Living in Paradise
February 1, 2011
We have heard it time and time again from visitors to the farm, “You are so lucky to live here!”
Agua Linda Farm Journal
January 1, 2011
As we sip our coffee in the early dawn hours, cozied up to the fireplace, dressed in pajamas and bathrobes, Stewart and I peruse the Johnny’s Seed catalogue and plan our next order. The seeds we are ordering today will not be harvested until late May or early June. Sweet yellow onions, red onions, leeks, shallots and green onions need to be put in the ground very soon. Garlic has already been planted and irrigated.
Bonnie and Clyde
November 1, 2010
This season I have two new companions who are by my side in the garden everyday. Bonny and Clyde are geese that my kids and I hand raised. They were hatched on the farm late April in the bustling chaos of the goose pen. We removed them promptly to be in our care. I hate doing that after the poor geese have so diligently sat waiting for their young to hatch, but I have learned (the hard way) that it is the only way to rear goslings. If I could let the geese out to roam in the yard, the babies would follow and get everything they needed nutritionally, but the farm is teaming with barn cats that prefer an easy catch over mousing. If I leave the babies in the goose pen, they get trampled by the boisterous geese who are clueless as they clumsily rush around, thinking they are protecting their goslings, but instead, are crushing them under their webbed feet. So, as a rule, baby geese are removed and raised on a mash diet, rich in just the right vitamins in a safe enclosure until they can eat grass and are too big for the cats to contemplate for a meal.
The Jewel of the Gods
October 1, 2010
I don’t know who planted the first pomegranate tree on the farm, perhaps it was a feathered fellow – not a human, but over the years “volunteer” plants have continued to sprout under the protection of mature trees around the property. We now find ourselves with five or six fruit-bearing pomegranates and they are a family favorite. In fact, as Stewart and I ponder the addition of an orchard, weighing the pros and cons of apples, peaches and plums, I am advocating for the plant that seems to just want to be here – the pomegranate.
My First Arizona Summer
July 1, 2010
Stewart and I have learned that farming during the summer rainy season is hard. As we bake in mid summer heat of June with temperatures soaring into a scalding 109’ some days we look forward to the relief of the first rains of July but we are also apprehensive as to what the years’ monsoon season will bring. Monsoon rains come hard and fast. They cause flooding and erosion and storms are often accompanied by hail. Too much water at one time causes tomatoes and melons to plump up too fast and split. Hail can pock squash or completely destroy crops. Heavy rains make it impossible to get tractors into the field to cultivate and soon weeds, as opportunistic as desert critters, take over in earnest. Harvesting in muddy fields is exhausting. I usually start out with shoes on, but soon go barefoot. Rubber boots become so laden with mud that it is like carrying ten-pound, slippery weights on each foot. Crocks or tennis shoes don’t even stand a chance. Bare foot is the only way, but my feet soon get sore from sliding against wet, gritty rocks hidden under the slippery mud.
Goodies in the Garden
June 1, 2010
Agua Linda Farm Journal – May
May 1, 2010
Agua Linda Farm Journal – May
This month, thoughts of farming are overshadowed by the death of my grandfather.
My Papa was our first dance partner. Standing on his cowboy boots with bare feet, our hands wrapped around his thumbs, my and I sisters waltzed and two-stepped. We danced to the rhythms of his harmonica and to the um-pa-pa of his accordion and, as he sat, legs crossed, we perched on his boot, bouncing and laughing, pretending we were riding a horse.
On dark, cold, snowy Christmas mornings, Papa made sure we believed in Santa Claus. Jingle bells and pounding on the roof could have only been reindeer and a sleigh! His hands helped to build our first home and he was our hero in his big yellow truck that he used to plow the snow out of our driveway and, once, to rescue our school bus that was stuck in a snow drift. He loved to fish and taught us how to thread wriggly worms onto a hook. As adults, Papa eyed our boyfriends with skepticism. When he met Stewart over 20 years ago, my future husband had long hair, a tie-dyed t-shirt and was driving a pink and purple striped truck. “Why don’t you ride with me? ” Papa said, taking me firmly by the arm. I smiled over my shoulder as I walked away from Stewart, feeling honored to be protected by my Papa, who I knew would sit down with Stewart soon enough and would approve.
When I walk into the garage at my grandparent’s log home on Lake Ida in Alexandria, Minnesota, I pause and inhale deeply. My sisters do the same and we smile at one another. They know. We have spoken of it many times before – how the smells of Mama and Papa’s home never change and the first whiffs upon arrival – always after a grueling, long trip – bring back flashes of memory going back to our earliest years. And, over there, where it always is, waits Papa’s chair and a spare for a visitor or maybe one of us, and a side table with his collection of pipes. Here we would sit and talk endlessly as he puffed. That sweet smell of tobacco, too, was the smell of fond memories. Then the door to the entry is opened. The screen door bangs its familiar greeting as we step into the living room, our luggage in tote. “We’re here, Mama! ” we shout, looking around the living room at the furniture that we have sat in for decades. We briefly marvel, once again, how nothing has changed – the rug where we played with dolls and Lincoln Logs (that are in a box in the loft) is the same and is where, more recently, we watched our own kids – the great grandchildren – play with the same well worn toys. The staircase to the loft is in front of us and I am so happy that I will be sleeping up there instead of in the new bedroom that was put in the basement. I will climb those stairs tonight – stairs that I used to slide down on my bottom – to sleep in the loft where I will be able to hear the comforting tones of conversation continuing in the kitchen below but will not be able to make out words as I drift into sleep. Beside my bed I know I will find a basket of children’s books that will include, along with a few recent additions, worn copies of Ferdinand the Bull and Miss Lucy which I will be sure to read before heading back to Arizona.
Through the picture window in the kitchen, we can see the lake and it is magnificent. The ice, we are told, has just melted, and now the water is choppy and rough. It will be too cold for a swim this trip, but we will dare each other and will walk down the hill to the dock and perhaps stick in a big toe, just to say we did. Squirrels busily hop and scamper precariously from tiny branch to tinier branch on the maples that frame the lake view. The trees are still leafless from winter and I can see more of the lake from the kitchen window than I can on most visits which are in the summer – July or August, when a break from Arizona heat is needed and the lake will be warm enough for swimming.
We sit in the familiar chairs of the kitchen where everyone gathers, even if it gets too crowded and someone has to sit on the floor. Cousins will stop by, aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews and friends – “We could sit in the living room, I suppose, ” Mama will say at some point, but we won’t move. We will visit and talk and laugh while we sip coffee and sample new recipes and stuff ourselves full of my Aunt Sam’s homemade bread – still hot from the oven, or Aunts Doris’ “hot dish” (a Minnesota word for casserole). So much is the same this sweet, wonderful place locked in time and I feel embraced like a child, comfortable and safe within these walls, surrounded by family. A sanctuary preserved to which I have always been able to return, but this time things have changed.
Now, Papa’s chair in the kitchen is empty with his fishing journals in a basket on the floor. His tools in the garage are untouched and his boots are on a shelf in his closet. Papa’s garden is ready for spring planting of potatoes and peas so we help my Aunt Sam who has decided to double the size of the plot this year. We till, pound in fence posts, string chicken wire and stake out rows. Most significantly, we all join forces to remove a giant rock that Papa and Aunt Sam gave up on every spring and cheer as the boulder was finally dislodged.
That night I go to bed listening to soft voices coming from the kitchen as I have done so many times. The log house creaks as it settles and when someone walks through the house it sounds just like the shuffling of Papa’s boots and I drift into slumber.
January
January 1, 2010
“It all started with arugula…” my husband, Stewart likes to say when asked how he got into farming. His mother, Regina had returned from Europe in the early 90’s yearning for the hot, flavorful green she had enjoyed while on her trip. She found a small seed company and ordered a few packets and planted arugula in and amongst her flowerbeds. The result was a bumper crop of greens that she washed and bagged and gave to friends. When she still had some left over, she asked her friend Ellen March if she could sell her arugula outside the Tubac Market. Regina ordered more “European” greens and recruited her son to build some raised beds in the backyard. I think Stewart was looking for an excuse to get back to the farm. He had followed me to Tucson while I went to the University of Arizona and had been working with a film studio in town. We were a young couple, just starting out and making big decisions, planning our future. Originally Stewart wanted to get into the film or sound industry. His father, grandfathers and great grandfathers had been monumental figures in the Hollywood film business so this seemed like a logical choice for Stewart. Every weekend, however, after my last class finished on Friday, I would cycle back to our apartment in the Tucson barrio where Stewart would fire up our V. W. van (often a very time consuming task and one calling for the crossing of fingers…) and we would head back down to the farm. This was where Stewart wanted to be and, with the lure of the country and horses and a very fun family to visit, it was also where I wanted to be.
December
December 1, 2009
This is the time of year when the weather reminds us why we live in Southern Arizona. Evenings are cold enough for a cozy fire while afternoons are warm enough for t-shirts. It is also the time of year when things slow down at the Agua Linda Farm and my family can take a breath and enjoy the fringe benefits of farm life. For my kids, and me this means horses.
November
November 1, 2009
I would like to dedicate this month’s journal to all the people who have helped us on the farm all year and during our Fall Festival.