Hay

     Today we did hay. Because my questions this morning only led to ambiguous proclamations: “hay farming is real farming!” and “you know, I just have this romantic feeling about making hay,” the exact process remained a mystery to me until we got there.

     On account of my increasing attraction to all things that disrupt our schedule, I blindly volunteered to go along and help. We would be leaving at five, and should dress for the combination of heat and abrasive projectiles.

     Bill, Benny, and I hitched the trailer to the pickup truck at five and drove over the hills and past the lake between innumerable farms to reach our destination. The field adjoins the farm of a friend who keeps wild blueberries, and told Bill about the hay harvest.

     We pull into the field to see other trucks similarly outfitted with trailers and young strong helpers (all male excepting myself), a tractor with a torture-device-looking attachment on the back, and dozens (hundreds?) of square bales of hay dotting the field. Our team efficiently divides the tasks so that Benny tosses the bales into stacks of four or five, I drive up next to the pile, and the two of us toss them up to Bill who arranges them in the truck bed and trailer. In no time, we have 50 bales in the truck, and 25 in the trailer. As we drive out, Bill talks with the man on the tractor, whose tractor appendage is bundling the loose hay into bales.

     We are given permission to come back for a second load of equal size- priced $2.50 per bale. Bill drives home somewhat more gingerly than normal, given our oversized load, and backs right into the barn where they two (effortlessly?!) toss the bales up to the second floor, where I sneezingly heave them into stacks against a wall. Once again, we work with an infectious efficiency which compels me to ignore the innumerable little cuts appearing on my forearms, the hay in my shirt, mouth, nose, socks, as well as all my misgivings about my insufficient strength. It’s a little intoxicating, and I feel all my previously unsensed tensions or concerns oomph out of existence with each bale.

     We take a short break and then head right back for the second load. Bill once again provides random pieces of farming knowledge or local lore, as prompted by the passing scenery. We pick Bill’s brain a bit more about hay-farming, which is at once a time-honored tradition and pesky inconvenience. Hay is vital to all farmers or anyone who keeps animals. Farmers feed animals hay in the case of insufficient pasture, but also just through the winter. The hay is produced from healthy pasture that has grown to sufficient size, and can be dried completely in the sun. In this area, there are two harvests of hay. The first is of less quality, because by the time the weather is warm enough to dry the cut grass completely, it has already gone to seed, and has fewer nutrients. For this reason, the first cut is cheaper.

     To harvest hay, one needs a tractor to cut the grass of sizeable fields, the attachment to ‘ted’ the hay, or spread around to dry, and the attachment to suck up the dried hay and shoot out tied bundles. Bill estimates that new, the equipment would cost something like $20,000. However, with a few days work, a field like the one we visited will yield 1200 bales. Twice a year at even very low prices would result in a profit after only a few years.

     Hay is cool because its distribution relies on the net of connections between land and farmer, and farmer and farmer, all on an intensely local scale. Although I think a good bit of the romance escaped me, I enjoyed the novelty of the task. Although not nearly as strong as my counterparts, I played my role and ended up as dirty and scratched as they did.

Transplanting

     For the better part of Thursday we transplanted. Transplanting is a good representation of the work we do here- it’s a simple and direct contribution to plant production, specifically organic in many ways, and repetitive and uniquely exhausting.

     Having never participated in the production side of conventional farming, I have had a hard time extricating the more organic of our practices from those any farmer would do. Of course, a lot of what defines organic in our current food system is the prohibitions – pesticides, genetically modified seeds, hormones/antibiotics for animals, etc. However, more ideally, organic is a positive designation broadly defined by synchronization with nature. (I won’t get further into ‘organic’ right now, but maybe will come back to it later. In the meantime, see Michael Pollan’s “Omnivore’s Dilemma” for more detail).

     In this light, a lot of things we do can be viewed as cool strategies for harnessing nature rather than clever tricks necessary in the absence of chemicals. Transplanting is one such naturally advantageous practice.

     A week or two ago, we seeded a variety of plants. We set up a number of trays for each plant, in which we put those divided black plastic ice-cube-tray-looking things. Each hollow is filled with soil and given 1-2 seeds. Thus there are something like 72 seedlings per tray, and something like 6-10 trays per variety. Summer squash, zucchini, cucumbers, lettuce, sweet potatoes are all seeded mid-June. After two weeks spent coddled in the warm and damp greenhouse, the seedlings have sprouted. By spending the first days of life this way, the seedlings are strong and healthy to move outdoors. This benefit is important to organic farming especially, because plants that are stronger are better at resisting natural hazards in the absence of chemicals.

     In preparation for transplanting, Bill tilled the soil and laid black plastic with the tractor on several rows in the field. Tilling aerates the soil and kills the weeds. The black plastic is another commonly organic practice- by quarantining plants within healthy soil, it dramatically reduces weeds and pests. The number but simplicity of steps we followed to transplant the seedlings lent itself to an elegant and efficient division of responsibilities. Faced with clean black plastic rows, the first step is to cut X’s at regular intervals in two staggered lines. Benny led the line with a 2.5-foot stick and knife to cut the holes. Next, Alex followed with the gardening shovel to dig holes. Tiff followed him with a bucket of Cheep Cheep- ‘dehydrated chicken litter’ (organic fertilizer), of which she tossed a handful into each hole. I followed and mixed the cheep cheep into the loose soil with my hand. And lastly, trailing behind, Laura transplanted one plant into each hole and covered with the removed soil. As one person threatened to outstrip another, s/he transplanted briefly until the balance was restored.

     We started in the morning rain and finished in the searing afternoon sun (interrupted by a restful hour-long lunch-break). Like most tasks (weeding, harvesting, pruning), transplanting is repetitive and not physically demanding. The labor comes from the heat and duration of the task. We never work aerobically, but we work all day. Bending and kneeling in the soil, carrying or dragging things, and simply being in the sun/rain/bugs culminates in an exquisite exhaustion that peaks just in time for the day’s end at 5. A casual poll revealed that I am the only one sore the next morning (still recovering from months at my laptop in Mansueto reading room).

     This pace and type of work by rights should be numbing, but manages not to be. At times we convivially chat and joke, and much the rest of the time we recede into our respective thoughts or ipods. We transplanted for most of that day, but more often we don’t do any single thing for more than a couple hours and take refreshing trips in between in the back of the pickup truck. We are always working, it always transparently contributes to a tangible goal, and we are always done when the day ends. Combined with the fuzzy feeling of the pureness of organic practices, and the ample time for extracurricular research (and writing, napping, cooking, reading), this type of work makes for an exceptionally pleasing lifestyle.

Derby

     We pull into the parking and gawk out the windows- fierce women emerge from a car several spots down wearing spandex and toting heavy gear. I’ve arrived with three other apprentices to the Solstice Slam, this month’s home roller derby bout for the Rock Coast Rollers. We came in support of farmers Reba and Bill, who, respectively, skate for the team and announce the bout.

Rock Coast Rollers block the Upper Valley Vixens's jammer

     Reba, farmer and mother, was initially at odds with my picture of what a derby skater might look like. Although tall and strong, she very much looks both the farmer and mother with her shorts and sandals, practical digital watch, and superhuman ability to multitask. My impression of derby came from a friend in Chicago who periodically tried to get a group together to go see a roller derby bout. The spirit with which he approached the event (as though it were a circus), and the description he provided- girls on rollerskates racing around a track and pummeling one another- made it sound more like a vaguely lewd version of WWE more than athletic event.

     However, either I had it wrong, or midcoast Maine does it a bit differently. While many of the cast of characters associated with the team fit the bill- women who work on boats and are known to arm-wrestle men in local bars, women with heads shaved to reveal tattoos who work at the food co-op, the team and bouts are surprisingly family-oriented. Bill and Reba’s children aged 3 and 6 excitedly stayed up way past bedtime to attend, as did a number of the kids’ friends, various CSA members, and a variety of random community people. From the car I could see a young edgy lesbian couple in combat boots joke with the elderly couple and grandchildren standing in front of them in line.

     As rain started to fall lightly, we timidly exited the car and moseyed toward the entrance. Reba strides out toward us and calls, “Perfect! Faith, will you substitute as a penalty box timer?” Erm..? Another apprentice who goes a lot of derby practices and had been planning to be the timer was called upon last minute to wear the team mascot banana costume instead of timing.

     “Ok- what does that mean?” Reba ushers me in and a succession of authoritative women with clipboards instruct me in the relevant basics of derby. As it turns out, one needs to know almost nothing about derby to time the penalty box, only that girls hurling into the seats there need to stay there for 60 seconds, paused for interruptions in the game. Start timing when the “meat hits the seat.”

     The bout started and I slowly became confident to brace the chairs for oncoming impact and assertively call out remaining times. The game itself also became clear with occasional explanations from other NSOs (non-skating officials). Two teams of five skate in circles. One skater from each team is designated the “jammer” and scores points for her team by lapping opposite team members. It’s a bit more complicated than that, but you can imagine the chaos and ferocity that ensues.

     Derby is a pretty exciting time, with a much different vibe than I had imagined. Instead of purely a spectacle, it’s much more participatory in spirit. And while the women do play up the aesthetic with crazy outfits and their derby names – “Vengeful Vegan”, “Roto-tilda”, “Ginny Wheelsly”- at the core it’s actually a sport and has a competitive but incredibly friendly tone. The women have this kind of fiercely supportive sisterhood among their own team, as well as extending to the other. They are lobsterers and vegans and disproportionately queer, but also mothers, students, farmers, artists. It’s a diverse and empowering sort of group and sport. The women come from all over, but are fierce and strong, and invite the audience to take part in a festive and positive atmosphere.

     We skip the afterparty and return home past ten- way past a farmer’s bedtime, but well worth it.