The temperature at the weather station hit 35 degrees early this morning, chilly enough to pull mist from the ponds and banks of cloud from Lake Champlain.
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A speedy note this week, as I’m off to the city with our young Spanish exchange student, Elena, who has been with us for three months and is heading back to Madrid today.
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All that’s left of the auction now are a few pieces of unsold metal, a scattering of soda cans, and the empty tent.
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The big auction is tomorrow. The front of the farm is full of metal: pieces consigned by other farms in the neighborhood, all sorts of supplies and hardware we are not using…
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We’ve arrived at the delicious time of year where the tide of summer crops and the tide of cool weather crops converge.
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That feeling of a season ending, sunlight waning, the summer houses going dark, the beaches around the lake being cleared of toys.
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The crows, the ravens and a really determined raccoon have been helping themselves to the mature ears of sweet corn this week.
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First touch of dullness in the greens of the trees this week, signaling the height of summer harvest, and harbinger of fall.
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Sultry weather this week, the kind Mark calls ‘good growing weather’.
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A quick note from afar today. The kids and I are at my mother’s house for a little family reunion with my sister, my brother and his girls, and two bonus girls…
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It’s the solstice week, the time of mighty light, and it’s a green riot out there. The plants have their leaves upstretched to catch all the energy they can.
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Dr. Martha is away so Dr. DeFranco came an hour north this week to treat Phoebe, one of our trusty old Jersey cows, who injured her teat while getting on the trailer to bring her up to the barn for calving.
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June has arrived, and with it comes the peak of the light, the pinnacle of the farm year. It seems the sun shines all the time in June.
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You know how Teslas have a mode called ludicrous, for moments of extreme acceleration? Mark’s gears have been stuck in ludicrous for weeks now.
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I plan to tag the year’s 298th lamb today, a single ram born to one of last year’s ewe lambs. To satisfy my itch for round numbers I would like to hit 300.
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When I close my eyes at night I see little white lambs on the inside of my eyelids. I dream of lambs, I hear the sound of lambs, and, frankly, I smell like lambs.
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As members know, eating seasonally from the farm means getting reacquainted with the ancient rhythm of the food calendar rather than the perpetual availability of the supermarket.
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We have new faces on the farm this week. An Amish family from Ohio, the Millers, moved into the little cabin behind the west barn.
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The peepers are awake and singing, the tiger lillies are up, the egret has returned to the back pond, and this inch of rain has washed all the fields with a new shade of bright green.
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We’re at the brown hinge of the year now that will soon catapult us into the greens. These weeks feel long and slow but we will be grazing in a month.
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