Gimme the Dirt…On Winter

We love the changing seasons, my husband and I. We could never be snowbirds, flying to warmer climes in winter months, to say nothing of the fact that our cows don’t let us go anywhere. Leaving here for more than a day trip is something we only discuss in theoretical terms. If we are honest, it’s actually just fine: we love our life here on this land. In springtime, we watch the ground come to life – literally springing back to green under our feet. We wait for the hummingbirds to return and listen for the first spring peepers at twilight. In summer, we relish the bounty of our garden, the calves frisking around the pasture, meals outside on our porch, and the smell of hay drying in the sunshine. Spring and summer are hectic: hay season, calving season, fencing season – they are the seasons of work. Autumn is “our” season, as it bombards our senses with bold glory in one last fiery burst before grayness takes hold. And finally, the season we are in, winter. As I write this, the sky is dropping what seems like buckets of rain onto our already muddy pasture, and the cows are huddled together in the freestall out of the wet. Winter isn’t what it used to be when the pond froze, and we could skate in wild circles around its perimeter, and our fields beckoned to me to grab my cross-country skis and head to the hillside fields. During a snowy winter, the cows are closed into the barnyard, their backs covered in heavy white frost in the morning, their warm breath swirling in clouds of mist above their heads. Growing calves cluster together, either curled up in a cozy pile chewing their cuds or learning to push their way to the manger past the big cows for their fair share of hay.

Not too many winters ago, we had a deep freeze, the kind that brings frigid cold down from Arctic Canada, plunging us into temperatures of -30 degrees Fahrenheit at night. New-fallen snow brushed everything clean, even the barnyard. Our little old dog Violet asked to go out for her nightly constitutional, so I bundled her into her coat and myself in mine and braced myself as I stepped out the front door into the night. What I beheld beyond our steps was a land of magic. In the brightness of the full moon, the snow glittered like diamonds – sparkling so bright it dazzled my eyes. Poor Violet didn’t make it off the porch; it was so cold, but I stood gazing out at the farm in wonder. To Violet’s relief I headed back inside, but only to drop her off and collect my other, most favorite companion. “Bart,” I called, “Get your coat – we’re going for a walk!” I wasn’t met with enthusiasm, to put it mildly – it was 10:00 p.m., and he was stretched out on the sofa under a cozy blanket, a glass of wine at his elbow, and a good movie on TV. But with some mad skill (ok, it was badgering), I managed to persuade him in the end. We turned out the porch lights, stepped down into the night, and walked by the light of the moon. Every branch of every tree was covered in powdery snow, sparkling in the brilliant moonlight, and their black outlines contrasted deeply with their bright frosting. The snow made the most satisfying squeaks beneath our feet, the only sound in the night except our breathing and the occasional hoot of two owls calling to each other way off in the woods. Everything glowed and glistened as if, in a true cliche, we were characters inside a snow globe. We felt like the only two people in the world and that this sight was created solely for us. We walked all along the farm lane, taking in the beauty. We spoke little, but Bart’s arm was tight around my shoulders, and we savored the connection. Impossibly, despite the full moon, the stars were also fully lit. And so, with the carpet of snow under our feet and the veil of the Milky Way above our heads, we walked until we could no longer feel our noses, and our eyes were forming crystals on our lashes. It was bitter cold, but, oh, how we hated to go back indoors.

Farmers self-report to be some of the happiest workers in the US in a recent survey. While day-to-day the work is not without its stressors, overall, we would report the same. Our work is deeply satisfying: far more than sitting at a desk, for certain. I know because I’ve done both, and working outside, caring for animals, and growing delicious food is deeply satisfying. This statement comes with one big caveat, however: the work is constant. As in always. We don’t take vacations because there’s no one left around these parts who will milk our cows or who can properly care for them if we weren’t here to do it. The work is sometimes monotonous, always physically demanding, and often kind of gross: scraping manure out of stalls, cleaning and filling water tubs, feeding hay, carrying grain buckets, scrubbing nest boxes (my chickens, not the cows), cleaning the freestall, spreading manure: the list is long and tedious, and the same. Day after day after day. But we wouldn’t have it any other way. 

You see, all that work is sandwiched between sunrises and sunsets we are always outside to watch. We are acclimated to our outdoor life and outside in all sorts of weather. We’ve been lucky enough to see violent thunderstorms building above the Catskills and watch as they whirl and flash their way to us. We relish the crisp coldness of a drink from the barn hose only because we’ve worked out in the steaming hot summer sun. We witness more rainbows on this farm than the average person, mostly because we are outside to see them. Stepping outside on a snowy winter night to take a walk under the full moon feels normal to us.

We don’t watch the world go by from the indoor side of our windows because we feel more fully alive under the sky. We each raised our children the same way and love seeing them savoring the outdoors like we do, even in wintertime. When my daughter was small, she gave me a handmade book of poetry she wrote herself. It’s hand-bound, the cover is made of rice paper, and the pages are printed on cardstock that looks like the blue sky. Hands down, it’s the most precious gift I’ve ever received, and I keep it on the table next to me so I can pick it up and admire it whenever I choose. The first poem begins this way: 

“What the heck are you waiting for? Just turn the knob, open the door. Look through, and once you do, you’ll see a whole new day; so filled with splendor you don’t have words to say. Magical roads to walk along, amazing creatures who speak in song…” 

Take that long-ago little girl’s advice: step through that door. What the heck are you waiting for? Even on a frigid winter night, when the warmth of the house is more comfortable, just do it: step through the door. You’ll see splendor you can’t imagine and maybe hear the owls calling out into a glittering snow globe. Trust me, it’s worth it.

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Rebecca Collins Brooks is a writer and farmstead cheesemaker on 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

And check out > INSIDE+OUT Spotlight on Catskill Wagyu at Hilltop Farm