Old Sally Or: On The Making Of A Holiday

Hello everyone.

Thank you all for your infinite patience. Every month, I intend to be more consistent with these newsletters, making sure they arrive in your inbox by some specific, set date. Every month, that doesn’t happen. Every month, I feel guilty about it. I am trying to release that guilt; life here is forever chaotic, and I simply need to trust that you, readers, are comfortable with my writing schedule and my shifting style. So thank you, both for your interest and for the lesson.

The hoglings stayed here longer than usual, driving their mother batty with their antics and appetites. Photo credit to Murph.

In 2015, poet, gardener, and author Ross Gay published Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude, a book that includes the eponymous poem thanking, over the course of 253 lines, everyone and everything from johnny jump-ups to a neighbor who saved a local peach tree from frost to a friend who’d died and left love behind. I was lucky enough to hear Gay read in person (highly recommend!), and he mentioned that he practiced daily, for a full year, writing down something to be grateful for. He said it became easy, that things such as the buttons on his shirts became inspirational in their simple, well-served purpose.

Such is a kind of gratitude, joy and generosity I aspire to, but it’s certainly not a cultural practice I grew up with. Case in point: about a month ago, someone suggested I “talk to my therapist about why I was willing to give to those who give me nothing in return”. And though I could discourse all day on Kropotkin, mutual aid, the survival of a species through nothing less than giving and cooperation, and freakin’ Minneapolis, a friend pointed out it’s difficult to be grateful for that which one doesn’t actively see. We’re not really taught to notice how someone else adjusts for us in their lives, what seemingly minor things they do that improve our existence. I took that to heart, in my own way - I started writing down both irritations I noticed in my relationships, and things I am grateful for. And, well…now the farm needs to figure out how to host the biggest barbeque our county has ever seen, because as it turns out, there’s a lot to be grateful for, and a lot of people to whom we’d like to show our gratitude.

So although the farm’s New Year doesn’t begin until potato-planting in May, let’s start 2026 off with some updates, some reflections, and a lot of gratitude.

On January 17, our boar Onion was joined by sows Ladelaide and Lavender. Hopefully, there will be hoglings come May. Photo credit to Murph.

Many months ago, I mentioned a huge change on the horizon: the farm was welcoming my two friends, Jude and Murph, to move 1,165 miles from their home and become farming partners alongside myself. A little anxious, neither Jude nor I truly believed it would happen until 5:43 am on December 3, when Brian opened the farmhouse door to a set of bedraggled, exhausted travelers, for whom he began making breakfast. I didn’t even know they’d arrived until two hours later; the news had me scrambling out of bed, stuffing Winter gear into canvas bags and rushing down the road to attempt any necessary damage control. I burst into Brian’s house with my dogs, shoving people aside and avoiding eye contact as I attempted to get my bearings. I think twenty minutes passed before hugs were given, with me informing Jude that I was a little pissed Brian got to see them first.

Since that day, things have been so very, very rocky. Not in our friendship or our work relationship, but in life in general and things beyond our control. On December 14, I was in an horrific car crash, totaling Blueberry, my Corolla, and sending me to two different hospitals. Turning into my driveway, I did not see the 106,000-pound milk truck coming over the hill. I was immediately struck, spun around several times, and landed in Joe and Emma’s ditch while the truck, driver and his wife careened into Enos’s fence and field. I stumbled out the passenger door, yelling for help, and landed in a snow bank on a broken ankle. Fortunately, it being a Sunday, all of my neighbors were around, and the road soon filled with people assessing the damage, calling 911 and getting me a blanket and water.

Everyone involved in the crash walked away incredibly, incredibly blessed. I should, by the laws of basic physics, be dead - and it’s true that my heart stopped for twelve seconds in the ER. But I left with a tiny break in my ankle, a concussion, and no noticeable lasting cardiac damage. The truck driver had a gash in his forehead. His wife - the only one of us smart enough to be wearing a seatbelt - was completely unharmed. The vehicles bore the brunt of the damage, and it could have been so, so much worse.

Amazingly enough, however, the rest of life did get worse. Five days or so after I came home, the lights in my - and now Jude and Murph’s - house began flickering. I really wish it were ghosts, but on December 27, we had to shut the entire building down. The electricity, at 60-plus years old, had finally degraded to the point where it was no longer safe. My supplier removed our meter, and in a whirlwind of stress, flying blankets and car rides, three humans, four dogs and three cats moved in with Brian. Needless to say, tensions rose quickly. My recovery from the crash has included short-term memory loss, brain fog and total exhaustion, and suddenly I needed to coordinate an entirely new living situation, call electricians, and figure out how to buy groceries and get to my doctors’ appointments without reliable transportation. I burst into tears as I gathered up my rarest seed potatoes to bring them to safety.

Here’s the point in this story where I might usually feel I’m about to force cheeriness. No matter my newfound gratitude practices, it can seem awkward to me to attempt to inject optimism into my writing, given my cynicism and sarcasm in life. But I think, this time, it’s not really going to be forced. I think, this time, I don’t have much of a choice.

I know I’ve mentioned before my friend Adam, whose work at Sand River Community Farm inspires, informs and nourishes much of my own. I emailed him shortly after the crash, mentioning a mythical figure with whom those of us in his circle are familiar. Her name is Old Sally, and the tale, as recited by Adam, goes something like this:

“In order to learn about farming in community, I went around to all the old timers in the area. I wanted to listen to what they used to do, how they used to build culture. And I heard, repeatedly, stories with a shared theme: ‘Old Sally broke her leg one year, and for six weeks, all of her neighbors rotated schedules so that they could milk her cows every day, twice a day.’ Imagine how much Old Sally had to believe in her own self-worth, that she was worthy of receiving such gifts from those around her. Imagine a culture where you help someone because they need it, not because you’re anticipating payment.”

I think about Old Sally a lot. Sometimes, stories like that carry a glittery quality to them that makes them harder to recognize when they happen to you. Believe me, my parents have a story in which they were Old Sally - someday, I’ll tell it here. But learning self-worth and how to receive gifts is something you often have experience directly, not through observation. This was the case with me.

A good Winter task has been stripping the kernels from these lovely Glass Gem Popcorn cobs, saving them for seed and eating. Photo credit to Murph.

The last direction I remember giving to my neighbor Joe before I was loaded into ambulance was to “take care of [Brian]”. I didn’t really specify what that meant - make sure he doesn’t have a nervous breakdown? Make sure he doesn’t try to drive himself to the ER? Make sure someone checks on him while I’m gone?

Well, Joe took my instructions to mean, “Make sure Brian isn’t alone on the farm. Make sure I send my sons Eli and David down every morning and every afternoon, for an entire month, to help feed and water all the animals.” And he did. That’s exactly what he did. For a full month, Eli and David did chores. Marilynn gave Jude and Murph rides to the grocery store. Brian kept me fed. Rick gave me rides to and from my house to pick up supplies. When Jude and Murph had to stay a few nights in a local motel, when they had to make an unexpected trip to the hospital, people stepped up. I acquiesced enough to let Jude create a GoFundMe, so we can accept assistance with the cost of replacing our electricity. Folks have been bringing food and checking in and overall making me wonder if, just maybe, I might actually be worthy of these folks’ gifts. And so I said in my email to Adam, “I feel like Old Sally. I don’t know what to do with those feelings.” And he suggested, perhaps in jest, “Maybe we should make a new holiday, Old Sally’s Day. When was it you got hit?”

I’m not sure December 14 is the easiest time for people in a northern climate to gather, but I like the idea. I like the idea of recording my gratitude, and then being able to express it in a grand, fun way. So here’s a thank you to the extraordinary people supporting myself, Brian, Jude, Murph, and the entire farm as we recover. Thank you to the Farm Committee, the neighbors with cars, the local punk scene, the area queer community, our friends, our family, the land, and those gifting money, food, suggestions and a listening ear. Thank you to Eli and David. Thank you to my (deceased) maternal grandmother, whose car is now totally trashed but whom I’m certain kept me alive. Thank you to my other loved ones who’ve long since passed on, but whose presence I’ve felt regularly since that life-altering day. Thank you to the very kind insurance agents who’ve been guiding me through the chaos of paperwork. Thank you to Margaret Killjoy and Leeja Miller, whose podcasts, Cool People Who Did Cool Stuff and Why, America? keep me focused and informed. And thank you to me, for not giving up. To Jude, for cooking dinner. To Murph, for loving the animals. To Brian, for housing us. Thank you to you, readers, for appreciating my writing and hearing my voice. I am completely serious about that gratitude barbeque. Maybe we will call it Old Sally’s Day. It will certainly be in warm weather this Summer, not December, and you will all be invited. This farm will still be standing then, because of all of you, because of all of us.

I hope that gives you something to look forward to. I hope that, after the dust has settled, we can help ensure you’re still standing then, too.

Best,

Kia-Beth

they/she/zi

Gus had seven beautiful hoglings, all of whom left for Akwesasne on the the 27th. Photo credit to Murph.