In a land and time far away, fall was my favorite season. Cooler weather, cozy clothes, the approaching holidays. Bryon and I opted to marry in October ten years ago, where burnt orange, home-grown pumpkins, and succulents in terra cotta featured prominently. We did most of the work ourselves in our backyard, and it was perfectly imperfect.
Our backyard wedding with the sweetest ring bearers ever. They now nap all day.
Then here we are today: the craziest time of year. When rains and frost loom without high tunnels, there’s a mad push to harvest as much produce as possible, running back and forth with loads of squash, tomatoes, peppers, eggplants, herbs, and flowers. Which means finding room in the drying rack, dehydrator, and on the dining room table. And then the pressure to make the most of everything: canning, freezing, dehydrating, pushing off on friends and neighbors. Even though that pressure is self imposed, I fear the stronger guilt that would arise from letting good food wither on the vines. On another note, I haven’t even had the motivation or energy to decorate for Halloween or fall this year, a task I normally love.
Tomatapocalypse 2023
Bird work also gets harder in the fall. The darker and colder the mornings, the more difficult it is to climb out from the covers with snuggly old dogs. Trudging through the rain and the resulting muck, before the first cup of coffee, isn’t an ideal start to a day. But the honking geese and quacking ducks let it be known they want their breakfast, so there’s no sleeping in anyway.
Harder still: the ravens are back at it. First it was chicken eggs, a commodity already in short supply for our amount of demand. But then, worse. Bryon texted me on Friday that they killed a cream legbar hen. Much worse: on Sunday, while Bryon was harvesting microgreens, Bear and I went out to check on the birds only to discover one had been attacked, and now the other chickens were pecking at her. She was alive but not in any shape to survive. In a panic I called Bryon to ask him the best way to end her suffering, but he didn’t answer. So frantic and crying, I did the best I could. Afterwards, I looked up to see a raven watching me from a high limb of the large pine tree. I begged him to stop. But an attack today tells me my words were lost in translation.
Times like this, I wonder why we keep trying to do what we are doing. Sure, we’ve never eaten this well. And yes, it’s important to improve the land and share our story in the hopes of inspiring others. But at what cost? In a few weeks we will harvest a large quantity of birds for the freezer, which will hopefully lessen the load. Then soon after that, a vacation! But we also need to think about what works best for us, where and who we are now.