The Great Chicken Massacre

Julie’s sister, Amy, has taken on the responsibility of raising chickens here. After several weeks of feeding and fattening, their day finally came. Anna and I both got up an hour early so that we wouldn’t miss an ounce of education.

The first step was to pack them up. Amy started with 100 chickens, but after foxes, coyotes and some leg infirmity not uncommon with their breed, she was left with 62. All the same, they filled up the truck in no time. We used every cage and cardboard box we could find, and we were constantly poking heads, wings and legs back through the cracks from which they emerged. It may have seemed cruel to pack them like sardines, but bear in mind that aside from this hour, these birds have had happy free range lives.

Once loaded up, we drove the birds down the road to Leroy, the neighborhood Amish farmer/butcher. Leroy had visited our farm before on his bicycle, so we all knew and liked him. Who knew that such a friendly guy could shed so much blood with such ease? Always the quiet ones, right?

I toured the death chamber while Leroy suited up. There were a few tubes and gadgets I couldn’t figure out, but it all became clear quickly. When Leroy returned, he handed each of us an apron and told us to start shoving birds into the cones. Then he sharpened his knife.

There were four cones on a rotating post. It was a little tricky getting the chickens in them, especially if I didn’t have a good grip on their wings, but once inside they calmed down and actually seemed very comfortable. Right when they probably thought they could trust us again, Leroy spun the post and slit their throats, quickly and smoothly.

He left them there to drain for a couple minutes, and their bodies went totally berserk in the cones. I didn’t get to see one run around with its head cut off, but I’m sure this was the stage where that would have happened. After they drained sufficiently—the floor completely red with blood—Leroy tossed them into a vat of hot water, which he said helped the feathers come out neatly. Once they were done with the bath, he tossed all four of them into the defeatherer. This was a large steel vat filled with lots of rubber bumpers. When he turned it on, the whole thing vibrated and the birds’ bodies rumbled around. I have no idea how anyone discovered this would cause their feathers to fall out, but it worked like a charm without bruising the birds. It actually looked like a fun ride if it were big enough—and if I didn’t worry that it would cause all my hair to fall out.

(One peculiar thing about the defeatherer was that it ran on electricity. This being an Amish farm, and Leroy being Amish, I thought that a bit strange. When I asked about it later, I was told that the Amish people here have unique rules. Apparently, electricity is allowed if it’s off the grid—powered by a generator—and if it’s for commercial use. I think the Pennsylvania Dutch back east would have a problem with this, but I doubt they ‘d fight over it.)

After defeathering, Leroy yanked the head off a bird with his bare hands (which made a distinct popping noise) and shoved the body into a tube that launched it into a basin of water in the next room. He then led our whole crew to that room where he introduced us to his daughter, Heidi, and put us all to work. After some basic training, we had a very efficient evisceration assembly line running.

Heidi took the birds out of the pool and cut off their feet. Then they were passed to Anna and Tom, Amy’s father, who yanked out most of the organs and cut the esophagi. After that, they came to me. I was given a nifty little lung-scraping tool and had to rip the lungs out of the chest cavity. I dare say, I got pretty good at it and ended up with an impressive bucket of chicken lungs before we went home. I then passed what was left to Amy, who inspected the carcasses for any unwanted parts we may have missed, hosed them off and tossed them into a large cooler filled with ice water.

We got through our 62 in no time, then agreed to stick around for another 14 birds that someone else dropped off. Believe it or not, I was a little sad when it was over; I felt like I was getting better at lung scraping every minute and really wanted to hone my new skill. You never know when that will come in handy.

Need a lung scraped? Just give me a call.

I had never seen anything slaughtered before that day. I was warned that it could be heavier than I’d expect and I braced myself for it, but it really wasn’t bad. I did feel a little queasy after the first blood draining session and stepped outside for some fresh air, but then it didn’t bother me. And I learned that you really shouldn’t name an animal that’s going to be slaughtered. It’s just a bad idea.

That night, Anna and I had a feast. She managed to claim the smallest bird because it was the only one that would fit in our toaster over. We each had only roasted a chicken once before, and neither of us remembered any details about it, but we figured it out. That fresh bird was DE-LISH! Probably the best meal we’ve had yet. Plus, I won the wishbone.

Can’t wait to see what we kill next.

The Squishy Joys of Despotism

As the farm intern, Anna is allotted her own plot of land, just under an acre, which she can use to grow and sell whatever she likes. Anna has taken advantage of this opportunity and quickly filled the space with cherry tomatoes, lentils, beans, melons and potatoes—lots and lots of potatoes.

The potatoes take up most of her space and they’re growing well. They were due for a hilling when I arrived, and since they cover so much land it seemed like an overwhelming project to do with a shovel and hoe. Always innovative, Anna inspected some abandoned farm machinery and had an apostrophe.

There was an old horse-drawn cultivator gathering dust in the barn. After rummaging for parts, she also discovered a couple large, rusted rotating discs that could be used for hilling if mounted properly at the right angles. Of course, we had no way of attaching these things to the cultivator, but that wasn’t about to stop us (as her friend and cohort, I like to tag along on her projects).

I always enjoyed trips to the tractor store in Utah, so I couldn’t wait to check out the outlet in St. Ignatius. What I saw when we arrived, however, was more of a tractor graveyard. This place was acres and acres of used tractor parts, disassembled, separated and spread out in some semblance of order that more or less kept engine machinery in one half and everything else in the other. It was a lot like looking for a needle in a haystack, except that we weren’t sure if the type of clamps we needed even existed in the first place. Despite the challenge, we had quite a bit of fun rummaging and wondering what on earth some of the pieces we found were supposed to do. I decided this would be a great place to visit if I ever decided to build a giant killer robot.

After a lot of digging, we found two clamps that were a little large, but otherwise perfect for the job. And, go fig, they were lying in the very first heap of metal we passed after we parked there.

It took a little elbow grease and a lot of WD-40, but we managed to turn a horse-drawn cultivator into a tractor-drawn hiller. Since Julie was called away on some farm business, Anna was next in line to drive the tractor, which meant I got to ride the contraption we built. I have to admit, I was a little giddy about it. With all the levers and pedals, I felt like a 19th century inventor testing out his first time machine.

It took a bit of tweaking, but our makeshift hiller worked like a charm. The discs dug the ground up along both sides of the potato lines and heaped it up right to the plants. At the end of the afternoon, we could sit back and admire the beautiful job we did. At least, we would have if it weren’t for the pesky Colorado Potato Beetle.

The Colorado Potato Beetle is a sneaky little bugger that lays its eggs on the underside of potato leaves. After they hatch, plump orange critters spread like wildfire and gnaw away at the leaves so that they look like Swiss cheese. If they’re left at it, they’ll ravage the plants until nothing is left but a puny little stem, and that’s more than a little undesirable. Anna’s potatoes somehow became infested with the tiny monsters and it’s hard to look at a plant covered in orange dots and not want to do something about it. We saw a lot of them that day, so we went to work.

Like I said, I help Anna with whenever I can. Unfortunately, she hasn’t found a better way to deal with potato beetles than to pull them off by hand and squish them between her fingers, and that’s become our regular afternoon activity. If you’ve never squished a potato beetle before, then let me tell you that calling them plump is an understatement. These pests are like little volcanoes just waiting to erupt. When you squeeze a good-sized one, you better make sure it’s aimed away from your face (a lesson Anna and I both learned the hard way). I keep thinking some avant-garde artist would have a blast bringing a blank canvas out to this field and making a masterpiece out of flying beetle guts.

It may sound disgusting, and I won’t argue that it isn’t, but after squishing a few thousand of these things you start to get desensitized. For that matter, it feels somewhat empowering. After spending so much time tending and weeding potato plants, it hurts to see some bratty little bug come along and try to ruin it all. I really enjoy the ego trip I get knowing I’m wiping out their entire population by hand, and I think Anna does, too. Kind of gives me an idea why so many tyrants like to kill people. Also, I’ve employed the trick I learned digging ditches in Utah, which is to imagine seeing the faces of people I hate in the bugs. It makes that pop even more satisfying, and gives a burst of energy that keeps me going.

Yeah, I know—I may need therapy after I’m done farming.

Want Me to Kill That For You?

Finished my first week on the Montana farm. The Utah place had its perks, but this already feels like a more enriching experience. While the Utah vineyard was an isolated environment, this farm works closely with the large farming community in the area and sells through a local cooperative. They also grow a large variety of fruits and vegetables here, as opposed to just grapes, and I get to work more directly with all the produce we’re growing. There is also a more traditional farm family here; the couple that owns and runs the farm has an adorable 4-year-old daughter and the aunts, uncles and grandparents come by every day to help out with the chores. It’s also nice not to have to worry about pulling cactus quills out of my ankles every afternoon.

The food is great! As much as possible, what we eat here is grown here, and the pantry is stocked full of dried beans and grains from previous harvests. On my first day, I received a tour of the home garden where we can help ourselves to a variety of lettuces, beets, peas, strawberries, herbs and a wealth of other goodies. A dairy cow lives here, too, so all the milk is fresh and raw, as well as the homemade yogurt and butter. There is also a small herd of cattle for beef and a large freezer is filled to the brim from last year’s slaughter. The family just finished building an outdoor cob oven they use for making their own sourdough breads and for frequent pizza parties. Anything that can’t be provided internally or traded with other local farmers is bought at a natural food store in nearby Missoula. There are definitely no Walmart receipts to be found on this property.

The work is what I expected: lots of weeding. Someone once told me that organic farming is 90% weeding, and so far that seems to be accurate. I spend the better part of my days either scraping the ground with a hula hoe or digging it up with a trowel. I felt a bit embarrassed my first day when I was weeding onions with Julie, the farm owner, and Anna, my friend and the farm intern. I looked down the field after an hour of weeding and saw their lines of onion stalks standing tall and straight, but mine crumbled, broken and leaning every which way. Even more embarrassing was that I could only weed about half as much as they could in the same amount of time. Hopefully I’ll get better with practice.

I did learn how to use a brush mower, which I thoroughly enjoyed. It’s a lot like a regular gas-powered push mower for a lawn, except that it can also take down small trees. This thing can run over anything, even a cinder block (which I did). My first task was to mow between rows of asparagus. The asparagus plot here had been left to grow wild for a long time, which has something to do with nurturing the soil that I don’t quite understand, so the weeds were as tall as the asparagus stalks—which were as tall as me. It looked not unlike a jungle and I had a lot of fun plowing through it with my beast of a mower. Unfortunately, I also took out a huge bed of lupin flowers that Julie planted next to the asparagus. This is where my inexperience came into play; they looked like weeds to me.

I felt pretty bad when I realized my mistake, and I apologized profusely. Julie was very understanding and told me not to worry about it. After she walked away, her father came up to me in private and said “I always hated those flowers.” Then he told me that if I wiped out the rest of the lupins on the property he’d give me a big tip.

Julie’s sister gave me the nickname “Killer” after that episode. I was afraid I wouldn’t be allowed to use the atomic mower again, but they still trust me with it. I’ve had loads of fun wiping out overgrown weed forests all over the property without any more unwanted casualties, although Anna did stop me just moments before taking out the strawberry patch. I don’t know if I would have recovered from that one.

First week is down and I’m still thrilled to be here. I’m also told I’ll have the opportunity to learn how to slaughter chickens in a few days. Never thought I’d say it, but I’m really excited about that.

Axe Murderers and Amish Rebels

My next farm was located in northwest Montana, about an hour north of Missoula. I spent a couple days visiting my sister in Santa Fe before making the trek.

I had never been to Montana before, so my goal was to drive as long as I could the first day to get up there quickly, then take the next day or two exploring the new territory. Normally, I avoid interstate highways on road trips, but time was an issue so I made an exception. I drove a good 14 hours in one stretch, which started to take its toll on me.

At a rest area just north of Denver, I picked up a hitchhiker named Joe. I’m always a little skeptical about hitchers, but this guy had a camera that was nicer than anything I owned—which isn’t saying much—so I figured he wasn’t likely to rob me unless he really wanted an 8-year-old iPod that only works half the time. And he didn’t have an axe, which is a good sign.

Joe was a real friendly guy in his mid-40’s. He was laid off from a welding job when the company was bought out and his truck broke down shortly after that. He refused to let lack of funds or a vehicle stop him from visiting some old friends in the Rocky states, so he resorted to his thumb. He pointed out that he could have taken a bus, but hitching was far more fun. He had hitched up and down the west coast a few times, which he said was pretty easy with all the hippies driving along that route. Out here, however, getting rides was considerably more difficult. Until I picked him up, he had only traveled ten miles in two days. A sympathetic 7-11 clerk let him sleep in a storage shed the past couple nights.

It was on my route, so I drove him all the way to his destination in Casper, Wyoming. Joe grew up in Wyoming and helped keep me awake with lots of stories about baseball-sized hail and ice fishing accidents. He was documenting his trip and wanted to take my picture, so I asked to take one of him, too:

I made it to the Montana border after dropping Joe off and slept in my car at a rest area. The long day of driving was worth it because I got to soak in a good bit of the state at a leisurely pace the next day. When I passed through Butte, I learned they were hosting the National Folk Festival, which began that night. Admission was free (my favorite price) so I spent most of the evening there.

I arrived a couple hours before the first band went on. A few families were setting up blankets and chairs in front of the main stage, so I followed suit, laid out a beach towel and fell asleep on it. When I woke up, about half an hour before the band started, there were a million people around me. I had no idea how huge this festival was!

I watched a bluegrass band, a zydeco band, a Celtic band and—my fav—a honky tonk musician named Dale Watson. I’m a sucker for rockabilly (longtime Elvis fanatic), so that made the night for me. With loads of swing dancers, his tent was by far the liveliest.

Sunsets look different in every state. I always thought New Mexico had the best until I saw what Montana had to offer. They don’t call this big sky country for nothing. Magic hour lasts a long time here, and it’s intense. The entire sky turned a pale burnt orange color and everything and everyone around me was glowing as if they were all made of gold. I think I took more pictures of the sky than I did of the festival.

After the music, I looked for a campground. There were plenty nearby, but they were all full, so I slept in the car again. Believe it or not, those two nights curled up in my back seat were two of the most refreshing nights of sleep I’ve had in weeks. It sucks not being able to stretch out when I want to, but I’m a total insomniac and any chance for a good night of rest is well worth it. Now I know that if I have trouble sleeping on a farm I can always crawl into the car. Ha!

I spent the morning at the Missoula farmer’s market, then made my way up to the farm in St. Ignatius. I arrived just in time for the Amish auction up the road, where I met the farm owners and Anna, an old friend of mine who currently works for them. The auction was a little strange. I lived in Pennsylvania and have had plenty of experiences with Amish culture, but this was quite different. These Amish drink Coke, use digital cameras and cell phones and buy parts from Walmart to build their furniture. I think somebody needs to tell them what it means to be Amish.

At any rate, I got settled into my new cabin at the farm and met the extended family of the farm owners. Today was supposed to be a day off, but rain was threatening to ruin the hundreds of hay bales sitting out in the field. The bale-lifting tractor was misbehaving, so we hitched a trailer to the back of a pickup and went to work running through the field and hurling bales onto the flatbed. It was backbreaking work, and I felt like I had a baptism by fire, but I really enjoyed it. The family recently finished building an outdoor cob oven and treated me to homemade fire-roasted pizza afterward.

Then another amazing Montana sunset hit us. Incidentally, the cabin where I’m staying is facing a long line of ginormous snow-capped mountains. It’s a hell of a sight to say goodnight to, or to wake up and see first thing in the morning.

View from my cabin porch.

So far, so good…

Adiós Mexicano Loco!

Today was my last day on this Utah farm. I felt like Dorothy saying goodbye to everyone. I’ve met some interesting people here, but Hosey is definitely the one who will stick in my head the most—whether I like it or not.

By the way, it is really Hosey, not Josė.

When the British volunteers were here, we started a habit of visiting Hosey at his trailer for a few late night beers. I kept up that tradition after the Brits left, and it’s really hard for me to want to leave that trailer once I’m there. Part of that reason is all the cool stuff I’d find lying around his little room, like arrowheads and animal skulls and crossbows. A bigger reason, though, is the stories he tells. I’m not just talking about his memories of fighting in the Civil War in his past life (although those are good, too). What I really love are his stories about the normal, run-of-the-mill daily activities in his life that would be traumatic events for most other people.

For example, he once told me in great detail how he used to castrate sheep back when he was a herder. His partner had to hold the sheep’s legs up to make sure he wouldn’t be kicked, then Hosey had to do the knife work. “Always use a blunt blade,” he said, “cause a sharp one will make ‘em bleed to death.” I’m sparing you many of the details here, but I will add that very fresh rocky mountain oysters were his regular lunchtime snack on that job.

Hosey has been bitten three times by black widow spiders, but only the last two were by accident. His uncle showed immunity to the poisonous bites, and Hosey was curious if that resistance ran in his blood. To check, he caught a black widow and clamped it between his hands until it bit him on the palm. The result was several hours of intense pain and nausea, then he recovered and felt fine. He said he was thrilled to know how he would react to that venom. When he told this story, someone else in the room pointed out that if he wasn’t so lucky he would have ended up with a thousand-dollar ambulance ride to the emergency room. Hosey responded by saying, “That’s why I did it in the hospital parking lot.”

He wants to do the same thing with a rattlesnake, but people keep talking him out of it. Farmers have wiped out most of the rattlesnakes in this canyon over the past few decades, so they’re quite rare here now. When Hosey finds one, he gets excited and tries to catch it. He once caught one in a paint can right before Danny gave him a ride to his mother’s house. He showed it to Danny in the car by holding the open can up to his face and Danny almost drove off the side of the road (Danny verified this). Later that evening, Hosey opened the can to show his mother, but the snake crawled out and slithered straight for the 83-year-old woman. In a panic, Hosey grabbed it with his bare hands and shoved it back in the can. He said he was lucky it didn’t bite him and went on to tell me the proper way to pick up a rattlesnake by hand. He then added that he used to work a construction job in an area where rattlesnakes were plentiful and he got a kick out of grabbing them by their tails and throwing them at his coworkers. Said he loved the looks on their faces when he did that. Once, he accidentally threw one into the open window of a car his friend was driving.

He used to work as a forest fire fighter where burning trees fell and missed him by only a few feet. He also had a few near death experiences working with explosives in a uranium mine. A police officer almost shot Hosey when his drunk friend resisted arrest and stormed away to get a gun. Once, shortly after moving to the canyon, Hosey was about to walk out of his trailer late at night but stopped when he heard a ferocious noise out the door. In the morning, the remains of a deer ripped apart by a mountain lion were lying at his doorstep. He dragged what was left into a nearby cactus, where it still lies today.

Most people end up in therapy after experiences like these. Hosey laughs and cracks open another can of Miller High Life.

Aside from drinking beer (he brags that he can knock back a 30-pack in one evening), Hosey prefers to spend his free time hunting for Anasazi artifacts, making dreamcatchers or painting animal skulls. Right now he’s carving both a knife hilt and a handle for a walking stick out of a deer antler he found. People have offered him hundreds of dollars for the pieces he’s made and he’s acquired a reputation for telling them, quite literally, to fuck off. He refuses to take any money for his art or found artifacts, but won’t hesitate to give them away for free to people he meets and likes—even if it’s just a one-time acquaintance in a bar. From the first day I went to visit him, he’s tried to shove artwork, arrowheads and petrified wood into my hands.

Hosey has two cameras he’s never used. They were both gifts from several years ago, but he has no interest in them. A friend offered to give him a laptop, but he has no interest in learning how to use a computer, either. It’s not that he isn’t smart enough—he’s a lot sharper than he lets on, which becomes obvious when you see him rewire a generator—it’s just that they’re unnecessary in his life. He has no need or desire for a home larger than his trailers (one here on the farm and another in his mother’s backyard in town) or for any electric toys or frivolous gadgets. He has three adult children he visits regularly, along with his mother, and he loves it when people come to visit him, and that seems to be all he needs to be happy. On top of it all, he’s direct and sincere and doesn’t play games; people have asked him to behave or watch his tongue at parties and he adamantly refuses, insisting that he will always be himself. Danny’s mother doesn’t invite him to dinner with the Mormons anymore.

It’s refreshing to visit him after spending the day around people who constantly rant about politics or complain about how their outdated iPhone sucks or who talk shit about a friend as soon as he leaves the room. Hosey is a great model for recentering your mind and letting go of seemingly huge drama issues that, in the long run, really don’t matter. And he reminds me how important it is to like myself.

Today was Hosey’s 59th birthday. I made a cake. He gave me a dinosaur bone.

I’m going to miss that crazy son of a bitch.

Things Dad Never Taught Me

After four weeks, I’ve reached the end of my stay at this farm. It’s been both a productive and educational experience. This is a list of the things I learned here that I doubt I would have learned otherwise. Sorry Dad, but this is where you really dropped the ball:

• Never stand behind a cow.
• Never use river rocks to build a fire pit or they’ll explode and kill you (happens more often than you’d think).
• Two hands on the auger—no exceptions.
• Invisible biting flies exist, and they can pass through solid objects.
• If your tractor isn’t working then you’re not swearing at it loud enough.
• Never offer a Mormon a beer.
• Wear gloves when using PVC cement, especially if you plan to hold a fork later that day.
• A donkey can take down a mountain lion.
• Always use a blunt knife to castrate a sheep or it will bleed to death.
• The British drink more than the French.
• Cigarettes bad. Cigars good.
• You can pack light and save a lot of money on laundry if you only change your clothes every other week. And if everybody around you is on the same schedule then the smell doesn’t matter.
• Black widows can’t get stoned (for the record, I wasn’t the one who discovered this).
• PBR has almost twice the alcohol of Miller, and the British don’t know that.
• Velveeta is great bait for catfish, but do you really want to eat something that just ate Velveeta?
  
• I will never find lasting happiness in life until I own a chainsaw.
• And a 12-gauge shotgun.

I also learned a lot of other stuff like weeding and fixing a tractor and building irrigation pipes and farming in general, but this list sums up what I like to call the “practical” knowledge.

Heading to a Montana farm in a few days. Can’t wait to see what I learn there!

It's a Good Kind of Sweat

The Brits left last Monday, so I’m now the only volunteer until the next batch arrives. Danny is expecting three grad students from New York and a guy from South Korea this weekend, although he’s learned that arrival dates and plans are always subject to change. I’m leaving on Monday for my next farm, which is in Montana, so this is my last week here.

Danny and I have been working long days to get the new field ready for planting. We finished cutting, assembling and installing all the new irrigation pipes, then buried them. Sadly, the hard-earned hole I dug is now just a bump in the ground. It was tough to see it go, but I’m coping.

After the irrigation system was done, we spent a few days stretching wire across both halves of the field to make sure we dig planting holes in a straight line. That about killed me the first day—I pulled muscles in both my arms and could barely pull my boots off when I came in. It did get easier over the next couple days.

Once the wires were set, we started digging holes for the new grapes with gas-powered augers. The machine wasn’t as scary as it looked, but to really grind it into the ground I had to lean over so that my face was right in front of its exhaust vent. I’m not sure how much carbon monoxide I inhaled, but I managed to stay coherent. The tough part was that the temperature in the canyon reached 100 degrees, and the hot exhaust blowing in my face didn’t help.

I did great with the auger until I finished my first row. After that, it got tough fast. Every hole became harder and harder to drill until I couldn’t even pull it out of the ground anymore. I struggled and cursed at it a long time before I finally conceded that I’m a weakling. I found Danny and shamefully told him I didn’t have enough strength to use it properly. He gave it a go and couldn’t pull it out either. We fought with that thing a long time, bending it every which way and digging up around it until it finally came out. That’s when we discovered there were a lot of big tree roots in the ground on that part of the field, which he told me used to be an orchard. The auger got stuck in one and had no chance of coming loose on its own. We tried digging a few more holes in that line with a more powerful auger but couldn’t get through, even with both of us putting our weight into it.

By the way, here’s what was left of the auger bit after we got it out. I didn’t feel so weak after seeing this:

We spent the next day modifying the tractor to drill for us. This involved borrowing a few parts from the Mormon neighbors down the road and driving to Cortez to buy a few more. We spent the whole day figuring out a way to make it work and I learned a lot about tractor mechanics. Did you know that most tractor problems can be fixed with a mini sledge and a colorful vocabulary? It’s true. I really liked the tractor store. It brought back all the excitement of going to a toy store as a kid. I wanted to test drive every machine and try out every attachment! I think I actually drooled.

It took another day for us to work out all the kinks in the field—and buy a few more components—but we finally got the tractor auger working (I call it a trauger). Now we’re drilling holes like mad.

We did have a problem with a couple crabapple trees. Danny wanted to try to save them, but they didn’t leave any room for the tractor to get through, so they had to come down. That’s when I learned to use a chainsaw. I really liked the chainsaw. I mean I REALLY liked it. Sorry to say this since I’m a tree lover, but slaughtering that tree that was the most fun I’ve had in ages. I can totally understand the appeal of murdering someone with one of those things.

I’m also happy to say the bugs haven’t been a problem anymore. I use my natural repellent and avoid the mosquito netting and all is well. The wind has picked up, too, which also helps keep them away. A few days ago, a strong gust blew my hat off my head and carried it clear across the field. It landed near where Hosey was working, about 300 feet away. When he returned it to me, I asked why his hat never blows off. He told me that tying a wet bandana around his head keeps it in place, then added that he learned that trick in the Civil War during the battle of Gettysburg.

Any past complaints I had about feeling like a slacker here are long gone. Without the less-enthused volunteers, my workday has grown from a lazy four hours full of breaks to an action-packed seven or eight hours with just enough time for a sandwich at lunch. I feel like I really earn the soreness I feel when I wake up in the mornings. The best part is that I can see the progress we’re making in the field every day, and it feels great. I wish I’d be here long enough to see the grapes go in, but I’m also very excited about the Montana farm.

Incidentally, on our last shopping trip, Danny loaded up a whole cart of fresh fruits and veggies. That surprised me a bit, considering that until I arrived the house was full of nothing more than processed junk food. When I asked Danny about it he told me he only bought the crap food because that’s what the volunteers at that time would eat. Any fresh produce he bought then would just go bad. Now that they’re gone, we can stock up on real food. You know, the kind of stuff our grandparents recognized as food.

Got my veggies. Got my chainsaw. Life is good.