Gimme the Dirt…on Christmastime

Every single Labor Day, my husband says the same thing: “Before we know it, it will be Christmas.” I always answer him the same way: “Oh, we haven’t even finished summertime yet, so slow down and enjoy the ‘right now’ instead of getting ahead of yourself.” And then suddenly the holidays are upon us, and I realize that in spite of feeling like summer was so long ago, the time between then and now has flown by, and Barton was right. Please don’t tell him I said that; it happens far more often than I’d like to admit. Thanksgiving passed as it always does, with a frenzied shop for the perfect turkey and side ingredients, then the feast, and of course, the inevitable groaning, overstuffed aftermath. This year it came and went far too quickly. Our candlelit farmstore Friendsgiving felt cozy and happy, filled with too much delicious food and kindness to quantify.

Close on the heels of that lovely holiday dinner came winter’s first kiss: a sparkly, powdery snowfall that left the farm blanketed in eight inches of glitter as far as the eye could see. It feels nice to have snow at this time of year, in spite of the grousing that emits from the sofa after bitterly cold chore times. Snow brings an added burden of work for my husband, because plowing the long farm lane is his (self-appointed) sole responsibility. I shovel the walkways and steps of the barn and house, and clean off the vehicles (someone needs to tell Ford Motor Company that their F350s are built WAY too high for people of a certain stature), while he motors around plowing the farm in the skid steer. I didn’t select the word “grousing” randomly to describe his communication style at this time of year. When it’s time to put the chains on the tires of the skid steer, the one-sided conversation turns colorful – every-color-of-the-rainbow colorful – and I like to wait outside the barn until that particular task is complete. It reminds me of the father in “A Christmas Story,” when he’s in the basement repairing the furnace: you can’t really understand the individual words, but the inflection tells you all you need to know about their meaning!

Snow feels like Christmas to me. The mud in the pasture is washed clean, and every fence post wears a jaunty white cap of snow. Our hill (notoriously called “The Killer” by my mother-in-law because it’s so steep) becomes the most riotous place to go sledding for miles around. My cross-country skis take up residence by the front door, and I can put them on by the front steps and whizz around the entire farm in the clear, cold air. In my head, I imagine I can hear sleigh bells instead of my own heavy breathing – the farm is called Hilltop Farm for a reason, and hauling my cheese-loving body up that hill on skis is no easy feat! Once, I decided to take the hill straight down instead of the slower, diagonal route on my way back to the house. Bart was watching from the barn, which thankfully I didn’t realize as I began my descent. I grew up downhill and cross-country skiing, and I consider myself very proficient in both, but downhill on The Killer ON cross-country skis is a special skill, and as I began to glide, I realized my momentum was building faster than my ability to control it. Sitting down wasn’t an option (I’m competitive with myself that way), and I was determined not to fall. From the barn, I’m sure I looked and sounded like a banshee; I was, in turns, screaming at the top of my lungs and cursing a blue streak. My arms were straight out with ski poles flailing as my legs made a fruitless attempt to snowplow my way to a slower speed, but I just kept rolling down that hill, faster and faster. I screamed onto the farm lane at the base of the hill and over large snow-covered boulders, swearing at them loudly as I went. And when I reached a flatter place, and could hear myself think, I realized I could also hear gales of laughter from the direction of the barn. I deserved it, and I will say common sense has prevailed: I’ve never taken that downward route again!

Snow for Barton means his mail route is often treacherous in the rear-wheel-drive van the USPS provides. His route takes him way up into the mountains, and the postal service recently issued a nationwide edict that no chains are allowed on the tires of mail vans. It’s dangerous on those roads, and I worry until I see him return. Last year, he arrived home early during a bad ice storm, and he was shaking. He told me he’d had one of the scariest incidents of his 45-year career, and that’s saying something, given all the storms he’s driven through in that time, and also given that he’s largely unflappable. He slid backwards down a long, steep hill, and his van stalled in the middle of the skid, leaving him with no steering or brakes. If the lyrics playing in your head right now are from Carrie Underwood’s “Jesus Take the Wheel,” you’d have the lyrics to this incident about right. I think Barton’s words were more of the putting-chains-on-the-skid-steer kind. He said it was like a hand guided him down that hill, until he came to a stop, heading in the right direction, at the edge of the road. That’s when Jesus came into the picture as he said a prayer of thanks for still being alive. And then he high-tailed it home, leaving the mail to be delivered the next day. Believe it or not, it was safer to deliver mail in a horse-drawn wagon when the postman’s motto was first written, a time when people had enough sense to stay off the roads (and out of the way of the mailman) in bad winter weather. There’s truly nothing that will keep Barton from his appointed rounds except a lack of safety equipment on his van. And now Christmas is here, with extra mail: cards, letters, and packages being collected and delivered, even to and from the North Pole. There’s no extra overtime pay to go with the added work, no Christmas bonus, no annual raise (no, not even that). But there are treats found in mailboxes from thoughtful customers, and Christmas lights twinkling through the windows when he gets home. And a wife who’s already in the barn starting the evening chores, so we can get back inside together to enjoy the Christmas tree from the warmth of the living room.

On a farm, the cows don’t know it’s Christmas. They still require the same care and feeding and milking they do every day. But for us, there are differences. Out of the barn radio come Christmas carols, and this year there’s that blanket of snow that makes this place look like a postcard. Our barn clothes are donned in layers, with the most important one being our beloved long underwear. The milking barn that is sweltering in the summertime is cozy in winter, warmed by the cows’ rumination, and they produce milk so rich that our fridge is filled to overflowing with cheese. Even though their routine (and hence ours) remains the same, we can’t help but feel the holiday cheer everywhere around us.

For us, it’s simply joy. Joy that we are healthy. Joy that we are surrounded by a community that fully supports what we do. Joy that we are so happy together doing something we love. Joy that we have friends and family with whom to share it. And so for us, the darkest days of the year become the brightest, illuminated by the joy that fills our home and follows us to the barn, even on the coldest, darkest mornings. We can’t help but wish all those who surround us the same. As the Christmas carol that was playing just this morning says:

“Love and joy come to you, and to you your Christmas, too. And God bless you, and send you a Happy New Year, And God send you a Happy New Year.”

Photos courtesy of Rebecca Collins Brooks 

Rebecca Collins Brooks is a farmer, writer and farmstead cheesemaker at Hilltop Farm in Accord, NY. She is the creator and founder of The Meeting of the Milkmaids, a gathering of women working in the cheese and dairy industry. In addition to a small herd of dairy cows, she and her husband, Barton, raise Wagyu beef, selling meat to customers directly off the farm. Her best friends are two terriers, Winston and Molly, and Sylvie, a truly brilliant barn cat. You can visit the farm by appointment to see where truly good food is grown.

Connect with Rebecca via Instagram @catskillwagyu, on Facebook CatskillWagyu

Check out > INSIDE+OUT’s Spotlight on Catskill Wagyu at Hilltop Farm