Gimme the Dirt…On Springtime

Did you hear the news? Spring is coming! Okay, you’re likely not impressed with this news flash, but trust us – in this house, the arrival of spring is bigger than Taylor Swift at the Superbowl. In fact, springtime is so important that February 2nd is considered a holiday by one of us under this roof. And that one is definitely not me. On Groundhog Day every year, amidst phone calls and text messages wishing Bart a “Happy Groundhog Day,” we await the sunrise and watch on TV to see if the groundhog in Punxsutawney, PA, sees his shadow. There was no shadow this year, and according to the rules, spring will come early. The excitement in our living room was palpable because, on average, Phil predicts 6 more weeks of winter more frequently than not. In his excitement, while he pulled on his special Groundhog Day t-shirt, I think my husband didn’t stop to think about what that means in practical terms. I also don’t think he has paid much attention to my favorite meme: a cartoon picture of a female groundhog wearing curlers and a bathrobe and holding a cup of coffee and a donut. The caption says: “This is Punxsutawney Phil’s ex-wife Phyllis, who now lives in Florida and said that Phil is a compulsive liar.” And he looks so earnest on television!

There is nothing more splendid than springtime on this farm. Every one of our senses tingles with the change from frosty mornings to warm sunshine. The ground coming back to life saturates our noses, the earthy scent both rich and clean. Each emerging leaf and bud on the trees and in the fields contrasts in bright greens and pinks against the remnants of their dead relations of last year. Birds return from their southern vacations, filling the pre-dawn hours with songs more lyrical than any classical composition. Standing on the porch in the early morning, when the light is still dim, I can listen to the birds waking up in the woods beyond the barn, their melodies slowly rising above the trees and carrying across the pasture. The cows’ winter coats begin to shed in prolific clumps of thick, dark hair that stick to our fingers when they nudge up against us, urging us to scratch them. These sensory experiences energize us, and we sorely need that energizing.

You see, on a farm, spring requires planning, some of which starts, believe it or not, as autumn draws to a close. But as the days begin to lengthen, and we can walk from the barn after our evening chores in daylight, our thoughts – and eyes – turn to the hay fields, the pastures, and all the things we need to do before the warm weather arrives. And oh, there’s so much to do. There’s the manure building to empty, which must be done before hay grows too tall. Manure best benefits hay fields before we can see new green shoots, but the ground must be dry enough for heavy machinery to drive across it without causing ruts or getting stuck. In a carefully choreographed dance with the weather, Barton obsessively watches his favorite meteorologist, trying to perfectly time the manure ritual. And then, the pile of machinery must be readied for use after a winter’s storage. It looks a lot like this: grease guns must be filled and put to use, knives on the mower are checked for replacement or sharpening, gearboxes are inspected for leaks and oil levels, baler belts get a twice-over, tire inflations are measured, fuel tanks get filled – there’s more on that list, but I’ll leave it there. It’s a big job involving too many pieces of equipment (my husband has a tractor addiction), and it’s all up to Barton, except for moments when he needs small hands to reach into tiny places. I don’t relish getting grease or oil all over my fingers, but I savor far less the colorful language to which I might otherwise bear witness. Bart’s frustration is a powerful motivator to help him!

Through the wintertime, we dream of the warmth of spring while knowing how busy it will be for us. This year, we have a parcel of land that needs a new seeding. It has been fallow for a few years, so preparing the ground will take extra work. We plan to seed it down with a mixture of orchard grass, timothy and clover – a tasty mix our cows will savor. Clover is a legume, and it can be prolific one year, dwindle over the next few years, and then disappear, but it adds nitrogen back into the soil, helping the grasses planted with it to thrive, so paying for clover seed is worth the investment. Clover is beautiful to see when it’s flourishing: the leaves are bi-colored in two soft shades of green, and when it blooms, the purple flowers draw bees and butterflies until the mower comes through. To see a field of clover in bloom is to see spring in its full glory. When it’s baled and ferments into haylage, the leaves of clover turn black and its flowers brown. It may look unappetizing to us, but to the cows, it’s candy. When the air-tight plastic of the bales is cut open, with everything done right, they will smell like sweet wine, cider, or molasses. Sometimes, the hay smells so good even when we salivate. A new seeding takes time, patience, and, of course, the money for the seed (these days, the price comes dear). This particular field was left fallow because the last time we seeded it down, the seed failed. I won’t say the company name on those seed bags, but I can tell you it’s a bad word in this house and one I can’t erase away with helping hands. We decided to let the field go, even though we’d invested in soil testing and the expense of preparing the soil. Sometimes, letting the ground have a nice rest is the best answer. This year, we will try again.

Another, more immediate, parcel that requires our attention is the cows’ pasture. Last year was extremely wet, and more than once, the pasture flooded unlike anything before. Each time the water receded, the cows were left with less grass to graze on. Their hooves are wonderful tools to aerate the soil when the weather is just right, but in mud, they sink deep, making craters that fill with puddles, making it difficult for anything to grow. This year, if we can keep the wild geese from consuming it before it germinates, we will reseed the pasture with oats. This quick-sprouting ground cover will provide the cows with protein-rich fodder when they are turned back out onto their pasture. There is not a more joyful sight to witness than our cows leaving the barnyard after a long, cold winter. We’ve often been told we should sell tickets so others can participate in all that happiness, but usually, the decision is made to open the pasture gate when the whim hits. The cows get anxious, looking longingly out to the pasture as the days get longer. They know the time is coming. And always, on a random warm May afternoon, Bart will say, “Let’s open the gate.” The older cows follow Bart because they know the routine and have been watching him for days. The younger calves, born in the pasture the previous year, are pushed behind, but they jockey for position anyway. And the earliest spring calves hold back, waiting in the maternity pen, scared of the wide open space, as their mamas charge ahead, glad to stretch their legs and frolic with the rest of the herd. This year, we can’t wait to see them run through thick clumps of oat grass and then settle down to munch quietly. Assuming the geese don’t eat all the seed.

The last piece of ground requiring our attention has nothing to do with feeding the cows and everything to do with us: our vegetable garden. We don’t have raised beds – we direct sow our seeds, and when it’s warm enough we plant our starts. But the soil needs to be tilled first. The old hand tiller we use is a dinosaur, but it does the job we need, handily mixing the composted cow manure into the earth with ease. The soil in our garden patch started many years ago as clay, and while we had beautiful crops, the dirt needed help. Each year, we’ve added cow manure, and each year, we’ve watched as the soil has come more alive. Last year, we saw plentiful earthworms and other organisms as we dug to plant our seeds. The soil is no longer tinged light orangish-brown and is, instead, a rich brown-black. The vegetables we grow sustain us through the spring, summer, and fall, and in the wintertime, we savor all the things I’ve canned: homemade tomato sauce for pizzas or pasta (with homemade cheeses – bliss!) and pickles of many different kinds. Last year, we wrought the benefits of a raspberry patch we planted from canes shared with us by a friend. So from our rather sketchy-looking patch of ragtag raspberry canes, we savored a bumper crop of raspberries from June through the first frost and had enough for many breakfasts, desserts (pies!), and two large batches of jam. We cannot wait for those berries to show themselves this year! And from another generous friend, we also have a newly planted strawberry patch, so maybe, just maybe (fingers crossed!), we will have strawberries for our yogurt and another kind of jam to add to our wintertime shelves. But first, we must prepare, and prepare we will – the ground will be tilled, manure mixed in, seeds planted, starts added, and soon the garden will be burgeoning again.

 

We’ve had a more exciting winter than usual. We like to hibernate, but a continuous round of social engagements has kept us busy. We love our friends, yet truthfully, having a social calendar feels rather odd to us since the farm and its responsibilities usually keeps us rooted here. I guess it’s good that we’ve spent time with our community because soon, we will be back in the throes of spring on the farm. It’s unbelievably busy, time-consuming, hectic, and leaves us little time for a social life. I haven’t listed nearly all the work we need to accomplish to ready ourselves for the onslaught of hay and calving seasons. But believe me, we feel the pressure of that list as springtime barrels closer. Spring is coming! My husband and his guru, the groundhog, say so. Get ready! And really, I’m saying this mostly for me. I need to get ready.

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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