I didn’t realize it at the time, but Crop Mob was about to move a big piece of dirt.

That dirt was me.

One of reasons Kristin and I moved out of the city was because we felt that we had exhausted what we could do in Wilmington. The city was and probably still is unreceptive to the kinds of things we were tying to do. Most of what we started got some traction early on, but once we set them out on their own, folks quickly lost interest and things folded.  We became babysitters when what we wanted to be were peers – peers empowering other people to step up and get things done.

Worst of all was becoming a disappointed babysitter, cleaning up the messes of people who knew better but continued to act as if anarchism meant you never had to be responsible.

So yeah, Crop Mob came and got me and shook the Wilmington right out of me.  I simply had to tag along, give it all that I knew how to do and watch as other strong people filled in the holes, making the project a fluid and replicable and respectable entity.

And with the strong people comes the strong growth and with that comes the growing pains and the discussions about how best to proceed with this entity that we have created.  For better or worse, all the media attention will fade.  When that happens, some of the sexy will wash off and we will be left with a few fronts to engage.

1 – The original work area of the original Crop Mob group.  Do we split into individual county groups or do we continue to function as we have as a three county group?  My take has always been that we stay together as a three county group.  The camaraderie of engaging with my peers from Hillsborough, Chapel Hill and Pittsboro is enough to make me hold out and not want to dissolve into smaller groupings.  Crop Mob events are some of the only times I get to interact with this larger agrarian culture, and I feel like the benefit to the group of this mixing outweighs the slight possibility of the group becoming watered down with long distance commuters.

2 – The rapidly expanding Crop Mob universe.  We are looking at facilitating the creation of at least 20 new Crop Mob groups in the US.  As these groups get established, more will follow from their examples.  How do we best maintain the core principles of the idea and replicate it without micromanaging every aspect of each groups’ formation? Again, for better or worse, we have to let the idea evolve on its own and accept that sometimes it won’t work out in the ways we might want or expect. We have to trust that we, by our own boots-in-the-dirt examples, have created an idea that needs minimal governance and minimal tweaking in order to accomplish work and build a community.

The farmer Trace Ramsey, who is part of the Mob core as well as its documentarian, has watched the young-farmer phenomenon explode. ‘People are interested in authentic work,’ he said. ‘I think they’re tired of what they’ve been told they should accomplish in their life, and they’re starting to realize that it’s not all that exciting or beneficial from a community perspective or an individual perspective.’ At 36, Ramsey joked that he’s the old man of the project — remarkable considering the average American farmer is 57. But as people of all ages become involved, he said, ‘what started as a young-farmer movement is just becoming a farmer movement.’

Full story – Field Report: Plow Shares by Christine Muhlke

This year there is a new shelter, a scavenged bamboo and baling twine number that I built over the course of a few days.  It isn’t much to look at, but it is dry and, more importantly, lightweight.  Moving last year’s pig house was a nightmare.  It was heavy and unwieldy; I cursed it, the pigs destroyed it as they aged, knocking out the floor and the walls.  Now its shell sits with last year’s scarecrow along the forest edge, waiting for new purposes and locations.

The new house is basically a tent with one open wall.  It can be staked down after moving in case it is windy.  But that is all boring stuff… Who wants to see the two day old piglets!

Five weeks from this coming Saturday the piglets will be weaned (according to the Animal Welfare Approved time line).  Shortly after that, the pigs will come home and join the rest of us animals.

Crop Mob is simply an innovation in farm work and organizing.  Taking the old idea of community labor, a small group of farm interns created a new model, a model of organizing that takes experienced and novice farmers (and other interested folks) and puts them in a shared space at a particular farm at a particular time. Within this space, the group tackles a set of tasks using the directions given by the host farm and the experience each person brings to the space. At the end of a few hours of work they share a meal.  Along with the meal is the extended value of a shared experience, an experience unique for each farm and to each participant.

According to sociologists, there are five stages in the adoption or rejection of any innovation (called Diffusion of Innovation).  The first step is the exposure of an individual to the idea without them having any prior information about the idea. This was basically the mindset of the originators of Crop Mob and anyone who comes upon it without ever hearing about it beforehand.

The next step is the individual actively seeking out information about the innovation or idea.  This can be asking another participant, doing web searches, emailing. Through this information the individual proceeds to the next step, which is making a decision to accept or reject the idea.

This step is worth exploring, as I feel that misinformation about Crop Mob really affects this stage. With any innovation there is skepticism, there is doubt, there are wildly off-the-mark perceptions.  One of the most frequent is that Crop Mob is a magical free labor pool that simply appears at your farm or garden and runs through the to-do list.  The Crop Mob is sometimes also misconstrued as an idealistic gang of urban lefties, off to do their good deed in the country and shed some of that built up liberal guilt.

Yet another amazingly false idea is that Crop Mob is a group of inexperienced idiots who don’t know one end of a shovel from the other. They will wreck your years of careful farm planning and layout, damage all your equipment, let your chickens out to the swarming wolves and hawks, and destroy all your saved seed by mistaking it for lunch. I personally feel that this misconception is keeping the Crop Mob from interacting with some of the more established sustainable farms in our area.  I know there are many of these farms that would like to share their experience with young and new farmers but are afraid that we just don’t have what it takes to restrain ourselves in their space.

The fourth stage of the process is execution or use of the idea. Folks show up and work with the mob for the day, using their experience to further evaluate the idea for themselves. If they don’t like it, they won’t come back and do it again.  It is hard to evaluate how many people have chosen not to come back to Crop Mob.  There is no way to really measure their reaction since we are not setup to do exit interviews with every participant.  Reasons for not coming back are probably extremely variable – not feeling welcomed, the work was too hard or too easy, the weather was horrible, expectations were not met.

Again, many of these reasons should be explored.  How can we as a group be more hospitable? I think an easy way would be to ask mobbers who have been to several mobs to look for new faces and make sure they are properly introduced and welcomed. This does not mean to inundate them with hugs and handshakes, but rather make sure they are oriented and introduced, make sure they are comfortable with the task they are taking up, and, if they are inexperienced, make sure they are partnered with an experienced group or individual. Through this single task, I think we can get more returning mobbers.

The final stage is a confirmation. The users of the Crop Mob idea return to use it again or set off to start their own mob in another part of the state, country or world. The idea becomes known for its viability and ease of use.

Scavenging also includes gleaning scrap lumber from neighboring demolition projects, concrete pieces (urbanite), old greenhouse plastic, bamboo, hay twine, nails, and irrigation drip tape. Combine all those elements and you get a really decent and basic greenhouse.

The process started with a bamboo harvest – this ingredient was necessary for putting together the top framing as well as the side ribs.

The ends of the greenhouse were built with downed cedar trees that we pulled out of the woods as well as scrap lumber from a demolition up the road from us.  There were also a few pieces from a recent gutting of a few rooms in our house.

The plastic came from an organic farm near the NC coast as did the drip tape that was used to staple through and hold the plastic to the framing.

Photo from Danielle

Total cost for this greenhouse (not including labor of course) is somewhere between $5 and $15 depending on who you ask.  I think the staples were at least $4 for the box, but calculating how many nails were purchased versus how many were scavenged is difficult.

Regardless, the greenhouse is ready for seed flats and a jump-start on the season.  Anyone interested in our CSA?

Gray seeds out some flats

Scalding a chicken before plucking

Filming a music video with anarchists

Madeline framed with a fence under construction

Jack

I thought it would be fun to look through the photographs I took during the last year, the ones that weren’t posted here on Cricket Bread as part of an essay.  These photos don’t necessarily tell a story all together. That said, there is no particular order in time or in theme.

Noel focuses on starting a fire with primitive tools

Mike Slaton prepares for Diner Night

Jamie hula hoops at the Pittsboro Pepper Festival

Kristin relaxes in Denver

Dance party in Pittsboro, North Carolina

Kristin destroys a door frame

Danielle, Noel and Gray cook dinner in the Wolf Den

I am vowing that this coming year the mowing will be minimized.  Going in are perennial beds, hugelkultur mounds, insectory plants by the hundreds and a kitchen garden for fun.  The front yard outside of mine and Kristin’s door is the first to fall.  Step one is to kill the grass or otherwise remove it. Well, actually step one is to figure out where the beds will go and do some measuring and flagging.

A few years ago I attended a workshop at the annual CFSA conference presented by Susana from Salamander Springs Farm. The workshop was all about building no-till beds on top of grass.  I finally found the notes in one of the piles of notebooks that I have only recently brought together into one pile.  The notes spell out a no-till “Layer Cake” garden bed recipe:

Step one – “The Plate” consists of large sheets of cardboard laid over existing pasture or lawn.

Step two – “The Cake” consists of several inches of manure or compost.

Step three – “The Frosting” consists of mulch such as leaves, old hay, shredded paper and straw.

Step four – “The Baking” consists of letting it all settle and rot for three to four months.

Step five – “The Eating” consists of pulling the mulch back to put in plants and replenishing the mulch as the plants grow.

For our cardboard needs we almost always head to Siler City.  The dollar stores’ Dumpsters are usually a nice jackpot for all sizes of box, not necessarily a requirement to fit most mulching needs.  For larger jobs we would hit furniture and appliance stores.  The boxes are bigger and thicker providing more grass and weed killing power.  For uniformity of boxes, the local ABC Liquor store would be perfect.  Most folks hit them up for packing boxes.  For wax boxes, hit the grocery… Since this particular project was just a piece of a front yard, the dollar store cardboard works well.  The only problem is the tape.  There is a lot of tape to remove and dispose of.

While peeling off tape, you get to see where all the crap products come from and come through.  Most of the importers seem to be in New York City of New Jersey.  The origins are India, China, Korea, Vietnam.  None of the boxes were made from recycled material (no notices on the boxes), so I will probably be mulching with cardboard descended directly from trees, most likely trees from Canada.  That is a long way to go in order to get into my front yard.  The boxes also have loads of staples, fabric tape and heavy duty packing tape holding everything together.

The value of the boxes and its associated connectors is probably higher than the value of the stuff inside the box. I know the value of what I am about to grow on and through those boxes is higher than the box plus the stuff inside.  And then some – mostly because so much comes from the cardboard.  Earthworms tunnel under and through it; pill bugs, beetles and earwigs make their home in the crevices between the layers; fungal mycelia run like branching rivers throughout the whole bit.  All of this activity leads to the decomposition of the still useful organic matter and carbon that is nestled within the cardboard.

What would have taken years to happen with the use of a new log, the loggers, grinders, pulpers, pressers, importers and exporters have made into a readily available haven for all sorts of micro and macro interactions. But the folks at the end of the box-chain would have just thrown it away or possibly recycled it into more cardboard that would eventually be thrown away (nothing against recycling cardboard) whereas we at Circle Acres have really recycled the box and returned it to its rightful place – rotting on the ground and being digested by those who can do such a thing.

The only drawback to this system is that it takes a really long time to build.  For one person, by hand, estimate at least two hours to go twenty five feet.  Then of course there is the “baking” part, but after three or four months the area should be grass and weed free.  It will also be a nutritious place to start off new Spring plants for Summer harvest.

I knew that the stories of how that big buck came to be dead would be floating around the house until they could be recited, with all the groan inducing embellishments, by people in the house who were trying hard not to listen.  I could probably dig deep enough to remember one or two of those stories, but who gives a shit really?

My grandfather also told stories, the ones that I have forgotten, the ones about how the deer tricked him or showed him up or maybe never even existed.  He never seemed to be about the perceived glory of shooting something in the face; when a deer was in the freezer before December he seemed satisfied with the knowledge that, with the deer’s help, he and his family would have food for the Winter.  He didn’t regale in the winners and losers of what most sane people would see as a wholly lopsided conflict heavily subsidized by civilization and its tools – a heavily armed human against an unprepared, unwilling and unaware opponent.

My grandfather’s task was brutal regardless, but maybe less so as there were no mounted heads on the walls of his home like there were in our home. The need for those stuffed and preserved reminders is something that I couldn’t explain back then, but know now is an indication of small mindedness, a dedication to the outward projection of dominance when you know that you are inescapably weak inside.  You are a collector with no sense of how to interact with the dead or the living, both phases of life simply reminders of inadequacy, weak interpersonal skills and low self esteem. If you have a deer head or a stuffed fish on your wall, go look at it and ask yourself what reminder it serves that could not otherwise be captured by a photograph or poem. Is it there to show your friends and family what a hero you are?

When I was younger, I volunteered twice to travel with a New York DEC deer ager on their rounds.  For fourteen hours we visited deer processing places as well as any house that had a deer hanging in the front yard.  My job was to write while the ager examined teeth and called out the ages of each dead deer.

I think it was during this time that I became permanently desensitized to the sights and smells of dead non-human animals.  At each processor were dozens of barrels and drums and tarps full of various parts; piles of legs next to buckets of guts and tails; lines of deer carcasses waiting to be disassembled by hacksaws, band saws and reciprocating saws, mostly frozen in rigor mortis or by the depth of cold in the evening air.  Steam escaped from some of the recent arrivals, a sign that they were less than an hour dead.

*****

There can be nothing more brutal or common or necessary than taking a life in order to eat and sustain a body. Non-human animals do it without question, without any perceptible remorse or hesitation. What makes our actions so much different?

We pull carrots from the soil, ending their run from gravity, ending their gathering of sugar and all the processes that made them a living thing. They may not scream or run or struggle much, but a carrot is a living thing nonetheless and we must kill it in order to eat it.

Eating a carrot is nothing like eating an animal, which is why many choose not to eat the latter at all. I respect that choice; it was a choice that I had once made as well. As with eating it, killing a carrot is nothing like killing an animal. Animals articulate their disappointment in our choice to kill them in blood gurgles, screams and the twitches of ending nerve impulses. We destroy them in order that we can live; we destroy them for other reasons as well, reasons that have no bearing on survival. If you do not believe that then you deny that your meal had any previous life beyond its packaging. I apologize, but I can’t let you do that.

As the busy day of butchering ended, those who drink bourbon were entitled to their sips.  Sips turned into larger sips and those sips turned into songs and poetry and stories about Henry Hudson and the Catskill Gnomes.  A fire maintained through a little lingering drizzle as people kept nibbling from the tables full of pork.

There was a ragu with trotters, braised belly with apple cider and tenderloins melting in their dishes.  And there were people from the city connecting with the farmers and the farmers connecting with their butcher.  It was an introduction to food sources that will continue beyond the empty bottles and fire warmed feet, beyond the apple orchard and the muddy ruts.

The next morning it was back to work on the pork, cutting up the remaining pieces and getting the fat ready for sausage making.  Fat was also rendered for frying apple fritters and doughnuts, greasy little snacks that went well with the monotony of grinding the sausage.

When the work was done I took the train back to Manhattan, carrying a package of sausage for a friend in Jackson Heights.  We ate some for breakfast the next day.  At that point I was at the pork threshold and could eat no more.

I didn’t know a whole lot about butchering before this workshop.  I still don’t.  Trying to take good photographs of the event led me to miss most of what was said about certain cuts.  I know where the bacon comes from as well as the chops, roasts and ribs, but I am still a little fuzzy on the tenderloin and the various cuts from the shoulder.

There was a lot of reverence for the pigs during the butchering sessions.  We discussed their habits, their escapes from the farm, their food choices.  We also discussed how they were not named, a tradition that I do not adhere to.  I was very close to my pigs and couldn’t conceive that they would go through life without someone calling their names.  They didn’t get to pick their names, but how many of us had that opportunity? But they also didn’t choose to come live with us and eventually to die unnaturally either.  I will get into that in a future post.  For now I will let these pictures tell the story of the first day of butchering…

Day one for me was actually the day before the workshop.  I arrived at Smithereen Farm via an Amtrak train out of Penn Station then via a car ride with Severine and Anne from the Greenhorns project.  Our first stop was an antique farm store called Hoffman’s Barn Sale, a large, wood-stove heated menagerie of rusty farm implements, old style canning jars and mid-70s classic rock albums.  It was like a flea market except the store was filled with useful shit, not just beat up boxes of doll parts or piles of messed up Dokken tapes.

The mission at the Barn Sale was to pick up some last minute cooking implements.  These implements included – what was described to me at the time – a pot big enough to fit a pig’s head.  Not in itself all that interesting until you start to talk about what that means and why it means what it means.  Yeah, we’ll just boil this pig head for awhile, you have a problem with that?  It reminded me of a page from the Sandor Katz book The Revolution Will Not Be Microwaved about processing pig heads -

We found that pot along with a giant stock pot, some Pyrex casserole dishes and a Dutch oven.  Scattered among the purchases were the echoes of Severine shouting from every corner – “Anne, we need this.”  Not having been in this dynamic before, I wasn’t sure if this was just how shopping with Severine was or if indeed we did “need this”.  Severine also reminded us that her mother always told her to buy Pyrex when she could.  So we did.

Back at the farm it was a breakfast of fresh eggs and coffee and toast with plum jam.  It was playing with kittens and listening.  It was coloring salsa labels and organizing stuff.  It was digging a pit and splitting wood for the slow roasting of a pig side.  It was getting the first sniff of a weekend’s worth of wood smoke.  It was meeting new folks and trying to be a talker.  It was a warm wood stove and giggles from grown ups.

It was the start of a pretty immense undertaking, this crash course in butchering and sausage making.  I ended the day tired like I usually end my days, but this tired was an out-of-town tired. I didn’t worry about it much and prepared myself to go to sleep late and wake up early, getting back to work and getting back to tired.

Hardly recognize simple things anymore
I don’t want to be defeated

What else is there to do
But go outside and look around*

*Lyrics taken from Bed for the Scraping – Fugazi

Noel read up on how frost can affect sweet potatoes and determined that it would be best if we dug them up promptly.  Another frost was coming, we had the hands needed to get the job done and it seemed like a fun project for a Monday evening.

We had planted quite a few varieties to see how they would come out.  The sizes and yields varied with the only constant being that the roots may have been held back by the thick clay soil.  Sweet potatoes really prefer a light soil and a long frost-free growing season.  Our area is great for the frost-free part but not so much on the for the light soil.

Kristin, Gray, Noel and myself tore up the dying vines, feeding them to the waiting pigs.  Pigs love sweet potato vines. They are great nutrition for people as well.  Next year I plan to try to ferment a few and see how they taste.

With the dying vines pulled up we had to race a dropping sun.  We dug as much as we could in the fading light, but ended up resorting to head lamps for the last hour of harvesting.  I’m not sure if we missed any in the surrounding darkness.  I guess we’ll find out in the Spring when volunteers start shooting up from the soil.

The potatoes spent the night in our room cuddling with the wood stove.  Noel and Gray moved them into the greenhouse to cure for a while.  Curing is a whole other scene…

Last Winter was our first season in the room and our first time using wood heat.  We learned a lot in the process:

• We cut wood as we needed it instead of stockpiling.  This led to some shortages and some work in the dark as we scrambled for a night’s worth of wood.
• We didn’t have a damper in the stove pipe.  This led to most of the heat going up and out the chimney.  It also meant that we had to feed the fire every three hours.  I guess it was like having a newborn baby but with way more cussing and shivering.
• We didn’t have electricity run, so we didn’t have an overhead fan.  Heat went up and up and out.

So we fixed some things, and we are in a little different place this year.  First, we have a ceiling fan wired up.  It keeps the hot air down at our level and helps with heat distribution.

Second, I put a damper in the stove pipe.  This closes off the stove from the chimney, allowing the wood to burn longer  in the stove.  Since the stove is pretty old, it is not airtight.  Without the damper air is sucked through the openings in the stove, making the fire burn hotter and shorter.

Third, we started cutting and splitting wood when it warmer outside and not needed for burning.

Last night we fired up the stove for the first time this season.  We went through eight pieces of wood from six in the evening until morning, much less than our average last year and with no need to load it after we went to bed.  The fire kept the room very toasty all night long.  It was so warm that I slept on top of my sleeping bag.  Kristin felt is was uncomfortably hot under her covers.  This tells me that we might have figured out the formula to keep warm this year.

CircleAcres is a collective land project seeking to create a self sustaining ecosystem that provides its inhabitants and community with food, fuel, and medicine while moving away from mechanization, resource extraction and consumerism. Utilizing biological processes to meet our needs while making use of the unending stream of “waste” produced by the current system. We are nestled in Chatham County, NC a small community with a strong sustainable agriculture presence.

It is our first year on the land so there are lots of projects underway and lots of learning opportunities to jump headfirst into.Some of the things you can potentially learn about while here include:

Permaculture, wildcrafting, rainwater catchment, human scale food production, sheet mulching, establishing a food forest, small scale animal husbandry, goat milking, growing medicinal herbs, making tinctures, vermicomposting, charcoal production, hugelkultur, growing mushrooms, graywater systems, grafting, seed saving, scything, dumpster diving, homemade potting soil from local materials, and cob construction.

We ask that work traders help out 20 hrs. a week with farm activities, and help on a rotational schedule with dish duties and cooking. Food will be provided along with tent accommodation.We are all omnivores but can accommodate vegetarians and vegans though there may be occasions you will have to take responsibility for your own meal needs. Circle Acres is still in its infancy so accommodations are rustic. We shower outdoors and get about 2 gallons of hot water at a time. So if you are in need of more traditional living quarters we may not be the best match, but if you have an adventurous heart and yearn to be a part of creating a Truly sustainable system you’ve found the right place.

No pets please.

Contact us: circleacres at gmail

The experienced farmer is humbled by the presence of what constitutes a large sampling of the next generation of practitioners of sustainable agriculture, showing up on their farm, to work along side them and step through the same rows.

The mobbers are humbled by the ease with which they have access to lessons learned and practical advice, not only on that day but from that day forward until – if it is even possible – the relationship is exhausted.

But then maybe humbled isn’t the right word.  Awe?  Wonder?

Which leads to an opening of the debate on who is standing in who’s shadow…

Guerrilla Growfair is a group of agrarian rebels, many with substantial farming experience, that get together to swiftly combat a big project. The group uses unconventional tactics in the form of ambushes and raids to attack its enemies who are less mobile, but larger in force. Enemies include, but are not limited to; wiregrass, Johnson grass, crab grass, infertile soil, and impervious surfaces.

The type of work done could range from installing a garden at someone’s house to cultivating a field for a farmer that is behind on planting this season. The goal of the project is not to offer free labor, but to unite the community for the simple cause of feeding everyone. There is a lack of cheap nutritious foods in certain areas of Raleigh and these areas are known as food deserts. In a food desert the only type of food you’ll find is fast and greasy. Our goal is simple… to erect an oasis in every desert.

The Guerrilla Growfair tagline? Lending hands on the lands.

I’m not a fan of the metaphorical old orchard.  I have been rolling away from it for a long time now, even rolling through some more recent orchards at the expense of all the good times under the canopies.  At some point I will end up in an entirely different orchard under entirely different species of trees – maybe under hickories and I am an apple or maybe under pears and I am a paw paw.   Or maybe there are no trees at all, anywhere, and I am rolling around among thyme blossoms in full sight of the various stars of a southeastern summer.

All orchards have a lot of contrast, like grass growing between the yellow lines of a rural road.  Similarly, our agrarian places at night have no comparison to our agrarian places during the day.  At night, moist tree frogs attach themselves to any available surface, calling into the dark and into the ear membranes of potential mates, barely puncturing the drone of the various crickets scattered through the grasses.   It isn’t quiet, but it is still.  This is a contrast to the blur of a peaking sun, the quick clanking movements of hand tools among unloved rocks.  Sweat seeps off what looks and feels like a crying body; full and uninterrupted shade is a distant wish.

We move through it all, knowing that any craving for a cold-front is counterproductive to the goals of growing plants for consumption.  So we sweat and we grit teeth and we get headaches and we keep moving.  If we stop we realize how hot we are, how soaked our clothes have become, how miserable we must look.  Compare this to how we look in the blackness and dampness of rural summer; the clay stained knees and greasy hair hide among the sleeping cardinals in the privet clumps.

But what do we really care anyway?  If you are self conscious about being dirty and looking dirty, don’t work with the soil.  Just remember:  Dirt Don’t Hurt.

What would we do otherwise? We can’t go back to any previous life.  To what? To old cities or hometowns, old beer haunts and pool tables, grave markers and faded Christmas trees?  Nah, there is nothing romantic among the ruins and elders.

I have to think about my elders, how I can’t offer them the respect they think they deserve just because they are “elder”.  I used to have a bookcase full of political books with a “Respect Certain Elders” sticker on it.  In this young agrarian movement we are all elders, and we should fully appreciate when others begin to roll away from us and into their own orchards.

When I wake up I have to clear my throat to get words to come out, words like “hey piggles, you wake up too!”  or “get off the bed you lazy animals”.

I am ignored as the cat just twitches an ear, irritated but with a full belly and another eighteen hours of sleep to look forward to.

It feels like I just wander around on those alone days, tinkering around on slightly neglected projects, working from a list that has no written equivalent.  It isn’t until everyone returns that I realize I have accomplished anything, making me realize that I do have a function even if no one is around to prove it to themselves or to report it to others.  It is simply me moving through the life I have chosen.

It is those alone days that I know concretely that I have chosen well, that all five of us non-human animals have chosen well, that we are some of the luckiest people to ever sign a land title.

Watch out, we are just getting started.

I pull the lice out of their ears.  That alone makes us pretty tight.

Kristin has become attached to them, giving them their nightly belly scratching and making sure they have enough of everything that they need.  As I alluded to in a previous post, it is because of her view of the way these pigs live that she may be able to eat them when the time comes.  She has been vegan/vegetarian for thirteen years, about half her life, so it is a step that has not been considered lightly or without questions.

I spent some time as a vegan/vegetarian, some five years or so, but as the saying goes, “if you aren’t now then you never were”.  Or maybe that is a straightedge thing.  My reasons for that life were political and human based, focusing largely on the interactions of people in the food system.  Animal rights and treatment were a close secondary consideration but not the major thrust for action.  Living that life greatly informed my decision to eat entirely local and make a conscious decision every time I make a food purchase.

I have eaten meat for the last few years and, with very few exceptions, I know exactly where that meat comes from.  I have to allow some exemptions (such as the weekly free lunch at a church in Pittsboro), but I have to have a pretty good reason and it has to be from a local restaurant or store.

But in a few months, all my pork will have come from a few hundred yards away.

This brings up the issue of how to deal with ending the life of an animal who has shared your space and your time and your close interactions.  I haven’t had to actually address the feelings before simply because this will be the first time I have raised an animal with the intent to eventually kill and eat it.

I can say that the best way to avoid any attachment is to treat the animal simply as a machine, a machine that needs to be checked on once in awhile in order to change the oil or put more fuel in the tank.  This is how many farmers treat everything on their farm – human labor, soil, resources.  Since I am trying to live a new example, I cannot get away with treating non-human farm residents as inferior or not worth any extra effort.  They are not machines; none of the components around me is a machine although sometimes I fail to see that.

I need to know firsthand that I have created a space in which the pigs feel safe, cared for and unstressed and are able to fully enjoy being pigs.  This means mud holes and tall grass, real dirt and kind words.  It means that when it comes down to it there can be some sort of peace between the killer and the killed, that the sadness and harshness of the process of taking lives can be tempered in some way and that life up until the end can be human interpreted as “happy”.

Without trying to justify any action, we, as the users of this food, have to take responsibility for the actions needed to place a meat meal on our plates.  We cannot do that unless we know where our food comes from.

We were there to attend the commitment ceremony of our friend Duncan and his partner Rachel.  The ceremony was fun and short and a good time to catch up with old friends and listen to new friends.  The reception was a potluck with long tables full of all sorts of yummies.  There was even banana pudding, which is my favorite locavore exemption.

In the corner was a whole roasted pig, all wrinkled skin and a nice tan head still attached.  It skeeved Kristin a little.  Her thoughts and imagination turned to the three little pigs we have at the farm and how they would look spread out on a table, some chef’s hands all in their insides pulling out hunks of smoked muscle and fat.  But she says she may eat them when it comes time just because she knows that they have had amazing lives full of good food, tons of space and belly rubs twice a day (more on weekends!).

The reception after-party wasn’t really my thing, which was kind of a bummer.  Since I don’t drink or smoke anymore  I find it increasingly hard to relate to the folks who I consider “my people” – the artists and anarchists and renegade agrarians who wash over me wherever I go – once the sun goes down on a Saturday night.  I can’t keep up or interact.  Maybe I’m getting old or maybe I simply over did things way back when and now I am paying the price for my lack of foresight .  As I keep repeating to myself and others – regardless, here we are…

* The name of this post comes from a song by …Revel in the Morning. They once did a show in the basement of the Local Revolt house in Wilmington. I lived there for quite a while, well from start to finish actually, and our friend Duncan lived there for six months or so. Nathaniel, pictured in many of the slides in the above slide show, lived there for a year. There is a video of a song from the Revel show featuring the actual basement of Local Revolt. It was shot by the band on August 14, 2003 -

We’d have to throw the rocks into the tree line or into a tractor bucket, breathing the dust as it split with the crevices of the basalt and granite and diorite brought to the surface with the most recent bottom plowing.

The rocks arrived long before we were thought off, catching a ride on the gray belly of a two mile thick glacier.  In the deposits that followed came everything from the boulders – now sitting in front yards painted with house numbers or enveloped by lichens – to the baby minerals of feldspar and hornblend and all those magnificent magnetic bits of iron.

Picking up rocks is as fun now as it was when I was eight years old, which is to say that it is no fun at all.  It reminds me of work for no pay.  It reminds me of long summer days away from friends.  It reminds me of responsibility that I had no need or want of.  It reminds me of time ill-spent laboring for someone I could care less about.

But that all changes with the crop mob…

Sometimes I know that rocks need to be picked and weeds need to be pulled.  These tasks are best accomplished with more than one person, in a mass of asses and elbows, jabbering on and on about everything other than rocks and weeds and tasks that really have no end.

Weeds decay into their components of minerals and carbon and nitrogen within days.  A person could watch the whole process if they had the patience and justification.

Rocks decay much more slowly and, without the aid of the outside crush of a human or machine doing some work, they will not likely decay within a person’s lifetime.  You can watch if you want, but you might want to bring something to eat while you wait.

So picked and piled rocks will remain picked and piled rocks wherever we place them at least until some other monkey comes along and moves them again.  Maybe they will be hidden under weeds as the years pass only to be rediscovered by a passing lawnmower or an unprotected toe.

Only when I was a teenager did I realize that there existed mechanical rock pickers that pulled behind tractors and did the work we did in seconds rather than hours.  This made me realize that dropping off kids at the edge of a field was just a convenient way to get rid of those kids for the day.  Tasks without end make good kid-sitters.