Tim, Me, Duke, Bear.Photo by Anthony Aquino of Anthony Aquino Photography
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It’s a good thing that everyone here has a decent sense of humor: when we woke up on Tuesday morning to a blanket of snow and winds whipping across the Western-most fields, it took all we had to drag ourselves out of bed, tie up our scarves and zip up our insulated overalls. Again. Each [read more ...]
Want to hear a funny joke? … It’s the first day of spring.
Yesterday afternoon, at about 4 o’clock, the entire farm was doused in a splash of grey-white. As snow pelted us sideways, I could barely see out to pig island from the front yard.
A handful of our broiler chicks have died, despite the heat lamp [read more ...]
I guess I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be a farmer – or at least the kind of farmers we are at Greyrock. The media, history lessons and conventional wisdom do a good job of portraying farmers as heroes of big agriculture, those who singlehandedly feed millions with their tractors, chemicals [read more ...]
A hearty hello from Cleveland, Ohio! Tim and I are on the last leg of our journey, posting up in a coffee shop to return emails and assimilate back into the “real world” before returning to the farm this evening.
It’s been quite a week away from Greyrock; plenty of friends, wine, coffee, wine, cappuccinos, games, [read more ...]
I wanted to begin this week’s newsletter by saying “What a week!” but upon further consideration, realized that it’s actually only Tuesday. But between the steer slaughtering, the electric fence troubleshooting, the 40-dozen egg washing, the pork chop-cooking, the cow milking and glass washing, the distribution preparing and the broiler chicken planning, it feels like [read more ...]
Here’s a photo of Tim with one of the farm cats in his jacket. Because well, why not?
So in an attempt to make myself a better person, I’ve decided to eat more organs. Our freezers are, as you know, are stocked with tongue, liver, hearts and gizzards; a veritable treasure chest of meat – if you’re into that sort of thing.
Dear members, I know that some of you are not. And bless [read more ...]
When you cut the twine off of a square bale of hay, the dried grass falls apart in compact squares. They’re called flakes or, as I prefer, books. Books of hay; what a nice thing to think about. If this hay had stories to tell, what kind of books would they fill?
I don’t do as [read more ...]
The puddles of melted snow in the barnyard are pooling with swirls of mud. As recently as this morning, the ground was a patchy sheet of ice, tempting an easy fall and subsequently sore bottom. But as the temperature’s risen throughout the day, the ice has melted into slush. It’s nice to work in just [read more ...]