Highs, Lows, and In-Betweens

It’s been occasionally suggested that I think in black and white (that’s not sarcasm, it truly has only happened a few times). Generally, I find that rather humorous, as my brain is constantly contemplating complex webs of intersectional relationships. If you've read past newsletters, you know I can spend hours discoursing on the connections - and impacts of said connections - between, for instance, local goldfinch populations and the weapons used to slaughter starving Palestinians. I tend to imagine those connections as multi-colored, as diversified as the world they tie together.

When I sit down each month to pen these entries, however, the fork at which I find myself is undoubtedly black and white. Do I relay to you the positive aspects of the farm? The learning opportunities, growth and enjoyment? Or do I prioritize the most difficult, heart-wrenching events, the parts that bring tears and anxiety? I'll be honest: I despise persistent positivity. I find it an unreliable narrator, hiding the depths of reality. But then, such is the case with only viewing the negative and hardships. It is by divulging all details - frightening or fulfilling - that the whole story is revealed.

Perhaps, if this newsletter has a message, rather than merely being a report, then that is it. That the whole picture matters, and we must view every angle of the past and present to understand and create the future. And so within the limited pages Substack provides, I will report as much of our summer story here as possible.

As many of you know, in early July, my father Brian temporarily lost his vision. A detached retina and the resultant surgery meant he could see nothing and was on mandatory bed rest, then simply rest, for six weeks. Many, many community members jumped into action to assist where they could, providing food, performing secretarial, transportation and household tasks, and dropping in or calling to keep Brian from complete boredom. They donated $1,500.00 - enough to pay for an entire month of bills. They helped him sign up to receive regular audiobook deliveries from the Library of Congress. My old professor brought over dahl and rice, reminding me that that’s a food combination I could easily consume for every meal. Two of my cousins visited for three days. We felt very supported in a myriad of ways. As of now, Brian’s vision, if not his energy levels, are slowly returning. He can see, read certain fonts, draw, cook some foods, and has just begun to distinguish red, yellow and green again.

What this sudden change meant for the farm, however, was that an operation demanding six full-time workers was suddenly down from two people to one. I was performing morning and afternoon animal care alone while attempting to maintain the gardens, the farmstand, my own needs, and whatever Brian required assistance with. Suddenly, a lot of priorities were dropped. Beans and potatoes didn't get mulched, the chickens weren’t butchered, transplants were left in their pots, onions and peas weren't harvested, the farmstand closed and the holes in the fence were ignored. I've done almost no food preservation for the Winter, so I don't yet know what we're going to eat. A lot of meats, I suppose, because we do at least have them. The primary saving grace was that Carly stepped in to help three days a week. She tended the peppers, tomatoes, and herbs, did morning chores on my worst days, built a new paddock, rotated livestock and kept me socializing and mentally present. It's to her credit we're still standing.

In the midst of all this came the drought. The worst drought in Northern New York that I’ve ever seen, it lasted through all of July and August, causing the unmulched (mulch holds moisture) potatoes to die back two months early, the pastures to simply stop growing, and the coyotes to start prowling for meatier, more accessible prey. We lost four ewes before Carly and I found the tell-tale bite marks on the side of Nala’s neck; I lost one more by not getting the flock to safety in a timely fashion one night. I puked my way through three boughts of wretched heat stroke before purchasing a headlamp and committing to nocturnal activities. The pond went dry; little muskrat pawprints hardened in the mud. Through a miraculous blessing, we have not once lost any of the three wells the farm relies on, and we’ve rain barrels established under every roof. The dry weather meant we could purchase quickly-seasoned hay from the neighbors, and as of right now, all three barns are full for the Winter. And even as the gardens struggled - even with a dry pond - the whole-farm ecosystem is diverse enough, with high enough soil organic matter and pockets of shade that the insect, birds and mammal populations have been sustained. My yard was filled with the deafening, brilliant songs of dozens of katydids for three weeks. I distinctly recall admiring the amazing black cherries as they ripened, only to then discover the trees entirely stripped by our resident cedar waxwings. The coyote-killed ewes fed the local eagles and vultures alongside the pack. The barn swallows fledged two sets of chicks. The garter snakes turned an astonishing rust color (though I still don’t know what that was about). The sphinx moths had an astounding population boom and moved right into my phlox patch.

But the overarching strain of handling an entire farm with only a half-woven safety net has manifested itself in strange ways for me. I’ve had to land my anxious thoughts firmly in my body, releasing mental control and moving with the waves. I’ve been quite isolated, learning to re-orient the farm schedule, priorities, and activities to suit my instinctual needs, desires, and the effort to simplify and restore the farm structure. There are a lot of presumptions and lessons I’ve been letting go of and unlearning, asking, ‘how flexible can the animal feeding schedule be?"‘ Or ‘how much rest can be incorporated into daily farm life?’ I’m strategizing what really works for me, not my parents, past customers, or general societal expectations. Trusting my body and trusting the land are now synonymous, resulting in climate resilient actions for and better relationships between farm and farmer. For instance, that headlamp? It allows me to relinquish the idea that my work must be done during the day (putting me at risk of a medical crisis), while also granting me the opportunity to respect the needs of the plants. They certainly don’t like it any more than I do when I weed, water, harvest or mulch in the heat and sun.

I write as if this transition has been a smooth process. It’s true that I, within a few days of working without Brian, felt a freedom of expression I rarely experience. I was finally able to say, “I like cucumbers, but you what I like more? Not being overburdened.”, and then apply that concept to most of the things Brian had prioritized and I had, therefore, previously worked on. But transitions, even good ones, often demand more than we anticipate. There were weeks at a time that I desperately wanted to stay in bed, to be hand-fed nourishing meals while somebody else - anybody else - took on the responsibilities of my life. I’m in therapy twice a week, and my mental health wasn’t helped by the fact that Brian’s medical emergency overwhelmed my ability to remember my daily SSRI intake. I’ve fought tooth and nail to ensure I’m eating twice a day, drinking enough water, taking my meds, and keeping in touch with friends while still, still, bearing the load of farmcare and household duties. I’ve become far less tolerant of bullshit, of being disrespected, misgendered or having to endure circuitous, unfruitful conversations. I’ve discovered that if I’m not actively creating a better world, I have no motivation. I’ve found satisfaction in mending and repair. I’ve learned a lot about what I will and will not be doing next year.

If you’re not in the farming field, it may sound funny to already be planning May of 2026 whilst in September of 2025. I’m still working on this year, trust me. My aunt and uncle have generously offered to bankroll the much-needed heating system in my house, so Autumn will see a new furnace and two woodstoves installed, hopefully sooner, rather than later. We’ve got several animals to butcher once the weather turns cold, and we just had two beautiful heifer calves (their names are Chicory and Estrella). Most of the potatoes need to be harvested still, the gardens must be winterized, and at some point I’m going to have to buckle down and put by food so that we can actually eat in a few months.

But I learned a lot this Summer about my truths. It was one of those lessons I would’ve continued to kick down the road for the next few years, had I not been forced to face it head-on. I’ve written before about appropriately scaling the farm - sometimes I feel I’m repeating myself. But altering twenty-five years’ worth of practices and goals takes time, energy and resources, and I don’t have much extra of those. I also don’t have a lot of examples of farms that prioritize scaling down the way I want to, or those that include relaxation. Reducing the labor force down to, essentially, the total efforts of one person means I’ve really had to come to terms with my own limitations. But the landscape I’m moving towards is becoming clearer. I want a farm whose infrastructure is set up so that one person on their worst day can still do the basics…but that there’s never an extended time when one person must. I want farm that is highly diverse and provides sanctuary and nourishment for those in need for any reason. A farm that is stable, well-established and therefore ready for any and all emergencies, be they climate, socially or economically induced. A farm that shares, but most especially that asks for and receives help.

I was raised to find particular pride and enthusiasm over producing “every last bit of food on the dinner table ourselves”. A meal where you can celebrate that, sans the salt and pepper, is an incredible experience in flavor, connections, color and more. But pushing oneself to produce ‘everything’ one needs, to create a farm from which you need never leave to find physical sustenance, can create a scarcity mindset as easily as relying on strategically-emptied grocery store shelves. Hyper-independence makes one forget to borrow the sugar, to ask for help moving a couch, or to touch base when a neighbor is struggling. For myself, it means tremendous shame if I don’t get the tomatoes canned or the broccoli in the ground, or if I purchase mayonnaise instead of whipping some up with our eggs and homebrewed vinegars. (I’ll admit, I have some problems.) My family has always been so capable, to imply I’m incapable of something has felt for so long like a betrayal of the legacy I’ve inherited. Making the decision this year to purchase or trade for food was excrutiating. Every time I step up to a farm stand, I’m calculating how much I can afford versus how much less stressful it is to rely on my neighbors than grow my own right now. It feels like a cop-out - I like growing my own, I encourage everyone to try. I don’t even really have the money to buy food. But despite my misgivings, it’s the right choice this year. I’m getting to know the neighbors from whom I receive jams, milk, pies and peppers. I’ve borrowed weed-whackers, saws and gotten rides to the mechanic. I have three little libraries set up for everyone on this road, and I make copies for folks, too. We don’t each need to do it all. I can rely on others. They can rely on me.

This is the long game. The farm is still evolving, I am constantly learning, and there is so much we need. I’m putting an enormous amount of faith in the ability of the animals and plants to tend to themselves, but if things don’t improve as Autumn moves through, there will be deaths. There won’t be enough pumpkins and other veggies for the livestock, there won’t be enough money in the bank. There won’t be enough socializations to keep my sanity from tipping over the edge.

But it’s raining as I finish writing this. I have a pig living under an apple tree. The sheep are safe. I’ll take my meds tonight. I purchased salad greens from another farm. I’m asking the neighbors to help install my woodstove. The Ure pears are ripening. The orangemint is safe. Can I say with certainty that we’ll be okay? Well, I guess that’s what the neighbors are for. Maybe if I can ask for help, we will be.

Much Love,

Kia-Beth

zi/zir and they/them

P.S. I’ve received several questions about my friends in Mississippi, the ones with plans to move here as soon as possible. There’s been a major wrench thrown in the spanner - Jude’s mother has cancer and is undergoing treatment. Right now, Jude is acting as primary caretaker and despite our best efforts, the situation is not yet improving. The move is currently on hold, but absolutely still in the plans. The fact that my relatives are funding the improvement of my house’s heat means that when my friends do arrive, we’ll be better equipped to live together. For now, though, they’re dealing with things one day and crisis at a time. For more information and to support them, check out Amy’s Cancer Fund.