Motivation

I haven't had a whole lot to say lately, in large part because there are few things about which I've got any great deal of confidence nowadays.  On the one issue where I do still have an (unfortunately) high level of confidence, the window of opportunity for positive change has passed such that it seems unproductive to try and educate anyone. Talking about climate change anymore feels like striking up a conversation on electric chairs and nooses with a death-row inmate.  It seems better to let everyone maintain a state of blissful ignorance for as long as they can, as the ultimate outcome will be no different.

I spent a lot of money on hay to feed our small Jersey herd yesterday, as our own hay production last year was horrible due to the drought and the fact that our hayfields are overdue for replanting.  Paid about 30% more than ever before.  This was a reminder that our modest herd is not self-sustainable from our own acreage, at least not without a steady stream of purchased inputs (lime, potash, alfalfa seed, etc).  We don't currently need the milk, and in fact I only milk about once a week now as I let the calf take all she wants.  Rachel and Henry have stopped drinking milk, and I'm probably allergic to it (chances are it's one of the triggers for my eosinophillic esophagitis, which makes it difficult to swallow food at times).  

So keeping cows at the moment doesn't seem particularly smart, especially when the costs amortized over the milk we consume probably put it close to $30 a gallon.  A Simpson's reference comes to mind here.

On the other hand, we would likely be able to feed one or two cows for a while (we currently have 3 cows and a young bull) if things really go south -- and that milk would instantly become a whole lot more valuable to ourselves as well as our neighbors.  Ditto for the manure to keep gardens producing well.  

Such Chicken-Little thoughts get tiring after a while though, as does forking out a never ending supply of hay and the resulting manure.  Then there's the never ending hoof-trimming and occasional veterinary issues, and the fact that on-farm butchers have all disappeared, or that it's no longer possible to schedule with any of the few remaining butchers (whom I'd have to deliver a live animal to, which is not always easy) with less than a year's notice now.

Another lesson from yesterday's hay purchase came from one of the farmers I bought it from.  He was missing an arm. I presumed either a wartime injury or perhaps a farm related accident had cost him his limb, but it turns out that neither was the cause.  He simply wore out his shoulder putting up so much hay over so many years that his arm ceased to remain attached, and his doctors suggested complete removal.  

It's not that all farm work is drudgery -- far from it, in fact.  I still love working with cows as well as the horses, and I also miss our old flock of sheep.  It's just that all of this work, when added on to the requirement of a full-time job makes it nearly impossible to do other things that I would  enjoy even more. Farms simply don't mesh well with a recreation filled life of canoeing, sailing, skiing, hunting, climbing, or a myriad of other things that I once enjoyed at every opportunity.

Granted, contemplating a life without the need for hard physical labor is a luxury afforded to only the last few generations in most families.  My great grandparents, farming in southern Illinois exclusively with mules up through the early 50s, had no such option. In some ways it seems dishonorable for me to even consider it. At other times, I feel like the little piggy who built the brick house, looking longingly at the carefree lifestyle of his brother in the straw house and wondering if talk of the big-bad-wolf was just a bunch of nonsense.  

Is there a big-bad wolf?  Is he coming anytime soon? The lesson to be gleaned from the fable of the Three Little Pigs hinges upon this vital bit of information.  The brick house, as it turns out, is NOT always better.