Sometimes I’m blessed with the most amazing sights outside my kitchen window: flocks grazing; chickens running to and fro; turkeys displaying their spring splendor, trying to impress their mates.

Lately I’ve been letting the flock stay out later, the afternoon sun warming their backs as they graze those last bits of lush green pasture before getting locked safely into their pen for the night. They meander up when the time is right, some kind of biological clock telling them the long day is over and that it’s time for a warm bed of hay and rest.

On one night in particular, the girls headed straight for their favorite spots, all in a row, one by one. They reminded me of elephants walking head to tail, each one holding onto the tail in front of her. Behind them were the six lambs, following along as if they, too, knew it was time. The moms began settling in nicely, easing themselves into wind-down mode. Suddenly, as if someone turned on a switch, all six lambs did a 360 and raced right back out of the pen. They ran to one side and just stood there, bunched up and leaning against one another, and I swear they were smiling. Then, from a completely still position, the two biggest ones leaped straight in the air, did a half nelson, and landed back down with very pleased looks on their faces. Like a bunch of 5-year-olds, they stood there as if to say, “We’re not ready for bed yet.”

All I could think of was the times when, as mothers, we’ve called our kids to come in from playing in the garden and have gotten the “Oh, Mom, just five more minutes” reply. I might have thought it was time to close the gate, but the babes had other plans. As I approached, they took off like a shot, ran down the pasture, did a complete once-around and then headed straight for the pen. Neither I nor their moms were in charge. “Teenagers,” I said to myself. “They’re like a pack of adolescents, feeling their oats.”

Once the babes were back in the pen, each one found its mama and then, when and only when they were ready, they started settling down. I’ve been told before that, when you’re around animals long enough, you’ll come to learn that you’re not actually the boss. For me, giving up control is a good thing. I’ve always thought I was in charge, but farming has taught me otherwise. Once again I’m reminded that I’m there to keep them safe and to tend them, to feed them and to enjoy them, but really, they have their own nature. I’m learning to respect that and allow them to be, well, sheep. More than that, I’m learning to enjoy it.

I had a great experience recently in selling my first lamb, a sweet black ram who went to live on a farm in Houlton, Maine. I’m not a life-long Mainer, and I’m still learning how big this state is. When I got a call from a gentleman who wanted a black ram for wool, I asked him where he was. Houlton, he said. Since my trips generally keep me within a 50-mile radius of the midcoast, I had no idea where that was. Almost to Canada, he told me.

I was intrigued—and a little leery of how we were going to connect from there to here. He told me he is 80 years old, still farming, and has an all-black flock. We planned to meet at noon on a Saturday in Searsport to make the exchange. At 1:30 I was still waiting and feared he had gotten lost somewhere along the way. As I sat in my Volvo wagon with the babe quietly munching on hay in the back, I began to have reservations about selling this little one. The man had admitted he was getting up there in age, didn’t get around too well, and, frankly, seemed a little confused about things. But when he arrived, my reservations vanished.

He was upset that he was so late and that I had been waiting so long. He had gone the wrong route and stopped several times to ask the way before finally figuring it out. Turns out someone gave him the wrong directions, or maybe he heard them wrong. Doesn’t matter. The way he put it was: “I don’t think most people know where they are on this earth.” He was wearing—I swear—a starched pair of jeans. I know they were a lot cleaner than mine, with big suspenders holding them up. His big farmer hands rested on the steering wheel of the pickup as we talked for a few minutes, and then he made out a check for the babe. He brought out a big wooden box, a beautiful thing someone had made for him to transport a pig. He also brought a blanket to cover the lamb, “in case the wind was too cold.” He said he didn’t want the little guy to get the sniffles.

I almost cried. I did on the way home.

People amaze me. There is gentleness in this world and goodwill. I was sitting there, annoyed that my carefully planned day was getting taken up with delivering this lamb to a man who couldn’t find his way out of Houlton. Now I’m just grateful this lamb found a home with a man with gentle hands, a farmer who will tend this little guy as he becomes a daddy to his own flocks. We parted with the man inviting me to come visit. He said he’d even clean up the house. I told him that, when the season was over and before the flakes flew, I’d try to do just that.

I feel so lucky when I meet the greatest people and they happen to be farmers. I wish that everyone, human and animal, could have warm blankets to keep the sniffles away and somebody’s big, warm hands to guide them through life. In the meantime, I’m going to keep glancing out my kitchen window at my own peaceable kingdom—a partnership of the simplest kind and one I’m happy to enjoy.

Dyan Redick describes herself as “an accidental farmer with a purpose.” Her farm, located on the St. George peninsula of Maine, is a certified Maine State Dairy offering cheeses made with milk from a registered Saanen goat herd, a seasonal farm stand full of wool from a Romney cross flock, goat milk soap, lavender, woolens, and whatever else strikes Dyan’s fancy. Bittersweet Heritage Farm is an extension of her belief that we should all gain a better understanding of our food source, our connection to where we live, and to the animals with whom we share the earth.

ALL PHOTOS: BITTERSWEET HERITAGE FARM

 

Raising livestock can be very rewarding. You get to build this intimate relationship with the creatures that provide your food. You take a great deal of care in their raising because you want them to be healthy and happy. The healthier and happier they are, the better the food they produce for you will be.

On the other side of the coin, sometimes, no matter how well you care for them, you’ll end up losing livestock. For whatever reason, they may give up before you do, and once they do, there really is nothing you can do to save them. Mindy was my biggest heartbreak. I still get teary-eyed when I think about her.

For those who are new to reading the blog, two years ago we got to help Bella kid Mork and Mindy. It was the first kidding we’d ever had here—or even attended, for that matter. When they were born, Mork was up and at ‘em immediately. His sister, however, was not. She nursed right away, lying down next to Bella, but other than that, she was very slow to stand.

From then on, she was never quite right. The kidding coincided with a huge storm and what ended up being one of the wettest, longest winters I can remember. Very quickly she got coccidiosis, which we treated, only for it to come back again soon after. When we finally knocked it down all the way, she got in a good week of normalcy. It just so happened that was the week we had a photographer here for a book, and there were some amazingly cute photos of her playing.

But the healthy week was short lived. She started to show signs of goat polio, and off to the vet she went. The vet had us give her vitamin B1 shots for three days, but when that was up, we didn’t see any improvement—and now she was wheezing.

Pneumonia is particularly dangerous in goats. The vet put her on some strong antibiotics, and at first she seemed to be improving. But then she crashed. Really fast. She was fine in the morning, and then that afternoon we came home to find her unable to keep her balance, wheezing heavily, eyes bulging. We were sent to UC Davis, where they confirmed that she had not only pneumonia but also encephalitis of unknown origin. She wasn’t going to improve, so we had to let her go. It’s amazing how such a small little creature can get into your heart so quickly.

Since she was from our very first kidding, losing her also made me really nervous. In the back of my mind, I had this fear that doelings were just too fragile. Daisy’s buckling, Mongo, and Mork were big, strapping kids and incredibly healthy. But Mindy, our one and only doeling, couldn’t make it past a few weeks. Bailey proved me wrong, and she’s definitely eased my fears, however irrational they may be.

Sometimes, though, they continue to fight. As many of you know, Hank, my tom turkey, is one of my favorites around here. I came home from work one afternoon a couple of months ago to find him stumbling and completely off balance. He also appeared to have lost sight in one of his eyes. I was completely freaked out. We don’t have any poultry vets around here, so the first thing I did was email Clare to get some advice. She really helped, and I can’t thank her enough.

Unfortunately, it was unclear what was causing the issue. After looking up various poultry sites, it seemed that maybe he had a mineral or vitamin deficiency. Fortunately, he was eating and drinking fine, as long as he could stay standing upright, so I was able to give him some extra supplements. But after a few days and no improvement, I had to look elsewhere. In the meantime, he seemed to be getting worse. His vision in the other eye was questionable, and Tom was feeling like it might be time to put Hank down. The photo of him above was taken just a couple of days before he fell ill, and I was scared that it would be the last one I would have of him. I stood there in the yard, holding him up and crying. I just wasn’t ready to let him go yet.

I finally decided to use antibiotics. I’m not one to use them on a whim, so it took a lot of thought to decide to go this route. Clare gave me some advice on the length of treatment, so I put him on the patio (it seemed to offer him better footing) in his own pen and makeshift coop and started him on antibiotics. Within a few days, the improvement was noticeable. After 10 days, he gobbled at me. By the end of the round, he was strutting and calling for his ladies. He’s now back with everyone and soon to be a dad again. I’m glad we fought for him, since he was still willing to fight.

My friends in college used to call me a Renaissance woman. I was always doing something crafty, creative, or utilitarian. I still am. My focus these days, instead of arts and crafts, has been farming as much of my urban quarter-acre as humanly possible. Along with my husband, I run Dog Island Farm, in the SF Bay Area. We raise chickens, goats, rabbits, dogs, cats, and a kid. We’re always keeping busy. If I’m not out in the yard, I’m in the kitchen making something from scratch. Homemade always tastes better!

ALL PHOTOS: COURTESY OF RACHEL

 

This month I’m writing to my HOMEGROWN friends about the ominous tale of what could have been.

I could have written about happy things.

I could have written about morel mushroom season, one of life’s glorious pleasures.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I could have written about our booming garden produce. We’re harvesting small volumes of mixed salad greens, spinach, turnips, mixed mustards, brassicas for braising, and beautiful radishes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I could have written about the continued love-hate relationship I have with my goat herd, the goats having broken into our house one Saturday while we were out on the soccer field. They broke a lot of stuff, including lamps, coffee mugs, various canned goods, my son’s favorite illustrated poster of Greek deities, dozens of house plants, a prized National Geographic poster from the former Soviet Union, my sons’ taxonomy project (two months in the making), and much more. They got on both boys’ beds and tracked up their bedclothes with mud and manure and fur. Well, this wasn’t funny at the time, but in hindsight I suppose I can laugh about it.

But instead I’m going to write about a more serious matter that has reared its head on the western Missouri plains. Big oil is expanding, and it has me and many others in my small community deeply concerned.

You’ve probably heard about the fight against TransCanada and their Keystone XL Pipeline proposal from Northern Canada down to the Gulf of Mexico. The Keystone XL Pipeline would be carrying some of the most toxic and polluting oil on Earth, made by destroying Canada’s boreal forest in the Tar Sands region. The Tar Sands oil project has been called “game over for the climate” by NASA’s pre-eminent climate scientist, James Hansen. Climate activists, including 350.org and many others, have thus far been able to delay construction of the Keystone XL Pipeline since it crosses international borders, and the president/State Department has to sign off on it. It’s a great story about citizens fighting back against environmental destruction from the oil companies and winning—at least for now.

Enter our local situation, and the Enbridge Flanagan South Pipeline. This proposed pipeline is actually Enbridge’s play as the alternative to Keystone XL. It is being done with a lower profile, more piecemeal approach. So far it has gotten very little public scrutiny. We’re hoping our little group of concerned citizens can help change that.

We live in a rural community in West Missouri that has invested millions of dollars to improve the cleanliness of our public water infrastructure and to upgrade our it. The proposed Flanagan South pipeline would carry highly toxic diluted bitumen through it, and that pipeline crosses one mile from the water intake of our local water supply. There are other towns along the route facing similar risks.

And while this fight is about the destruction of the climate and Northern Canadian tar sands development, it’s also a local fight about the risks associated with toxic oil coming through a pipeline that could rupture and foul our water and local ecology. Here are some concerns we’ve discovered about diluted bitumen, which the oil industry refers to as “dilbit,” as we’ve learned about the project:

• Dilbit contains benzene, mixed hydrocarbons, and n-hexane. All three are toxins that can affect the human brain and central nervous system.

• Dilbit contains hydrogen sulfide gas. Hydrogen sulfide can cause suffocation in humans in concentrations over 100 parts per million. This is a serious risk to workers breathing in vapors from the chemical mixture.

• Dilbit contains many toxic heavy metals that do not break down in the environment. Vanadium, nickel, arsenic, and other heavy metals can accumulate and cause toxicity in plants, wildlife, and people.

• Dilbit’s characteristics make it very different than conventional petroleum, therefore it operates very differently than conventional oil as it flows through the pipeline. Dilbit has much higher acidity, viscosity, sulfur content, pipeline temperature, and pipeline pressure than conventional oil pipelines. Dilbit also contains higher rates of flow per second of quartz and silicates than commercial sand blasters. These factors create concerns regarding pipeline spill risks.

• Unlike conventional oil, dilbit does not float when it spills into water. Dilbit sinks, making surface water containment strategies ineffective.

• Despite industry promises of safety and pipeline integrity, spills happen. Often. In fact, there are more than 100 petrochemical spills every year, flowing toxic poisons into our forests, fields, waterways, and communities.

• If you’ve read or heard about the recent dilbit spill in Mayflower, Arkansas, or the destructive pipeline that burst along the Kalamazoo River in Michigan a couple of summers ago, both spills were pipeline ruptures involving dilbit.

• To top off the risks of the pipeline operations, there is very little legislation or regulatory framework that we’ve found that addresses these concerns. Pipeline development, contrary to the popular imagination, is exempt from most national and local environmental standards. Even if they wanted to (and, yes, that’s a questionable proposition), the EPA and the Missouri Department of Natural Resources could do very little about this proposed pipeline. Instead, pipeline permits and inspections are governed by the Department of Transportation, which only requires inspections every six years.

So what’s going to happen? I don’t know. This is one of those situations where locals are shocked when they hear about what’s coming through our region—and yet, there has been almost no public information about the proposed Flanagan South Pipeline. We’re trying to change that. So stay tuned. There might be something interesting to tell in future months. Wish us luck, because we’re not tilting at windmills here. (We love windmills, after all.) We’re tilting at billions of dollars backing a highly toxic project that could spell real disaster in our region.

Bryce Oates is a farmer, father, writer, and rural economic development entrepreneur. He works with his family to raise organic vegetables, beef, lamb, chickens, goats and manage the bottomland forest woodlot in Western Missouri. He has helped to launch numerous social enterprises, including a sustainable wood processing cooperative, a dairy goat cheese processing facility, and a conservation-based land management company that incentivizes carbon sequestration in forests and grasslands. Bryce currently co-owns the Root Cellar Grocery in Downtown Columbia, Missouri, a local food store that operates a weekly produce subscription program called the Missouri Bounty Box. Bryce, along with 135 other farmers, sells his produce through this program.