July 2024 Updates
Abundance in many forms...
Kia-Beth Bennett
7/16/20245 min read


Last month, I asked Isaiah to take over the farm social media. He excels at photography, always writes with detail and enthusiasm, and it helped me delegate (something my therapist recommends I do more often). What I hadn’t anticipated, however, was the number of cow-centric posts he’d create. Even when discussing the cherry harvest or crescent butterflies, he manages to sneak in a photo of the herd, to the point where I’ve started poking fun. Imagine my chagrin, then, when I realized that this month’s newsletter would be…about…cows.
Okay, technically, this newsletter is about abundance, and wanting to share that abundance. But discussing abundance, especially in reference to such a fecund place-being as a farm, is an encyclopedic effort. Centering the tale around the cows helps ground this lively and detailed report. And like many stories of life, it begins with a death.
On Wednesday, July 10th, the farm weathered the same storms I imagine many of you experienced. We were grateful for rain, but when the skies cleared and I went to check on everyone, I found Sword, a perfectly healthy two-month-old bull calf, lying dead in the field. He had no visible injuries; he hadn’t been attacked. Brian and I eventually determined that a lightning strike must have hit a metal t-post, sending electricity rocketing up into Sword’s feet and killing him instantly. His mother, Fern, is one of the oxen, and she’s devastated. Isaiah cried a lot, as Sword is his favorite. Personally, I’m saddened, but mostly felt like Sword’s death was the finale to a series of very, very weird evenings Brian and I had been experiencing. I promised the little calf I’d care for his mother, and I left the herd alone, save for rotating them, for several days. They needed space to mourn.
But balance always returns. Fern has worked a little, and she knows all the commands. She’d never been milked, however, and a grass-fed, twice-calved mother who loses their nurser instantly is at risk for mastitis, or at the least, a swollen udder and excruciating pain. On Saturday Isaiah and I, armed with maple syrup candy, lead lines, salve and a stainless-steel pot, went to milk Fern – again, a cow who’d never felt a human hand tugging on her udder. We explained to her the deal, walked her to one of the field-placed Earth anchors and gave it a try. It’s Tuesday as I write this, and that beautiful, amazing, brilliant creature has stood, with next to no issues, thrice now, and I am delighting in her milk.
You may be thinking that as cool as that sounds, the abundance I promised isn’t quite ringing true. I shall explain:
Sword’s death opened the door for a new relationship between myself, the crew, Fern and the rest of the herd. We – especially Fern and I – are learning how to trust, communicate, listen and be wholly present with one another. When I’m milking her, Fern becomes visibly upset if I am at all distracted, and she gently lets me know when she’s had enough.
Sword’s body provides an enormous food source to carrion, clown and dung beetles, as well as flies and other insects. These bugs are then eaten by flycatchers and swallows.
A half-gallon of fresh milk, retrieved once a day, is more than enough for the little family here.
It closes an open loop. The salve I use on Fern’s udder was made by last summer’s crew from plantain and aloe growing on the farm. It makes my hands quite soft, too!
Milking keeps Fern from becoming ill, and appears to provide her with comfort and purpose during this very difficult time. She refused to let us move Sword’s body, and it’ll be a while before she accepts my hugs, but for now we are a committed team.
Caring for Fern reduces overall herd stress, and herd health is vital to farm survival. The Highlanders demonstrate how, when all life and death are accounted for, they are building balanced relationships with their neighbors, food and predators. For example:
The rotational grazing system is set up to avoid field bird, swampland bird and warbler nesting sites, increasing endangered populations while the cows eat well.
RG also increases soil organic matter levels, and keeps the cows away from flooded areas and streams, reducing compaction and increasing frog, minnow, muskrat and crawdad habitats.
RG timing increases the flower population, expanding pollinator habitats and seasonal food sources.
The minimal electric fence makes coyote migration possible, reducing their stress and the risk they’ll go after the calves.
The herd is eating all the invasive reed canary grass and Tatarian honeysuckle, making room for native plants. Common prickly-ash is moving in and providing food for great swallowtail caterpillars.
The “Back 40” swath of field is filling with young ash trees, who are kept healthy by consistent pruning from the cows and an increased bird population who can devour emerald ash-borers. That field will someday be a serious forest, maintained as a silviculture ecosystem.
Wild fruit production has skyrocketed as a result of cow pruning. Last year we gathered 13 pounds of no-effort black cherries for juice, jellies and vinegars. This year, the fall-bearing raspberries are laden, and the apple trees are slowly gaining new growth. The preserves and such we’ll make will be gifted, sold and brought to the littleGrasse Annual Swap, ensuring dozens of other humans benefit.
The healthy micro-habitats mean the snake populations are increasing and diversifying; they in turn will eat the voles who eat the beet and potato crops.
The calm manner of the herd and the farmers makes a welcoming space for more and more migratory species. Last year, an egret showed up and stayed with the cows for a week! This year, the green herons call out as they fly over the fields each day.
The herd is rapidly expanding, and other small, regenerative farms are able to bring home breeding trios from here. It’s very sad for me, but great for local food sovereignty. The trades and sales bring outside income to the farm.
The young bulls will provide hundreds of pounds of meat this year, to be enjoyed, shared and sold throughout the Winter, when need is often highest.
This is a place where everyone can come learn from the herd, and utilize this knowledge to build a stunning, multi-dimensional, relationship-based ecosystem wherever they are.
This is just the tip of the iceberg, just a brief image of the Highland herd and habitat. I’ve not even mentioned the bountiful harvests: the crocks of onions, scapes, cherries, raspberries, peas, parsnips and cabbage. The baskets of celery, oregano, lovage, parsley, chives, nasturtiums and mints. The sows and ewes gravid with unborn infants. The blooming phlox, elderberries, elecampane and geraniums. The wasps, crickets, dragonflies, bumblebees, ground beetles and mantids. The music and jokes and laughter and joy.
And I tell you all this not to brag, not to say, “Wow, aren’t we so cool!?!” (I mean, we are) but to invite you to join us. For me, the greatest pleasure comes from giving away the food, storytelling as we tour the farm, sharing the excitement of the daily events. I do best when I know that someone else is enjoying the harvest.
Right now, in the midst of this abundance, the farm feels socially small. Daily life includes myself, Isaiah, Carly, Brian and Jesse, but customers and visitors are rare. You don’t need to bring plans, money or expectations – you can sit in the shade and watch the hummingbirds, or learn to milk Fern, or join us for lunch. You don’t need to call ahead. You can go home with a slab of bacon, or a jar of tomato juice, or salad. You can stay for a moment, an hour, a day, a weekend. There is space and food and fun to be spread around and enjoyed by all. We will meet each other’s needs. It’s easier than you think.
Hoping to see you soon,
Kia-Beth
zi/they
The Bittersweet-Milkweed Collaborative

