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And…another beautiful, awesome, sweet, lovely day on the homestead full of incredible and ordinary things that remind me of just how blessed I am.

The year is 1904 on the Rosebud Indian Reservation, and eleven-year-old Tomas, a son of Swedish immigrants, thinks that life is a game of chance.  Now you see it.  Now you don’t.  His father.  School.  Dreams for the future.  It doesn’t matter how hard he tries or how much he hopes.  In the end, everything [...]

It happened! Bluegreen eggs are in the house! Frida and Rosie, the matriarchs of our fanciful flock of 17 and steady brown-eggers themselves (pictured above), are not sure what to think quite yet. But WE are excited. For anyone who wonders if FRESH homegrown, free-range organic eggs taste different, I can attest — it is night and day different. The 5$ organic eggs at the store don’t even come close to these. I’m talking solid, rich tumeric-colored yolks inside thick shells that are naturally salty. As Tulsi summed it up after eating an entire egg by herself (a giant feat for her!), “Egg Power!” Thanks, Ladies!

I love that we live in a community where growing your own food is ‘normal’. And growing a homestead is contagious. It’s mid September, 10:30 at night, and I just finished braiding 60 onions to cure for the winter. And they are so pretty. (It reminded me of french braiding friends’ hair during Latin class in high school. Yup, that’s right, I studied Latin. I have no idea why, but I sorta liked it.) During all that braiding, I was thinking of how four years ago, our garden wasn’t a garden. That blows my mind! There was nothing there but sage bushes, cactus plants, a few trees, and a huge, ugly pile of construction dirt. There was no “soil”. It was all dry desert dirt.

A whole lotta heart and sweat went into starting our garden. We dug and hauled about 75 wheel barrels full of the construction dirt and barely made a dent in the mound. I was SO determined to do it by hand, but luckily Patrick had more sense and hired a man and his bobcat to clear the sage and a few trees, and create a burm (and windblock) along the south and west side of the future garden. Over a few years, we have added several enormous truckloads of manur+sandy soil and double-dug it into all our raised beds which are on drip (fed as much as possible by collected rain water). It started at roughly 3600 sq ft to grow into, and in such a short time we have, and even expanded with our greenhouse-dome. I have been going non-stop this summer, and especially lately, trying to preserve as much food as I can, and this morning was one of those “awe” moments for sure. Giving a lot of thanks and appreciating what we’ve created. Patrick, Tulsi, Oso and I make the bestest team ever.

One thing happens every garden season: some things work, and other things don’t, and we always learn a LOT. And at the beginning of every growing season, I announce that I’m going to keep a journal of everything — what we plant and harvest and preserve, what we sell, where we failed and what we were most excited about. But I never do. SO…this post is for me to remember next year, and for anyone who has any interest… :) And I would LOVE to hear what you are growing and preserving!

Without further ado, THE 2010 Garden Masala FARM REPORT:

I need to remember that the summer of 2010 was sorta crazy in the sense that we did more than what seems humanly possible for 2 people with a 16 month old. And although we always felt behind, and were hard on ourselves for having a sloppy summer greenhouse-turn-temporary-chicken-house or for abandoning our potato bags (an experiment this year to save space and time and therefore had a puny harvest (yet delicious)), I think it’s important to acknowledge how we had the biggest vegetable and flower garden yet. We started everything from seed in the greenhouse which was extremely exciting. And we took a huge step closer to our goal of feeding our family year round. That’s just awesome…

Here’s what we grew/did new this year:

NuMex Bolo Onions. Our stellar crop of the year! (and the first time we’ve EVER succeeded at growing onions.) They are HUGE and sweet! The most exciting part is that we started them from teeny seeds last

It’s been the running joke in our house that we are “almost” homesteaders. And that we will be officially someday, when we get chickens. I have been asking Patrick for chickens for 3 years now but none have come.

And this summer has been fuller than any to date. Two new add-ons : a bedroom and a mudroom/entry way, our biggest garden ever, a spot at the farmers’ market (that we have attended irregularly, yet fashionably), and my greatest (and most successful) attempt thus far at storing nuts for the winter (–my mom just visited for 5 days for a canning+freezing extravaganza! 18 pints of beets, 10 qts of veggie stew, 12 qts of salsa, 20 batches of basil and wild pestos, frozen broccoli soup, chutneys, berries, peaches, and more. And that was just in 5 days! A lot more before, and hopefully still…) SO, long story short. If you build it, they will come.

Or, if they come, you will build it.

Well, at least that was my reasoning. Patrick of course didn’t laugh as much when I brought home the 2-day old chickies, but when he saw Tulsi doing her lil’ chickie dance and saying “Baby!” over and over, he turned to a puddle of goo and agreed to help me build a coop. Because our “simple” life has been so busy lately (and admittedly, a wee stressful on occasion), I am especially excited about this joint project. I’m happy that it isn’t “a chore” for Patrick or we aren’t buying one from someone. We’re building it together, and we’ll end up loving it that much more — no matter how many mistakes we make or what it looks like.

So here is some of the gang…they are growing by the minute (in size and personality) and loving their temporary spot in the greenhouse. No names yet except for Roo-Roo the Rooster. Yes, I decided to get a rooster for my flock, to protect the flock from larger winged sky predators, and well, I’ll admit, I have always loved drawing roosters. The chicks are so fun, and they love Miss T. Oso still licks his chomps, but he loves eggs, so I told him to be patient and he’ll be happy. We are vegetarians, but we eat and bake with eggs. And now that Tulsi is nibbling on ‘real’ food more an more, I want to have our own chicken’s eggs to offer her.

So, here we go. I’m learning a lot, fast. Like, how it’s actually hard to find bugs when you are looking for them and that worms are ok to divide to share among the chicks but caterpillars aren’t. I’ll post some pictures of the coop when we get there! Until then, here is an old ink drawing I made of a rooster in Thailand.

A few postings ago, I wrote about books about winter in Canada.  Today’s featured book is considered a Canadian classic.  It depicts the life of a family of homesteading Mennonites in northern British Columbia.   Mary of Mile 18 is set in the remote community of Mile 18, so named because of its location, eighteen miles off of a turn-off on the Alaska Highway.  Author Anne Blades worked as a teacher for the children of this community a few years before the book’s publication in 1971.  The beginning of the book sets the tone of the story:

It is a cold winter in northern British Columbia.  At the Fehr farm snow has covered the ground since early November and it will not melt until May.

Little Mary Fehr is the oldest of five.  It is through her eyes that the reader gets a glimpse of the harsh realities of homesteading in such a severe climate.  There is no running water nor electricity in the Fehr house.  Snow is brought in by pailfuls by the children to be melted for household water needs.  The house is heated by a wood-burning stove and a barrel heater; both of which consume a lot of wood and keep the house just barely warm enough.  The truck engine must be heated with a propane torch for an hour before it will start.

Despite these conditions, Mary is cheerful and sees beauty in her surroundings.  One day she discovers an abandoned half-wolf pup near her house and wants to keep it.  Her father however, is stern.  “You know the rules.  Our animals must work for us or give us food.”  Mary is devastated.  How could such a pitiful creature prove useful to the household?  The rest of the story is about how Mary and her father come to terms about his rules and her desire.  And it is the outcome that has made this story the classic that it is.

Hattie Big Sky
Author: Kirby Larson (website)
Publisher: Delacorte Books for Young Readers (website)
ISBN-10: 0385733135
ISBN-13: 978-0385733137

Hattie Big Sky is set in the year 1918, an interesting time in our history. WWI (known as the Great War or the War to End All Wars) is soon to be ending, Woodrow Wilson has outlined his 14 points of peace, the influenza pandemic was widespread (read more here) and anti-German sentiment is rampant in the US.

Hattie is 16, orphaned and living with her aunt and uncle as a charity case in Iowa, the last in a series of relatives she’s been shuttled back and forth to. While her uncle is kind to her, her aunt is not and makes Hattie’s life pretty miserable. In spite of her hardships, Hattie’s spirit and kindness cannot be squelched and she works hard to make her life bearable. Just in the nick of time, an unexpected inheritance of a homestead from an unknown uncle sends Hattie off to the wilds of Montana to work her dead uncle’s claim. She looks forward to her newfound freedom and a life of adventure as a homesteader.

Hattie is soon to find out that life as a homesteader isn’t such a grand adventure. She arrives in blistering cold to find out that she has less than a year to cultivate her claim with acres of flax, build a staggering amount of fence and somehow manage to survive the harsh winter. The kindness of her German neighbors, the Mullers make life bearable and in at least one instance saves her life.

Hattie’s dear friend from school, Charlie (I think she really loves him) is away at war in France and Hattie’s spirited and lively letters to him as well as her articles for the Iowa newspaper she comes to write for give a wonderful insight to her brave and upbeat personality as well as a window to the hardships she faces.

I found Hattie Big Sky to be completely wonderful. It’s a fresh, funny, insightful and exciting. One of the things I really loved about the book is just how kind Hattie is, how big-hearted, honest and firm in her convictions. She refuses to let the anti-German sentiment keep her away from the Mullers, she stands up to the people in town even though she is desperately lonely and looking to make a place for herself, a home, a family. In spite of the sure knowledge that she will stand alone, she takes that stand and refuses to give up her friendship with them. That is courage, fine and true. That alone would make Hattie Big Sky a great book but there is more, much more and I highly recommend it.

For a taste of Hattie Big Sky, here’s an excerpt courtesy of Random House.

EXCERPT
December 19, 1917 Arlington, Iowa

Dear Charlie,

Miss Simpson starts every day with a reminder to pray for you—and all the other boys who enlisted. Well, I say we should pray for the Kaiser—he’s going to need those prayers once he meets you!

I ran into your mother today at Uncle Holt’s store. She said word is you are heading for England soon, France after that. I won’t hardly be able to look at the map behind Miss Simpson’s desk now; it will only remind me of how far you are from Arlington.

Mr. Whiskers says to tell you he’s doing fine. It’s been so cold, I’ve been letting him sleep in my bedroom. If Aunt Ivy knew, she’d pitch a fit. Thank goodness she finally decided I was too big to switch or my legs would be striped for certain.

You should see Aunt Ivy. She’s made herself a cunning white envelope of a hat with a bright red cross stitched on the edge. She wears it to all the Red Cross meetings. Guess she wants to make sure everybody knows she’s a paid-up member. She’s been acting odd lately; even asked me this morning how was I feeling. First time in years she’s inquired about my health. Peculiar. Maybe this Red Cross work has softened her heart.

Mildred Powell’s knitting her fifth pair of socks; they’re not all for you, so don’t get swell-headed. She’s knitting them for the Red Cross. All the girls at school are. But I suspect the nicest pair she knits will be for you.

You must cut quite the figure in your uniform. A figure eight! (Ha, ha.) Seriously, I am certain you are going to make us all proud.

Aunt Ivy’s home from her meeting and calling for me. I’ll sign off now but will write again soon.

Your school friend, Hattie Inez Brooks


I blotted the letter and slipped it in an envelope. Aunt Ivy wouldn’t think twice about reading anything she found lying around, even if it was in my own room, on my own desk.

“Hattie,” Aunt Ivy called again. “Come down here!”

To be on the safe side, I slipped the envelope under my pillow, still damp from my good cry last night. Not that I was like Mildred Powell, who hadn’t stopped boo-hooing since Charlie left. Only Mr. Whiskers and my pillow knew about my tears in the dark over Charlie. I did fret over his safety, but it was pure and sinful selfishness that wet my eyes at night.

In all my sixteen years, Charlie Hawley was one of the nicest things to happen to me. It was him who’d stuck up for me when I first came to live with Aunt Ivy and Uncle Holt, so shy I couldn’t get my own name out. He’d walked me to school that very first day and every day after. Charlie was the one who’d brought me Mr. Whiskers, a sorry-looking tomcat who purred his way into my heart. The one who’d taught me how to pitch, and me a southpaw. So maybe I did spend a night now and then dreaming silly girl dreams about him, even though everyone knew he was sweet on Mildred. My bounce-around life had taught me that dreams were dangerous things—they look solid in your mind, but you just try to reach for them. It’s like gathering clouds.

The class had voted to see Charlie off at the station. Mildred clung to his arm. His father clapped him on the back so often, I was certain he’d end up bruised. Miss Simpson made a dull speech as she presented Charlie with a gift from the school: a wool stocking cap and some stationery.

“Time to get aboard, son,” the conductor called.

Something shifted in my heart as Charlie swung his foot up onto the train steps. I had told myself to hang back—didn’t want to be lumped in with someone like Mildred—but I found myself running up to him and slipping something in his hand. “For luck!” I said. He glanced at the object and smiled. With a final wave, he boarded the train.

“Oh, Charlie!” Mildred leaned on Mrs. Hawley and sobbed.

“There, there.” Charlie’s mother patted Mildred’s back.

Mr. Hawley took a bandanna from his pocket and made a big show of wiping his forehead. I pretended not to notice that he dabbed at his eyes, too.

The others made their way slowly down the platform, back to their cars. I stood watching the train a bit longer, picturing Charlie patting the pocket where he’d placed the wishing stone I’d given him. He was the one who’d taught me about those, too. “Look for the black ones,” he’d told me. “With the white ring around the middle. If you throw them over your left shoulder and make a wish, it’s sure to come true.” He threw his wishing rocks with abandon and laughed at me for not tossing even one. My wish wasn’t the kind that could be granted by wishing rocks.

And now two months had passed since Charlie stepped on that train. With him gone, life was like a batch of biscuits without the baking powder: flat, flat, flat.

“Hattie!” Aunt Ivy’s voice was a warning.

“Yes, ma’am!” I scurried down the stairs.

She was holding court in her brown leather chair. Uncle Holt was settled into the hickory rocker, a stack of news- papers on his lap.

I slipped into the parlor and picked up my project, a pathetic pair of socks I’d started back in October when Charlie enlisted. If the war lasted five more years, they might actually get finished. I held them up, peering through a filigree of dropped stitches. Not even a good chum like Charlie could be expected to wear these.

“I had a lovely visit with Iantha Wells today.” Aunt Ivy unpinned her Red Cross hat. “You remember Iantha, don’t you, Holt?”

“Hmmm.” Uncle Holt shook the newspaper into shape.

“I told her what a fine help you were around here, Hattie.”

I dropped another stitch. To hear her tell it most days, there was no end to my flaws in the domesticity department.

“I myself never finished high school. Not any sense in it for some girls.”

Uncle Holt lowered one corner of the paper. I dropped another stitch. Something was up.

“No sense at all. Not when there’s folks like Iantha Wells needing help at her boardinghouse.”

There. It was out. Now I knew why she had been so kind to me lately. She’d found a way to get rid of me.

Excerpted from Hattie Big Sky byKirby Larson Copyright © 2006 by Kirby Larson. Excerpted by permission of Delacorte Books for Young Readers, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.