dig a little more and it turns out some scientists made rats chug coltsfoot and this caused liver damage in the rats. Also, I note, the alkaloid that causes this liver damage isn’t in the flower – it’s only in the stems and shoots. We hang a bunch of coltsfoot off the mantle above the woodstove to dry. We laugh at the realization that the internet doesn’t often go out of its way to tell you how over-the-counter drugs also cause liver damage and other health issues. I’ll take my chances with the little flower that grows right outside my door. I notice the coltsfoot for a reason, I think, and I believe it helps ease my symptoms as I kick this cold naturally.

I see some egg shell bits on the ground near the woodpile. Curious. Between a few logs lie three perfect greenish-blue chicken eggs. I suspect Wilder stole one and ate it nearby. It's apparent the escape artist chicken I call Easter Egger has been here. I often watch her fly to the top of the coop door, roost a bit, then fly out to go explore. She doesn’t seem to fit in with the flock and does her own thing. She often lets herself back in, as well. As much as I appreciate her colorful eggs and her independent spirit, I scoop her up and toss her in chicken jail – a separate coop for a few birds I may be removing from the flock. Egger is a suspect in an ongoing murder mystery: a few birds in my flock are Egg Killers, intentionally destroying eggs in the nest boxes. This ruins eggs, makes the others dirty, and is a waste of time, resources, eggs, and feed. Even if a bird is laying, destroying eggs cancels her good work out. Unfortunately, egg killing is a learned behavior and it needs to be removed from the flock – it’s not something that can be corrected or supplemented away. My other prime suspect, a fat, grumpy old grey Orpington I call Biter, has been in chicken jail for a week now and awaits the stew pot. She does not lay eggs at all. Biter and Egger await their court dates – Egger lays eggs in a hole in the wall where Biter can’t get them. She may be given a second chance, though with a clipped wing as her judge’s verdict.

Egger

I go into the coop to collect the eggs – all clean! no damages! wow! – and I hear scuffling behind the walls. By walls, I mean a two-foot high roofing panel screwed to the framing of the building to prevent bedding and chicken mess from rotting the wood. There is a gap behind. I peek behind the roofing and I see a Buff Orpington chicken stuck way down below. Chickens are so dumb. The poor thing. I pull her out and put her on the floor to see how she is. She limps to the water trough and stays there drinking water for an hour. Her feathers are all matted and she has a minor cut on her comb. Otherwise, she seems fine. Just sore and exhausted from fighting to escape. There are two eggs on the floor behind the roofing. These birds like to find holes in the wall to lay eggs in, apparently. I decide this bird goes in chicken jail, too, until she seems to be healthier again.

Chickens are a delight to take care of, even if they’re frustrating sometimes. It’s worth the work for protein and nutrients in my own backyard and especially for free landscaping and pest control. And all that bedding and chicken sh*t makes amazing compost! Every morning I load up the farm stand with fresh eggs and feel pretty good knowing I raise some happy, healthy chickens who produce beautiful, strong-shelled, dark-yolked eggs. I set up the stand – eggs and syrup and salves and a small mason jar of chicken feathers for a dash of wonder – and admire my new hand-painted headboard. A little messy, but a lot me. I still need to paint the trim, varnish the thing, add some shelves, figure out how to incorporate a little free library, add some new products. The farm stand is going to grow into something fun, I think.

Down the hill, a crow catches my eye. It’s hopping in the road, trying to fly off with a chunk of something brown and furry. Cottontail, I think. I wander down with my flat shovel and the crow makes room. Yep, a cottontail. Half a cottontail, to be precise. The legs and some guts. Looks like someone dropped half their dinner in the road. I scrape it up and hike it over to the chicken run. The crow gets some scraps left on the pavement, plenty of breakfast. I flip the rabbit chunks into the run and watch the birds peck around it with curiosity and bewilderment. Chickens are omnivores and will eat everything you toss at them. Kitchen scraps, bugs, meat, organs, fruit, old freezer-burned veggies, grains, greens, leaves, snakes, mice – they even peck at my boots to see if they taste interesting. Fresh rabbit is on the menu – these birds have just never seen one before.  They have all day to figure out what this is – and when I get home from work, it will be a clump of fir and bone. It will be nothing – yet everything, all at once.

10 gal of birch sap makes 6 oz of syrup

Everything ties together here on the farm. Where something ends, something begins. Each thing touches gently the next thing, even if you can’t see it at first. It all cycles and embraces and nurtures and entwines. It is resilient and wholesome and wholistic – and it is beautiful.

After dinner, I pour a seltzer into a mug and mix in a teaspoon of birch syrup. It’s an amazing sipper. Sweet, but earthy. Dreamy, grounded. I can hear those peepers from the kitchen. The symphony of the something wilds.

Thanks for reading! Please take note our new farm stand is now open daily from early a.m 'til dusk, where you can find soy-free pasture-raised eggs, old-school maple syrup, calendula/comfrey hand salves, free feathers, and all sorts of other goodies as my fancies fleet about the farm. Look for the chicken mailbox at 430 North Sandwich Rd in North Sandwich, NH! - Rich

Farmer Rich in his natural habitat