Republic of Dirt (8 page)

R
unning a homestead is a full-time endeavor even in the off-season. That’s why I couldn’t afford to be ill for any length of time. My wellness practitioner, Dr. Bachmeier, said my energy would come and go as the remedies she prepared for me took effect and helped my entire immune system to come into a state of balance and health. She was clear that her remedies would not be quick fixes, like those prescribed in corporate medicine, but rather complete body and mind treatments that would get at the heart of the problem.

Her words turned out to be true. I was all over the place, energy-wise, and every time I got up, I nearly fainted at the thought of all the work that had piled up while I was resting. I did as much as I could on my good days. Well, they weren’t days exactly. They were more like hours. Sometimes half-hours.

The most pressing concern was Lucky. It was a dereliction of duty to ask Sara to train our mule. Sure, we only had him on loan, but I wanted to get the most out of the experience. And my pride was still smarting from Eustace’s suggestion that I couldn’t handle him.
Lucky was a mule, not a neutron bomb. Any farmer worth her salt should be able to come to terms with her livestock.

On the day in question, I felt well enough in the late afternoon to get out of bed. I made my way outside to make sure that the winter crops were being tended properly. We were growing three kinds of chard—Swiss, rainbow and green—and four kinds of kale. We had cabbages, and three raised beds devoted to various squashes and gourds, one for pumpkins and another for butternut squashes and a third mostly for decorative gourds. We wouldn’t be able to compete with the farms with huge you-pick pumpkin patches, but we were growing some fine sugar pumpkins, which aren’t easy to find.

I walked the pea-graveled walkways between the raised beds, feeling like I was wading knee-deep through sludge. Still, my spirits were buoyed by the neat rows of wooden boxes holding in all that rich soil, and my soul was soothed by the orderly arrangements of trellises and the efficient network of larger hoses that makes up our automatic drip watering system. My spirit soared even further at the sight of the six deep beds at the end of our enclosure. They’re tall enough that Earl doesn’t have to crouch over to tend them and they contain layers of newspaper and straw and sticks and regular soil and rich compost. Next spring, we’ll use them for potatoes and other crops that like to send their roots deep. I think the future of Woefield may be deep raised beds. Earl is a fan because he hates to bend, physically or mentally, now that I think of it.

After the barn is up, which I hope will be soon—I can’t quite remember when Stephan said he would start—the next major project will be a large greenhouse. In the meantime, we are putting frames over top of some of the beds to protect cold-weather crops. The other beds will be left to rest until spring. Rest! Isn’t that a lovely way to
describe what gardeners and farmers do for their land? It sounded so wise and soothing and made me wish I was resting.

As I made my way through the rows of raised beds, I was hazily pleased to see that all was in order. The soil was moist and any weeds that had come from bird droppings had been pulled before they had a chance to take hold. The weed barriers we’d laid down beneath each bed to prevent invasive plants from poking up were working.

Even those who had scoffed at the idea that anything would ever grow on Woefield Farm were silenced when they saw our raised beds. I spent an enjoyable moment imagining the following spring and the other vendors’ faces when they saw our folding table groaning under the weight of our produce. No one would remember the little hot sauce problem or any of our other troubles.

Having thoroughly surveyed the beds, I looked toward the field and saw Sara trying to catch Lucky. She walked after him, holding a halter, and he was making a game of staying just out of reach.

Earl was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Seth, but that wasn’t unusual. Earl never went far and if there was work to be done, Seth was often hard to find.

I left the raised bed area, which was protected from deer and birds by a six-and-a-half-foot fence topped with driftwood and a canopy of bird netting, walked past the mobile chicken coop, which we move every day so the birds get fresh grass and fertilize our thin layer of soil, and stood watching Sara play catch the mule.

When Sara quickened her steps, Lucky broke into a lazy trot. At first, I worried that he’d kick out at her, but he didn’t. He just kept his rear end between her and his head.

I know there’s no room on a functional farm for a mule that cannot be caught, much less worked. If we couldn’t do anything with
Lucky, Eustace was probably right. We’d have to send the mule back. But not just yet. Everyone deserves chances, including Lucky.

I’ve done enough reading to know that mules are highly intelligent and respond well to fairness, consistency, clear boundaries and firmness. Experts agree that in a contest of wills, it’s best not to let the mule win if you can help it. Well, I was out of bed and I could help it!

“Sara!” I called, and waved her over.

She walked over to meet me, looking slightly wild-eyed.

“You’re not supposed to be up,” she said. “Eustace said you should be resting.”

I made a mental note to tell Eustace to stop telling everyone to mollycoddle me. Then I promptly forgot the mental note.

“How long have you been trying to catch him?” I asked.

She looked at the orange plastic wristwatch shaped like a rooster’s head that she won at a poultry club event in August. “Since I finished cleaning the chicken coop. Five minutes,” she said.

“He hasn’t tried to bite or kick?”

“No,” she said. “He just won’t let me get close enough to put his halter on.”

“Go get some grain and let’s herd him into a corner.”

Her face brightened and I could see she was relieved to have me back in action. That gave me a little burst of energy. Enough to sustain me while she ran off to get some grain.

Catching Lucky would be much easier when we had a barn and could confine him. In the meantime, I felt sure that two bright young farmers like Sara and me could outsmart him.

When Sara came back, I armed myself with a halter and lead rope and we began herding Lucky into a corner. Unfortunately, the pasture didn’t have many corners because it was designed to take advantage of
the infrequent pockets of soil deep enough to sink a fence stake. As a result, the enclosure is shaped like an amoeba, which is not the ideal arrangement for trapping cagey mules. Even a team of highly trained border collies would probably have had difficulties with the task.

Fortunately, Lucky was food motivated, and as he ducked his head into the bucket of grain, we got the rope around his neck and I slipped his halter on. Success!

“You did it!” cried Sara, running over to join us.

“That’s right. The key is not giving up,” I said. “And rewards for doing the right thing. Behavior that is rewarded is repeated. That’s what they say.

“Sara, please get him some carrots. I’m going to lead him around the pasture to make sure he associates being caught with positive things.”

Lucky accepted his capture with equanimity. He walked beside me like a perfect gentleman. I stroked his neck. I’m no expert, but I’m sure he’s considerably more attractive than your average mule. His red coat, growing thick with the approach of winter, faded to white at his belly and flanks, and the white was flecked with red spots. His marvelously expressive ears were half as long as his head. They swung back and forth in a relaxed yet alert manner as he walked. During our mule-leading lesson, Sara told us that you want a mule to have a “soft eye,” meaning that your mule shouldn’t glare or squint at you. Your mule should look upon you in a kindly fashion. Well, I could swear Lucky had a soft eye that afternoon.

As we walked around the pasture, even Bertie seemed to look over at us benevolently. She’s not a particularly demonstrative sheep, unless you’re trying to trim her feet or shear her coat, but she’s a stabilizing presence on a farm with so many extreme personalities.

It occurred to me that most of the problems with Lucky’s behavior had begun when he’d been spooked by the motorcycle on the road. Perhaps the key to correcting his behavior was to repeat the walk on the road and have it go well and thereby undo the trauma. What was needed was an uneventful road walk followed by lavish treats and plenty of praise.

So as soon as Sara returned with the carrots, which were woodier than I would have liked, I informed her that Lucky and I were going to take a walk up the road.

A flicker of worry crossed her face. Sara is such a fierce little character that I sometimes forget she’s so young. I suspect we all do.

“It’s okay,” I told her. “Eustace told the Morrisey kid to keep his motorbike off the road or he’d call the cops.”

“Maybe it was enough just to catch him today,” said Sara.

“Don’t you worry. I just want to build on today’s lesson. I want him to associate being caught with fun and adventure and success.” I said this in spite of the fact that my fatigue was closing around me like a lead casket two sizes too small.

“You look kind of tired,” she said.

“I’m getting a second wind,” I told her. “You wait here. I’ll just lead him back and forth on the road out front a few times. If it goes well, we’ll walk a little farther to really establish the idea that being out and about is a positive thing. If we run into any problems, we’ll get Seth to help. Earl should be home soon from wherever he’s gone with the truck. Lucky and I shouldn’t be gone long. No more than twenty minutes or so.”

So that’s how I ended up walking Lucky up and down Woefield Road in front of the farm. We went out the gate, down the driveway and then walked from one end of our property line to the other. No
vehicles passed. My confidence rose even though my legs felt like two tree stumps. Lucky also seemed to be enjoying himself. There was a definite spring to his step. It was a pleasure to be out and about with such a handsome animal. Despite the bumps along the way, Woefield was turning into a real farm. Eustace was dead wrong. I could handle our mule.

I felt almost like my old self again.

In order to savor the experience, I decided to take one more trip down the road. We’d nearly reached the turnoff to the road that leads toward the high school and up to the elementary school when an image flashed into my mind. The piece of paper on the fridge announcing Sara’s parent-teacher conference. It was happening today. I’d forgotten due to thyroid fatigue.

The distance from where Lucky and I stood to Sara’s school was no more than perhaps two city blocks. New York City blocks, but still. To get to the school, we’d have to walk along a road that was quite a bit busier than Woefield Road, but he didn’t seem to mind regular traffic. We’d be fine as long as no rogue dirt bike riders blasted past us. There was no way that could happen twice.

Yes, it would be passing strange to show up at a school leading a mule, but I thought it would prove how well I handled our livestock. There would probably be parents there with dogs. And I wasn’t going to go inside. I would just be stopping by to let the teacher and the community know that Sara had a lot of support at home in a wholesome environment. People were looking out for her.

I put a hand to Lucky’s neck and looked him in his soft, kind eye, which seemed to be brimming with confidence in me, his handler.

“Let’s do this, buddy,” I said.

He blew softly at my hand with his velvety nostrils and I drew in the deep, calming scent of him.

In that moment, I knew that Lucky and I were a team bound together by trust.

And in that moment, I completely forgot Sara waiting for us in the field. Sure, I assumed Seth was in the house, keeping a low profile in order not to be assigned any work, and that Earl would be home soon from wherever he’d gone. But that doesn’t change the fact that my brain misfired and I made a major mistake.

Lucky and I marched resolutely around the corner from Woefield onto Skeena Road and then we hit the Old School Road. The high school and its playing fields sprawled off to the right. My senses were heightened from the thrill of pushing my limits as a mule handler. I also felt quite light-headed in general, thanks to my glandular situation. A nagging sensation that I’d forgotten something nibbled at the edges of my mind, but I pushed it away.

Lucky’s head was up and his big ears seemed to swivel at every noise. Ours was an ages-old partnership—farmer and mule, pioneer and mule, homesteader and mule. Our lives were entwined and richer for it.

As we walked, I kept my body between Lucky and the traffic. His hooves made a satisfying crunching noise in the gravel at the edge of the pavement. I would have worried about rocks and the uneven surface of the shoulder of the road bothering him but I remembered all I’d read about mules and their uncanny sure-footedness. All around us, Cedar hummed with the steady sounds of rural life. Birdsong and wind, children laughing. That sort of thing. We passed two boys walking on the other side of the road. I waved. They didn’t wave back. The sky was clear and fine. Stands of Douglas fir lined the edges of
the farmers’ fields, and the deciduous trees were in the final stages of display and undress, splashes of oranges and yellows bursting among the dark evergreens.

We were nearly past the high school when the first car passed, going in our direction. The driver slowed respectfully, probably thrilled to see an actual mule on the road, just like in a bygone era. The next vehicle that passed was a small truck badly in need of engine repair, judging from the white smoke that billowed from the tailpipe.

A teenager with features that seemed to have been dropped onto his face by an unsteady hand grinned at me as he pulled abreast of us. His grin revealed an assortment of teeth going in conflicting directions.

“Nice mule,” he said, grinning. At least I think he was grinning. It was impossible to tell with those teeth.

“Thank you,” I said. “His name is Lucky. He’s in training.”

“Lady?” asked the kid.