Test driving an idea

I've written about my dreams of making this a working farm again; to grow food that nurtures others, as well as ourselves. I'm a long way from that dream as I still have so much to learn, but I think I'm coming closer to figuring out what comes next.

I've said that it's easy for me to come up with ideas, especially with all the reading and research I do. It's a trait/hobby/compulsion that members of my immediate family find both enamoring and infuriating, especially whenever I start a sentence with, "I've been thinking and..."

I've had an idea bouncing around my noggin for the past few weeks so I thought I'd give my family a break and "test drive" it with you folks instead, and humbly ask for your thoughts, suggestions and feedback.

One of the family farm models that is growing in popularity is the CSA, or community supported agriculture. Farms that use a CSA model sell shares before the growing season in return for delivering a set number of weeks of farm produce. As an example, one share, worth say $500, would give the consumer 18 weeks of in-season vegetables. The benefit to the farmer is obvious -- he or she can anticipate how much food to grow based on the number of shares sold, thereby reducing the risk.

The most successful CSAs grow a wide diversity of produce to keep the food baskets full throughout the entire season. Even if you collaborate with other farms in co-operative arrangement, this can be a lot of work and even more logistical juggling. It's also a big commitment, one that I'm not confident enough to make yet.

However, I recently read about a farm that in addition to its regular CSA program, offers a season-specific program; namely a Thanksgiving CSA share.

The way theirs works is that members receive a package of winter squash (5 - 10 lbs), potatoes (5 - 7), onions (3 - 4) and a pasture-raised heritage turkey, minimum weight of 8lbs at $5/lb, for a total base cost of $60.

What I liked about this model is that the farmer gets the benefit of a commitment from the share member, plus the upfront payment, and it's a one-shot delivery deal, versus 18 to 20 weeks, or more. One obvious downside is you have to sell a lot more shares at $60 a pop than you would for one full-season share.

So I started thinking, what if I offered two different sizes of shares: starting out with a basic share like this one, and then adding a second, larger share, that would offer the basics plus extras such as more root veggies, beans, a pumpkin, herbs, garlic, and perhaps other locally-sourced goods, for a true 100-mile/local Thanksgiving meal.

I'm crunching the numbers right now (yes, my brain is aching something fierce!), considering...

~ the cost of a turkey poult ($7.01 for a day old Orlopp Bronze, $11.38 for a three-week old started bird)
~ the feed costs (grower is approximately $17.50 for a 20 kg (I think) bag, and you need 2.5 lbs of feed for every 1 lb of live weight)
~ and the feed-to-weight conversion rates (Orlopps process at 75% of live weight, reaching 12 lbs at 12 weeks for hens (16 weeks for Toms) to a maximum of 22 lbs at 20 weeks for hens (35 lbs for Toms))
~ Ed update: Blogger Mama Pea reminded me that I'd need to consider the cost to process the birds to get them oven ready

... and then trying to figure out the per pound weight, plus profit, that I could charge, as well as the unit costs of all the veggie goodness.

For this season, I'm thinking of trying this for ourselves: raising a few turkeys and growing everything we'd need four our own homegrown Thanksgiving meal. Maybe I'll discover that I don't like raising turkeys (are they really as stupid at my reading suggests? Can they really lose track of where their feeders are, or drown in a rainstorm? I don't know how much more dysfunction this farm can take!) or that the numbers simply don't work out.

Or maybe this could be one way that our farm starts giving back and contributing to our local food economy. But for now, it's simply food for thought.

What do you think? Would you consider buying a Thanksgiving CSA share? What would you want in a basket? And what price would you consider paying?

A rant

"Well-behaved women seldom make history."
~ Laurel Thatcher Ulrich

My brain is buzzing with about a thousand thoughts this morning. I'm often one to embellish, but today that figure actually seems like an underestimate. Last night I attended a lecture on the future of food and farms and while I was hoping to be inspired, turns out I was outraged.

While some of the information presented was interesting, too much of the nitty-gritty was platitudes, generalizations and even deflections, especially when the speakers were asked to address burning issues such as GMOs, international trade agreements, barriers to entry for the next generation of farmers (it costs a new farmer $1 million to buy a dairy quota, which simply gives him or her the authorization to sell milk -- you still need to buy the land, the cows, the equipment and so on!) and national policies (or the lack thereof) regarding farm succession, land access and the growing, processing and selling of food produced on small farms.

Outrage is a valid response, but hysterical over-reaction is not. That's where education comes in. Since moving to the farm, I've maintained that our lifestyle isn't for everyone: no one can or should be moving to the country to become more self-sufficient. But I think we're all responsible for educating ourselves about just how broken our industrial food system is -- then demanding that policy makers do something different. While I understand that not everyone cares as much as about small farms as I do, we should all care about our food and by extension, where it comes from.

I've always felt compelled to 'make a difference' and since the birth of my children, most of my energy has been directed fulfilling this purpose through them; simply by raising them in a loving and secure home that tries to tread lightly on this earth and maintain a reverence, respect and appreciation for the natural systems that sustain us. I still stand by that belief and it is the force that grounds and inspires me to do better, be better, for they are the ones who will inherit our planetary mistakes, as well as our triumphs.

But I also have a voice -- one that can perhaps incite or inspire change beyond the borders of our farm. Perhaps it's time to start using it.*

* I don't know if these are thoughts I will share on this blog or perhaps I'll start another one for my rants and revelations. I just had to get this one off my chest. Stay tuned...

Taking the next (baby) step

As I'm sure there are people in my life reading my last blog post (Lucas? Dad?) and wondering what I'm getting myself into now, I wanted to reassure you that despite my enthusiasm, I'm doing my best to be smart about this small farm gig. So while I think it'd be noble and admirable and exciting to launch a 50 family vegetable CSA, raise heritage turkeys and sell honey, all while knitting handspun alpaca wool sweaters, that's not going to happen this year. I'm also not going to start tapping maple and birch trees, growing grapes or getting any more animals (though I've decided I definitely want to add 'shepherd' to my farming resume. There, I've said it. I want to raise sheep.)

While I'll write more over the next few days and weeks as I start sorting out The Plan, I can pretty much guarantee that year one will be filled with getting some big projects off our 'to do' list, before I even contemplate hanging out our farm business shingle. We've got fences and paddocks to move and fix, run-ins and a hoophouse to build, a water supply system to figure out, a barn that needs cleaning out & repairing, etc. -- and that's before I put any seeds in the ground! And there's still that writing/editing career to manage and those two farm kids to raise. But as we're making decisions about this year, I'll be considering 'expansion' plans for the future.

Besides all the fixing and building that needs to be done, I want to use this year to get really good at growing some of the basic high demand food items, start our orchard, get some bees and optimize our current farm practices; whether I sell anything this year is anyone's guess -- at this point, at least. I'll probably put up a roadside sign (our farm is close to a main thruway for cottagers) directing folks to a farm gate stand and/or I may get a booth at the local farmer's market, which is very small but would serve as a great way to network and gauge interest for future years. Or maybe not. People who want to eat will always need farmers and it's not like I plan on being anywhere else in the next two -- or 25 -- years.

Taking the next step

Firstly, thanks to all of you who commented on my last post, This farming life. I never cease to be amazed at how you folks are my most supportive and generous cheering squad -- and we've never even met. I am so very grateful.

While going away is always stressful and it takes a few days for me to feel caught up, this time it feels a bit different; I've spent the first half of this week being buffeted between feelings of elation, inspiration and excitement and those of sheer terror, uncertainty and my constant companion, worry.

Going to the conference reinforced that I am on the right path. Simply sitting in a room filled with 300 other like-minded souls, people who believe passionately in producing food and fibre in ways that provides sustenance to their customers, their farms and their bank accounts, felt like a homecoming of sorts. It just felt right.

It was good to be reminded of why this way of life is important, whether you're a farmer or simply an eater. Our industrial food system is horribly broken, besieged by an overuse of hormones & antibiotics, poorly regulated slaughterhouse practices, rampant use of pesticides & herbicides, GMOs, and so on. Food which is supposed to nourish is making us sick; there were over 11 million reported cases of food-borne illness in Canada last year -- that's 1 in 3 people. And family farms are disappearing under the weight of commercial agriculture that promotes profits over people.

While I'll get into the details in future posts, the conference left me feeling inspired and motivated. Simply setting my intention feels like a big deal. I used to be was the kind of person who once I decided to do something, there was little to dissuade me from my path; throw caution to the wind, and all that. But as I've gotten older, it seems much scarier to take that first step, to even consider what I perceive as taking a risk -- I've got the kids, my marriage, my career, the mortgage and other financial matters to consider. Rightly so.

I'm content and happy in my roles as mother, wife and writer, but what excites and inspires me is making this place productive again -- and that's way outside my comfort zone. But would I regret not trying? Absolutely.

As for the specifics of what comes next -- I'm working on it. But I can tell you the first plan of action is to actually make a plan. I'm a great idea-generator and fabulous at winging it, but that's not a great way to start a business, or even run a homestead. It's very easy to over-extend myself and get swept away in ideas and inspiration but the best way to temper that is to start small, ask for help (ack!) and blog about it. Besides being a great source of support, you folks keep me honest. So please join me in the next stage of our 'simple living' adventure!

This farming life

The kids are on the school bus, the barn chores are done, and I'm getting ready to drive three-plus hours east of here to attend EcoFarm Day, a conference hosted by the Canadian Organic Growers.

I'll be attending workshops on the overwinter storage of fruits and vegetables, as well as food safety on the farm, but the one I'm most looking forward to is 'Decisions for the viable and sustainable farm', a presentation that might help me decide whether to take the next step on our farming venture/adventure.

When we first moved to our farm almost three years ago, it was to become more self-reliant, to live closer to and in harmony with the earth and to raise our children in such an environment. Those intentions remain, but over the past year or so, I've been thinking about ways to have the farm as my livelihood, and not just a way of life.

The thought terrifies and excites me. I'm already climbing a huge learning curve and sometimes my legs and arms feel so tired from all the scrambling. I have no illusions that this will be easy -- for instance, I know just how physically hard this life can be, especially when I'm not a very big person to begin with. (I'm thinking back to a time last summer when despite putting all my weight behind a broadfork, it stayed stuck fast in the dirt, only to have Lucas walk over to it, grab it by the handles and hoist it clear from the ground. And don't get me started on how heavy those big bags of chicken feed are!)

It means digging deep, finding courage and coming to terms with and accepting that regardless of how stubborn I am, I will need help. Lots of it. And it's not like I don't already have two other jobs -- one as a mama, the second as a writer and editor.

I don't expect to get rich this way, but there are financial benefits to having an income-generating farm; even a small-scale one. For one, Ontario farmers who generate a gross income of $7,000 are eligible for a Farm Property Class tax rebate, which means we'd only pay 25% of our property taxes.

More importantly, generating more income on the farm means spending less time generating income off the farm, and while we do our best to reduce as much spending as we can by buying less, growing more, doing with what we have, the list of things we need money for remains long -- mortgage, property tax, vehicle repairs & gas, insurance, dental bills, savings for the kids' education, and on and on.

But even $7,000 seems like a monumental amount of money, especially when our sole farm income right now is the eggs from our 40 hens, which we sell for $3/dozen.

So we'll see. I'm not expecting to make any decisions tomorrow, only to gather more information. Maybe I'll realize I'm crazy or idealistic, or this is something to put on our 'five-year plan.' But this idea of growing the farm and making it fiscally productive has got a firm hold on me. I'm not alone.

In Kristin Kimball's book "The Dirty Life, On Farming, Food and Love," a story of her leap from a thirtysomething Manhattan-based writer to a new life on a sustainable cooperative farm in upstate New York, she writes:

"I've learned many things in the years since my life took this wild turn towards the dirt... But one lesson came harder than any of those: As much as you transform the land by farming, farming transforms you. It seeps into your skin along with the dirt that abides permanently in the creases of your thickened hands, the beds of your nails. It asks so much of your body that if you're not careful it can wreck you as surely as any vice by the time you're fifty, when you wake up and find yourself with ruined knees and dysfunctional shoulders, deaf from the constant clank and rattle of your machinery, and broke to boot.

But farming takes root in you and crowds out other endeavours, makes them seem paltry. Your acres become a world. And maybe you realize that it is beyond those acres or in your distant past, back in the realm of TiVo and cubicles, of take-out food and central heat and air, in that country where comfort has nearly disappeared, that you were deprived. Deprived of the pleasure of desire, of effort and difficulty and meaningful accomplishment. A farm asks and if you don't give enough, the primordial forces of death and wildness will overrun you. So naturally you give, and then you give some more, and then you give to the point of breaking, and then and only then it gives back, so bountifully it overfills not only your root cellar but also that parched and weedy little patch we call the soul."

I often tell my kids, "do one thing every day that scares you" and "make the most of yourself, for that's all there is of you" -- at the same time, accepting that where you are right now is perfect.

You'd think leaving our lives behind and moving to the country would be the hard part. That was easy. It's what comes next that scares me. I'll keep you posted.

Have a lovely weekend, folks!

Goat troubles, as posted to GRIT.com

My second posting to GRIT.com went up today and it's about troubles here on the farm. Goat troubles, that is.

It seems that I've got to figure out what to do with our first goat Oscar, now that he's become something of a nasty fellow -- and I'm finding it a harder decision than I expected.

What's worse, I've realized that this is just the first of many decisions that I'm going to have to make if we're going to breed animals (such as goats for milk and cheese) here on the farm.

While I wanted to share this story with the GRIT community, I also wanted to share it with you as I know there are some experienced goat people out there (you listening, Mama Pea?) and some homesteaders that I respect (yes you, Chicken Mama) who have or are raising animals and making decisions about culling and/or consuming them.

To be honest, I've felt quite uneasy about writing on this topic at all. It's probably that critic inside my head that says "didn't you think about this before you started getting goats?"

Well, yes I did... in theory but I'm finding the practice much more challenging.

I guess it stems from a fear of coming off sounding weak or foolish. But, this is my life and this is where I am in my thoughts right now. I started this blog to document our homesteading journey, bumps and all.

So, without further ado, I've included the text below (I omitted the photos as I've already posted most of them here before.) Or check it out here at GRIT.com.

And if you're new to this blog, you can read some more of the back story here, here and here.

As seen on "Homesteading Tales from Rowangarth Farm"

We’ve got goat troubles … and it’s the chickens’ fault. Maybe it’s a bit unfair to blame the chickens but if it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t be here trying to figure out what to do with an ornery, head-butting pygmy goat named Oscar. So in my angst-ridden state I’m holding them responsible. Okay, partially responsible.

It all started back last October when we finally got around to cleaning years of previous owners’ junk out of the barn. We had a great set-up – a few goat pens, a large horse stall and two areas to keep poultry – but no livestock.

So like many new country folk, we decided to get us some chickens. Because it was fall already, it was too late to place a chick order so I went online to look for some laying hens.

Not long afterwards, I found a lady willing to sell us 10 mature barred rocks, Rhode Island reds and black rock hens.

We brought them home and within days we were collecting tasty, rich and gorgeous eggs from our girls.

About a week later, the lady who sold us the chickens emailed me to ask I’d be interested in buying a six-month-old male pygmy goat. Although Billy was still intact (as in, a fully capable male goat) she said he was very friendly and not at all aggressive.

I admit it – I’ve always loved goats, especially the little ones. Yes, my only exposure to them before moving to the farm was in petting zoos (there’s my disclaimer, right there), but I’ve always loved their personality. But that’s not a good enough reason to buy one, I reasoned, as we are not ourselves a petting zoo. So I decided to do some research.

I discovered that although pygmy goats are only 16 to 23 inches tall at the withers and does weigh approximately 55 pounds, pygmies can produce as much as four pounds of milk a day (equal to half a gallon) or 600 to 700 pounds a year, quite enough for a homesteading family of four.

Since one of the reasons we moved to the farm was to become more self-reliant, raising goats seemed like a good way to ensure a steady supply of goat milk and cheese. While purebred dairy goats such as Nubians and Saanens produce a much greater quantity of milk (averaging 1600 pounds annually), they are larger, require more space and more feed. Plus, registered proven producers (milkers) would be significantly more expensive.

Because we had absolutely no experience raising goats, we decided to try the economy version first.

But the question remained, should we buy Billy? I know there’s a lot more to selecting an animal for breeding than upbringing – pedigree and conformation are key but again, we’re just getting started here. The sticking point was, did we really want a buck?

While intact male goats start out as lovely little creatures, they quickly mature into bucks with somewhat objectionable habits, smell being the least of them. I mean, once you learn that a buck likes to spray his own beard and forelegs with urine, you may think twice about owning one. I know I did.

Finally, we decided to go ahead with it. We’d buy Billy now and get a doe in the spring and we’d go through one breeding cycle and see how things went.

We weren’t able to get Billy right away so in the meantime, I found another pygmy goat for sale: this one a three-year-old wether, or a castrated male.

I thought that it would be a good idea to get a wether as a companion for Billy. Goats are herd creatures and don’t do great on their own and once Billy matured, he’d be off limits to our future girls.

So on a cold, sunny day in November, my daughter and I brought home Oscar.

I liked Oscar immediately. He was inquisitive and friendly and took to following me around the barnyard like a puppy. While it was endearing at the time, that was probably a sign of things to come. I hadn’t bought livestock – I’d brought home a pet and a pet isn’t what I bargained for.

A few days after arriving at the farm, we tried introducing Oscar to the donkeys (they came after the chickens.)

Already we’d heard the coyotes circling the farm and we wanted to have predator protection in place before adding anyone else to the barnyard. Let’s just say it didn’t go well.

Cinder, the older and more sensible of the two, didn’t much mind Oscar. Lee, the younger and more insecure donkey, laid into Oscar like a fury, sending him cart-wheeling across the barnyard. It was unexpected and truly dreadful. We put the donkeys in the back paddock and tended to Oscar’s bruised ego.

Worried about what we were getting into, we were relieved when the chicken lady decided to keep Billy. That was fine with us because breeding was farthest from our mind at that moment.

But then a few weeks later, along came Lucy and Sam.

We purchased Lucy, another three-year-old pygmy goat, and her two-month-old baby that we named Sam, from a less than scrupulous owner. The idea was that Oscar would now have a companion (he was starting to show signs of stress and anxiety that we assumed was because he was an only goat), and we could keep Sam intact and have our own buck.

While we hoped the addition of Lucy and Sam would reduce Oscar’s growing agitation, it seemed only to heighten it. Although we kept them in adjoining pens for the first few weeks (we’d now moved everyone into the barn, out of the harsh winter weather) he became even more aggressive, not less.

Then the aggression turned on us. All my sources say that wethers were supposed to be docile and friendly but whenever we went into Oscar’s pen to collect his water bowl, he’d growl, head-butt and even once tried to down me. It left me with a nasty bruise and a growing worry that something was wrong. But what should we do about it?

The vet told us to take him to the sales barn. My dad offered to eat him. I even tried to sell him privately. But none of these options seemed to assuage my guilt that we’d failed. If only we’d done something more or differently, if only we weren’t so inexperienced, he wouldn’t have turned on us. (Looking back, he did seem pretty high-strung and codependent for a goat, right from the very beginning.)

So here I am today, learning my first lesson in animal husbandry – what to do with an animal you no longer want. I’m finding it a hard decision to make (now’s probably a good time to disclose that I’m a vegetarian – I’m something of an oddity around here), but it’s the first of many if we decide to continue raising goats or any animal.

If 50 percent of goats born are male, our options are: castrate every one of them and open a petting zoo (not an option), sell them privately (which may be harder to do with animals that are neither registered nor proven), butcher them or sell them to a sale barn (where someone else in turn will probably butcher them.)

It’s not like I didn’t know we’d have to dispose of excess animals even before we got into this goat business. I’m all about paying your own way around here and if you’re not contributing then you’re taking away from making this farm sustainable. I’ve even said it myself that once our chickens are done laying, they’re headed for the soup pot.

It’s just there’s this disconnect: the self-reliant side of me that knows full well that livestock are not pets (repeat after me: livestock are not pets) and that I can’t keep every single one of them; and the other side of me that has a soft-spot for four-legged creatures.

Maybe it’s time to get out of goats, but the barn would sure be empty without them. We’d miss out on our own milk and cheese too. Seems like a pretty high price to pay for my squeamishness.

So if anyone has any perspective or advice to share with this greenhorn, I’d love to hear it. Should I stick to growing vegetables or does culling animals, even the cute furry ones, get easier?

We're in business

Big news here at Rowangarth Farm. We are now officially egg sellers.

Three separate families have placed a standing order for eggs, totalling four dozen each week. At $2.50 a dozen it won't make us rich but at least the girls are paying for their room and board now. (Besides, I plan on selling them for $3.00 a dozen at market.)

I'm pretty jazzed about this. Maybe it's because other families -- not just us -- are placing a value on local farm-fresh food, which is at the heart of what we're trying to do out here.

Or maybe it's because this shows we can make some money doing what we love to do.

Then again, maybe it's because I'm just proud our girls produce such damn fine eggs. My son thinks so too.