First Entry

This is the first entry in my journal. I'm only starting this journal so I can Friend M.K. Hobson. M.K. Hobson is a fabulous writer I just came across and I discovered she's big in the LiveJournal blogosphere. I haven't done much blogging myself, but I'm going to go and read hers regularly so here I am, blogging away myself.

I'll try not to be too tedious and talk about my cats too much, although Doober is a scream and Little G is growing fast.

What I really want to talk about is my organic farm. "Farm." That's a laugh. Only a few weeks ago we (as in Gary, my SO, and I) decided we'd already been beat and were ready to hit Route 66 for the orange groves.* We finally got rain and even though the melons still taste like diddly, I'm more optimistic about the tomatoes now. Last year I refused to sell any because we got so much rain they tasted like diddly. Sorry but no one should eat a flavorless tomato.

There are two things that will prevent me from becoming a successful organic farmer. First, I refuse to take notes. It's obvious from my reticence about starting this journal even though I signed up six months ago. I hate paperwork of any kind: diaries, journals, files, notes, letters of recommendation, parking tickets, logs, balance sheets, and songs written on napkins. If you read anything about farming in general and organic farming in particular you know you can't be successful unless you KEEP RECORDS. This is true, apparently, even if you aren't going for certification. Can't do it. I've tried. In OF (organic farming) there is no time for anything. Period. So I prioritize by doing what I like. I like to weed. I'll do that instead of keeping track of how the carrots did and which half of the garlic caught a fungus and which half were spoiled by worms. I don't even want to know how much money I've spent versus how much I was paid. I love living on the edge like that, don't you.

The second thing preventing me from being a successful organic farmer is that I used my neighbor Zerbe's chicken shit last year for fertilizing my onion field. Neighbor Zerbe raises poultry for Perdue. You can guess what that means. These chickens haven't seen the light of day since the day that first crack of their shell mistakenly let in a little light of the day. These are not free-range babies. They are fully innoculated, immunized, debeaked, sterile, cabin-fevered out, documented, germ-free, gmo'd fryers, layers, and roasters. So legally I can't be considered organic for another three years. In the meantime are you taking any bets on whether or not that spray cannister of Roundup remains on the shelf in the interim? It'll be a tough go, we have some of the meanest Canadian Thistle this side of the Canada/U.S. border. Stuff grows like Hercules' hydra: Cut off one head get two (or three dozen) in its place.

Enough. I hate journaling.

See ya next time.







*Reference is to Steinbeck's "Grapes of Wrath," in which the Okies followed Rte 66 with their dream of finding work in California where no matter where you stood you could just reach out and grab an orange. By the end of the book you'll remember, the Joads had taken up residence in an abandoned railroad car and were looking around for a place to bury the you know what. The book stands for me as the perfect example of a failed farming experience.