A strange time of year this is, this place between winter and spring. When a traipsing up the garden path through crusty snow and over hard earth this morning, my shoes were suddenly bogged in soft mud. After that I left funny wet brown marks in my boot tracks over the frozen white path to the sun-drenched field where mud reined (temporarily) supreme. Tomorrow is “promising” another rush of the Minnesota winter diet, so I won’t let the mud go to my head; but it is encouraging to realize that Spring grows close.
Warm mornings like this are a hay-day for the hens. The hoop house will get positively hot by 10:00 unless it is opened, and unlatching the door is releasing a tide of vociferous clucking inmates, heads cocked askew to fix beady eyes dubiously on anything that moves. To them, everything is something to be examined and pecked at. Of course the predominant passion among chickens is food. However, they are not the sort to do anything in particular except fight for it. Tricks are above their dignity, not below it. They are superficially proud of laying eggs, since it is something they tend to do every day; and yet they insist on crowing about it. Water is of little import, however much they may need it to survive, since they are nearly as likely to drown themselves in it as drink it. The one thing they have in their favor is that every one of them can sincerely claim to have been an adorable little ball of fluff at one time. Say what you like, I must venture to think of chickens much as I ever have: they are remarkably deficient in intellect…quite stupid in fact; and therefore especially needful of protection and care. Raising chickens lends new understanding of responsibility. Chickens, in large numbers, are profligate ingrates. They won’t be herded, protected, loved, petted or named. They disregard attention, mistrust friendly advances and deliberately run in the wrong direction for absolutely no reason whatsoever. The somewhat “unaccountable” part about the farmer-chicken relationship is the fact that the sheer stupidity of chickens makes them all the more worthy of special care and protection.
This is the paradox of creation that men so often misunderstand. Those nature shows on TV that emphasize the “survival of the fittest” and “natural selection” often miss the endless occurrences in creation of the sacrifice and tenacious guardianship on the part of the strong and able for those which are most likely to die. More often than not, the pouring out of life on the part of the “fit” is carried to what some might consider “excess”, that the “less fit” may have a chance to survive. And, yet, after all, this reflects the true spirit of the Creator for His creation.
Another aspect of life that comes out of life on the farm is an understanding of work ethic. I was considering this while helping to prepare dinner the other night. Aubrey initiated the trial of a new recipe, and most of us lent a hand in carrying out the effort to one degree or another. Cooking like this happens in record time and I imagined with trepidation how much harder it would be to do the things we do so often together alone.
I know…I have touched upon that “dirty word,” WORK, which no one wants to discuss. Frequently visitors to the farm are intrigued by the nature of the operation and overwhelmed by the recognition of how much work it must require from us. We try to remind people that the work divided among eight able-bodied team-members is not nearly as daunting. However, there is much to be said for an understanding of how work “works.”
When someone expresses a wish to help on the farm in some way, we often wonder if they know what they are asking for. This is not out of pride, since we don’t believe that farming is an elitist life-style that requires excessive amounts of schooling or intellect, any more than most other occupations. What is true of every other kind of work is true of ours: One must be able to recognize what truly needs doing, and be willing to do it with a will...without being asked. Great quantities of time, energy and expense are wasted every day trying to hammer recognition of what needs to be done into people and then convincing them to do and finish it well. Work is not the activity which happens between eight and four every day and consists of doing only as much as is required with the least expenditure of personal commodities like time, intellect, or energy. Work is the thorough investment in the life that is given us through doing what needs to be done, early or late, tired or not, with a good attitude. It is a gift given to man by His Creator, not a curse to be avoided. The antidote in many cases is investment. For example if someone truly realizes that eating a good dinner sooner than later tonight requires some pitching in on their part, they are very likely to do it, unless their dependency on the diligence of others is fostered. This is of course a somewhat superficial level of investment, since work must often be done when there is no prospective personal gain. The one who then recognizes the virtue in doing something simply because it must be done has gained a whole new understanding of true work-ethic.
The reader would be mistaken to assume that the Six Arrows team has accomplished a perfect balance of work ethic. Every day the division of our labor is challenged and augmented with some new project, especially as spring approaches. And just in case anyone wonders whether our diet consists solely of whole foods, the picture on the left demonstrates that the Six Arrows benefit from a treat, such as made-from-scratch buttermilk waffles often enough to keep our spirits bright on the last of these cloudy winter days!
Cheerio!
Craig, Karen and The Six Arrows
Well, here is spring, and no spring flood to dabble in. The spongy mud around the house cracks open like a mouth begging for water. Yet, though this year’s spring ground is thirsty, moisture still hangs in the air. I can taste it in that breath of tang that flavors the sharp, stale winter wind. It clings to the trees in a ghost of dew and turns the old moss livid green. Hold your breath, and you can eave’s drop on the
