Dear Folks, Only local, palpable, and undeniable climate change will make the world believe in the greenhouse effect — and this farm believes. We got our first killing frost of the season just two nights ago, October 19, eleven days later than the latest record in the 18 years I’ve lived here!
I carry in my head the general rule that the killing frost will appear the third week of September — I learned that rule during my first 10 years here, when it applied almost without exception. Then there began to be what seemed like “borrowed time,” days creeping into early October when we were still picking tomatoes, peppers, marigolds, and dahlias. I faithfully record each year the date when we wake up in the morning to a light dusting of ice crystals and those plants suddenly turn brown and dead. Until this year the longest grace period lasted until October 8.
This year October 8 came and went. We had cool nights, even some that made us go out and cover the tomatoes with tarps. The top leaves of the cucurbits got nipped and died, but the roots weren’t killed — the unquenchable zucchini began sending up new leaves. We filled the root cellar with squash and pumpkin, we harvested the potatoes, but the rest of the harvest and clean-up process was on hold. Everything was still alive and well out there.
The weather turned balmy. The leaves entered into their phase of glory-by-the-trillions. We had the warmest, sunniest, Leaf-Peeper weekend I can remember. (It’s always the first weekend in October. The populations of New Hampshire and Vermont double and triple with leaf-peepers from the cities, and deservedly so — it’s an amazing show.) A week later the leaves were gently filtering down to make Persian carpets on the ground. Still no frost. A tropical storm blew in with terrific winds that tore off the rest of the leaves, but the air was still mild. We continued to fill the house with bouquets.
Well, Friday night we knew the time of grace was over. The sky turned flawless and infinite. The air got crackling clear. Mount Ascutney looked as if it had moved five miles closer to the farm. You can always tell by looking at the mountain, the old-timers say, that the frost is going to come.
So it came yesterday morning, and once again last night. I guess because it came so late, I felt almost celebratory. Usually my feeling on first-frost morning is funereal — I have to say goodbye so suddenly to so many good friends. But because we’ve enjoyed them thoroughly during these eleven days of borrowed time, I just felt the inevitable had come. It helps that first-frost days are always so stunningly clear. Yesterday it took only a touch of sun to melt the crystals and inaugurate a classic New England fall day, with the sun pouring down, the sound of dry leaves scritching in the breeze, and the sight of distant hills appearing again through bare tree branches.
We were all invigorated, and we had a great farm day. Karel and Stephanie took on the storm windows and changed the porch screens to winter windows. Don scattered last year’s wood ash over the pasture, to make the drums ready to receive this year’s supply. John Zimmer, who used to live here, came over and helped us take down and store the greenhouse. Eugene Uman, who also used to live here, came by and walked the forest with us, marking trees to take down for firewood. Eugene is a registered forester and a jazz pianist — he’s getting successful enough with his music to be spending less and less time in the forest. But it was fun for him to come back here, and fun for us to see him again. We all, old and new farm family, had a big lunch together of veggie-and-bean soup from the garden, crackers and cheese, and three salads.
It was great to scout the woods with Eugene, great just to be out there on such a gorgeous day and to see the woods getting into better shape. We’re taking out diseased trees, thinning, and reducing species like poplar and red maple that have no saw timber value. We have a likely crop of white pine, maple, and oak coming up. I was surprised to notice how many tall, straight oaks there — I don’t think of oak as a common tree on this farm. Red-breasted nuthatches chittered at us as we went. When we arrived at the back swimming hole, six wood ducks flew up from the brook.
We marked enough trees on about 15 acres to keep us in firewood for several years. Another 18 acres or so of this farm is in pasture and hayfields, another 2 acres is garden and orchard around the house. That leaves about 40 acres that we rarely even walk into — it’s a nearly impenetrable mass of beaver swamp and flood plain along the brook. It’s our wildlife heaven. That’s where the raccoons hang out. The beavers turn various bits of it into pond. Deer, skunks, and porcupine live there, and herons, and probably lots of other folk we don’t even suspect. I like to have it there as a mystery place.
Ferdinand the ram broke out of the pasture again yesterday. He’s supposed to stay down there with his little son and the six geese. We brought the lady sheep and the ewe lambs up to the barn, partly to separate them from the rams and partly to do our fall lawn-mowing and orchard-clearing for us. (The best way to clean up diseased fruit on the ground is to turn in a flock of sheep. Sheep love apples.) We don’t want the sheep to breed until November, so the lambs won’t come until April, when it’s warmer for the new babies and for us to be out in the barn.
Ferdinand, however, has other ideas. He’s ready, the ladies are ready, so bam! he applies his huge head to the pasture gate, and he and little Ferdy are free to run along Daniels Road, over two bridges, up the wood road, and lope straight as an arrow to the barn. Fortunately, every time they’ve done that (it must be 5-6 times now), the ladies have been firmly enough fenced that he has been able to touch no more than noses with them. After a few hours he gets hungry and I can lead him back down to the pasture with a bucket of grain, little Ferdy following happily behind, going everywhere his father goes. They stay down there a day or two, and then someone looks out the kitchen window and groans, “Oh, no, here’s Ferd again!”
Sylvia is working hard on illustrating the farm stories she invents for Heather. The samples here are from the story of Faith the Sheep, which is nearing completion. I promised to be her literary agent until she finds a real one, so I send out an appeal to you all. Do you know anyone who publishes children’s books? We think we have a winner here, with more to come. These are child-tested stories, which have been known to amuse a three-year-old day after day after day (after day, says Sylvia wearily, after day after day after day).
After the burst of traveling last month, I have been mostly sitting at the word-processor, digesting and sharing all I learned from those trips. I’ve finished a mammoth Balaton Bulletin (the newsletter of the Balaton Group). I’ve revised two chapters of my textbook. I’ve proofed the copyediting on The Global Citizen, my book of columns coming out in February. I’ve kept up with new columns, which, as you see, are reflecting the angry mood of the nation. I’ve now got the decks cleared to write proposals for the Balaton Group, so I can take them to Zurich in December for the approval of the Steering Committee.
I made one lightning trip this month, out to Estes Park, Colorado, for a day, to address an assembly of the Environmental Grantmakers of this country. The good news is that there are now about 150 foundations who have identified the environment as a major priority for their funding. The bad news is that for most of them this is a recent decision, and they really don’t know yet how to do it — they don’t know where or how money can make a real difference. Some more good news, however, is that they have the sense to come together and learn together. Even more good news is that they’re neat people; I really enjoyed my day with them. (I also enjoyed about an hour free to walk in the spectacular Rocky Mountains.)
There were, I suppose, billions of dollars represented at that conference. If there could only be a concerted systems view behind all that money; a clear idea of how the environment, peace, justice, medicine, education, and the arts — the traditional concerns of foundations — could fit together to bring forth a new paradigm of Wholeness! If only we could lean together, in unison, upon the leverage points that can heal the world!
I could begin to see it happening, being with all those good people. I got really excited about the possibilities. There are some strong partners in the foundation world. I came back from the meeting even more energized than usual. So many new things are trying to happen, even as so many of the old things are crumbling from their own obvious unworkability. When I look at Washington, Moscow, the Middle East, I tremble for the future of the human race. When I look far away from the centers of power, however, I can see the way forward and the people who are leading the way. It would be so much simpler to live sensibly, gently, sustainably, and justly, than to try to keep blustering along the path of hi-tech, multibillion-dollar, geopolitical, power-wielding supermadness. The soft path is much easier than the hard path, as Amory Lovins said long ago.
Well, there’s nothing for us to do but try to live the soft path, day by day, and to speak it in public, and to stick together and learn from each other. It’s actually a great adventure. I feel privileged that I get to be a part of it.
Love, Dana
