HOMEGROWN Life: “The Seasons Guide My Days Now”

But to me, choosing this way of life is a way of coming home. My
family (on my Father’s side), were and still are all farmers. I wasn’t
raised that way, Daddy married a strict Bostonian girl and we saw a lot
more of Mom’s side of the family than we did the farmers. But, growing
up outside Washington, DC, in our suburban home, there was always a
garden in the backyard full of ?owers and juicy tomatoes and even a
compost pile. I would climb up in the sour cherry tree and eat cherries
’til my tongue ached from the tartness.

My mom only baked once a year, at Christmas, a batch of cutout sugar
cookies. Not one cherry ever went into a pie. Oh what I would give for
those golden red orbs now! In my teenage years our family moved “to the
country” to follow my father’s job. When o?ered the chance to choose a
bedroom in our new home, I picked the one overlooking Mr. Beall’s
corn?elds and grazing cows. The weekend we moved in, the moving van
arrived, followed by a dump truck full of manure. Daddy had already
planned for a bigger garden. I’m sure our neighbors thought the Beverly
Hillbilly’s had arrived. I saw it as Daddy coming home to his roots.

That ?rst summer he planted a full “Victory” garden, with every
imaginable vegetable, some I had never heard of like Bok Choy. If Mom
was overcome by the idea of cherry pies, I was sure Bok Choy was never
going to make it to our dinner table. But, Dad’s enthusiasm was
infectious and we all learned to eat stir fry. The garden plot was
surrounded with ever bearing raspberries and strawberries apple, plum
and peach trees and marigolds, “natural bug deterrent” Daddy said.

Our roots really do speak to us in different ways but for me, I feel
rooted in my family’s heritage of farming, even though I came to it much
later in life and quite by accident. When my sheep come running over to
me and Sweet Pea paws my leg because I’m not dolling out the apples
quickly enough, or when I’m leaning up against the barn stall and
quietly Barnie makes his way over and rests his head on my knee, I can’t
imagine a life now that doesn’t include being surrounded by these warm
fuzzies. I didn’t acquire my Father’s love of growing things, my garden
is very small. I love that this property came with a history of  wild
raspberries, blackberries, blueberries and apples, planted by birds and
former residents.

At this point in my life, I’ve learned life happens while I’m busy
making plans. The seasons guide my days now. As we wend our way into
winter, I’m already counting down to the ?rst week of March when I’m
anticipating the arrival of lambs and kids. The garden beds are hardly
put to sleep but my head is buzzing with ideas for putting in rock walls
next year. And while I’m distracted with these ideas that clutter up my
mind and pull me into a time months away, I’m gently reminded by
clattering in the barn that the girls await to be put out to pasture.

I’m thankful for that and many more reminders to focus more on the
precious present. I think I’ll let the future take care of itself for
surely it will come, probably not in the form I imagine or scheme for
but surely it will come.

I describe myself as an accidental farmer with a purpose. My farm, located on the St. George peninsula of Maine is a certi?ed Maine State Dairy. I offer cheeses made with milk from my registered Saanen goat herd, a seasonal farmstand full of wool from my Romney cross ?ock, as well as goat milk soaps, lavender, woolens, and whatever else strikes my fancy. Bittersweet Heritage Farm is an extension of my belief that  we should all gain a better understanding of our food source, our connection to where we live, and to the animals with whom we share the earth.