Secret Gardens

I have probably mentioned before that I spent the first thirteen years of my life running wild on a farm west of Petaluma. My parents bought the farm before I was born with the intention to get back to the land - they wanted to grow their own everything and be a bit more sustainable in an increasingly unsustainable world. My Dad kept his day job, but his nights and weekends were spent tending to animals, mowing the fields, working in the garden, and fixing broken pipes and sputtering wells. Perhaps I am a bit more capable of farming and working as hard as I can regardless of consistent paychecks because my earliest example of farming was of my folks who weren't trying to make money as much as they were cultivating a lifestyle for my family.

Our twenty-five acre farm was not perfect - it didn't have much water, it was windy all the time, and it was a bit on the cold side, but I loved it more than anything else in my young life. We had cows, sheep, chickens, and a hodgepodge assortment of other animals that came and went as a part of my Dad's attempts to be a farmer (on top of his day job). I recall a couple of horses and a pony that were too mean to ride, but that I still had to take care of (I became good at avoiding bites and kicks at a young age). We had a breed of sheep called Barbados, which were supposed to be excellent grazers and great for meat, but the problem was they were mean, fast, excellent escape artists, and you couldn't catch them to save your life.

Although I loved the animals, my favorite thing about the farm was its expanse. To a kid, twenty five acres is huge! I would pack my backpack or my doll carriage and set out for the far reaches of the property with my pet sheep, Jane, in tow. My favorite spot was a lovely stand of Poplar trees in a corner of pasture furthest from the house. I would settle in and read books, write stories, or play with my friends until I heard the enormous dinner bell (a vestige from the farm's life before my family) calling me home. Even though I was a fairly outgoing kid, I treasured my solitary adventures and relished being able to get lost for a day in a patch of land that I knew so well.

When I was about twelve, I was enthralled with Lewis Carrol's, "The Secret Garden." I wanted my own secret garden, overrun with old-fashioned flowers and hidden from all except for me. I saw potential in one corner of our backyard that was hedged in by a tall, grape stake fence and our deck. The area was completely tangled with blackberries and other weeds and was hardly accessible. I had a vision, though, and I set out to create my secret garden. I cleared a narrow entrance, tore out the blackberries and weeds, creating a clean palate with which to work. My Mom took me to the local nursery and we picked out roses and other flowers befitting my old-fashioned secret garden. To be honest, I don't really remember much about my secret garden after its creation. I probably moved on to another interest or hobby and my garden was probably overtaken by weeds again. Nonetheless, I vividly remember the process of creating that garden and how much I enjoyed taking a brambly and unloved space and making it special and beautiful.

This year we are growing some cut flowers for our CSA and the process of cutting them and making bouquets has made me think a lot about that farm where I grew up. When I was a kid, I would tell anybody with an ear how much I loved my farm. When I was thirteen and we moved, I was actually a little bit devastated. I never thought, though, that I would find my way back to a farm and the farming life. Now that I have returned to my earliest passion and calling, it seems unbelievable that I strayed so far from my homesteading roots for as long as I did.

Other news -

We've been a little concerned about one of our goats, Shosanna, who has developed some very round udders even though she isn't pregnant and has never had babies. She's not acting sick, still has a healthy appetite, and doesn't have any noticeable wounds. In fact, her only symptom besides the voluptuous udder is a slight increase in goofy and hormonal behavior. Since we are relatively inexperienced goat owners, we are pretty clueless about whether this recent udder growth is normal. I've searched the internet, poked and prodded the poor goat's udders, and called the Vet, and, finally, it seems that we have an answer. The most likely diagnosis is something called precocious udder. How great is that? Basically, Shosanna is going through puberty and is developing all the necessary parts to make her a baby goat and milk making machine. I just think that precocious udder is a fantastic name for a puberty related ailment. I can actually think of some teenagers I know who might be suffering from precocious udder...