Friday, April 19, 2013

My Pappaw would be proud...our Farm Store remodel

Thirty five years ago my mother's parents moved to Virginia to be close to one certain little red headed girl...me. Both natives of Northeast Tennessee, they had spent the preceding decade in Florida. My sweet Granny wanted to live near each of her grandchildren. When her two sons moved to Florida to start familys, she followed. I was the last of the grandchildren born, so in the end they moved here to southern Virginia. This is where my mother had settled down after accepting a nearby teaching job and marring dear ol' dad. My Granddaddy Taylor sold my Granny and Pappaw ten acres of the Taylor family farm so they would be near by. It was so awesome growing up next door to both sets of grandparents!
Me and Pappaw doing a little farming in the early 1980's.

My Pappaw was a carpenter by trade and farmer from birth. As soon as he completed construction on their new Virginia house, he began work building his tractor shop. A nice size building, 2,000+ total square feet, one half was a tractor repair workshop, the other a store. He built it all himself, with help from my daddy and uncles. Here he sold Belerus tractors and implements and did tractor repair work. His store was filled with hand made wooden bins which neatly organized every size nut, bolt and washer you can imagine.
Before we began the remodel

The workshop has a huge sliding door on the both front and back. On warm spring days, when I got off the school bus, Pappaw would be sitting in that door way. From his chair he enjoyed the westerly breeze as he balanced an ever present cigarette among his stubbed fingers. Years of farm machinery repair, and one childhood wood splitting accident, had left him with only three intact fingers. The rest had been amputated at varying lengths. He came for a generation that did not over use the term "disability", they only knew of challenges that must be over come to get a days work done. I wish I could bottle up the work ethic and morality of his generation. Couldn't we all use a dose of that?

As time passed, so did my Pappaw and sweet Granny. His beloved tractor shop fell into disrepair, the neatly organized bolt bins lost order, the paint faded, the siding rotted and the windows cracked. The entire family used the store half for the storage of "stuff" that all should have gone straight to Goodwill. The workshop became a catch all for tools and yard equipment. It was a nightmare conglomeration and borderline worthy of the next episode of Hoarders! Of all the work we have done thus far to restore this farm, the task of cleaning out the old tractor store was the most daunting.
The old store sign

We began by hauling off to the dump anything that could not be recycled or useful to anyone else. That was about half a dozen truck loads. All the totes of holiday decorations made the trek to our house and up to the third floor attic. There were literally hundreds of pounds of hardware. Figuring someone could use some of the various sized pieces, I called up another local farmer and expert tinkerer. Big Everette, as we call him, came right over and went to work sorting through the metal madness. As he hauled off several five gallon buckets of nuts, bolts and assorted goodies, I don't know who was happier, me or him!

Now thats how to dress up overalls, a pink bandana.

I saved a few of every size of anything that looked remotely useful, this kept my daddy happy. Throughout the entire cleaning out process he was over my shoulder chanting, "ya'll gonna need that one day". I reassured him time and again that if we did need it, and it happened to be a part we had scrapped or given away, I would gladly drive to Home Depot and get a new one. I'm all about being prepared and having items on hand, but I feel certain no emergency will ever arise if we don't have a carburetor for a 1982 model Russian made tractor on hand. A side note, the Belerus tractors my Pappaw sold were Tennessee orange, gotta love that ;-).

Once we got every thing cleared out the fun part began. What I consider fun, is my husbands idea of torture. When we got married he had four requests, 1. He never had to rake leaves 2. He never had to paint 3. He never had to do any form of carpentry and finally the most important request, 4. We never run out of ketchup. So, abiding by our unwritten pre-nump, Allen was out for the remainder of the remodel. Thank the good Lord for good neighbors! Enter stage right...Dwayne, our neighbor and hobby carpenter.


Two sides done!

Dwayne and I spent his every day off, from first light till the afternoon working on residing and painting the exterior. During this process we came to several conclusions. First, I can't cut a straight line to save my life. Second, Dwayne's measurements were always off. Third, our job foreman, my Daddy, would undoubtedly point out a minimum of three things we were doing wrong per minute. Our solutions, Dwayne did all the cutting, I did all the measuring and we both wore ear plugs. It took several weeks of working a day here and there to complete the exterior of the front and one end of the building. We will tackle the other two sides as soon as the garden is planted, hopefully ;-).


Inside the Farm Store

Since I was old enough to get out of my parents sight, I have been roaming this farm. Every summers day was passed with my BFF and I playing in its creeks, building forts from fallen limbs and exploring every barn and out building on the place. My family purchased this land in the 1880's, however there was one building that still stands today which dates to the very early 1800's. We call it the old kitchen. It is a small two story building, built presumably as the unattached kitchen for the first house ever on this land. Its attic held many a treasure to my young, adventuresome heart. We pilfered through its artifacts with the enthusiasm of archaeologist Howard Carter opening King Tut's tomb. We would load our treasures in a wagon and proudly show them off. I would then stash them safely back in the old kitchen, hoping some day I would have a use for them.

The old sickle
Back to the creation of our Farm Store, with the outside looking presentable and the inside cleared out, it was time to decorate! That has to be a top ten favorite word in every woman's vocabulary, even those of us who spend more time in muck boots than heels. For the interior paint, only authentic barn red would do. Primarily because I had lots left over from the exterior painting and Allen had recently began chaperoning my Home Depot visits. I believe he became alarmed when I repeatedly asked how much over budget I could go on the project. With the walls painted, I finally had a place to display some of the treasures I drug out all those years ago. Each piece had a farming purpose and was used by my ancestors right here on this land. Most appear to have been hand forged, made in an attempt to simplify or hasten one of the many daily farm chores. When I begin to whine about weed eating the fence line this hot, humid July, please remind me to take a look at the old sickle now displayed in the Farm Store. I'm sure that will shut me up, at least for a little awhile.


Allen replacing the sign after I painted it

We are all very pleased with how the remodel is turning out. We still have quite a ways to go. The work shop half must be organized and the remaining two exterior sides still need new siding and paint. From our "new" Farm Store we sale the all natural, pastured raised meats we raise right here on this farm. We raise our livestock much the same way my forefathers would have done 150 years ago, except I have traded their sickle for a Stihl weed eater.





Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Know your food, know your farmer

The new rallying cry of the local food movement is, "know where your food comes from". Mothers are persistently trying to educate their children that hamburger does not grow in the back room of Wal-Mart. This is so important as with each generation we become further and further removed from the farm. Most of us can recall first hand farm-life accounts from a grandparent or other "Greatest Generation" member. According to the US Census, in 1910 72% of Americans lived in a rural setting, 100 years later that number has dropped to just 16%. Our society is expeditiously loosing touch with agriculture, the sustainer of life. Believe it or not, life would go on without your iPhone, but not without our farms. Having said that, when my iPhone is misplaced the day comes to a screeching halt until it is found since I have two toddlers vying for its destruction.

Be aware the USDA has NO standards for "fresh" or "natural" like they do for "organic", so those words on a package mean nothing, just another adjective. A commercial label reading "all natural" might as well read "raised on Mars", it bears the same weight. However, we found an organization that ensures a meat product is truly "all natural" and "humanly raised".  That was one of the reasons we sought out auditing by Animal Welfare Approved. AWA is the only third party recognized by the USDA that certifies livestock as being humanely raised and fed an all natural diet. This service is free to farmers, so the AWA has "no dog in that race", or "pig" in our case, ensuring audits are unbiased and unbought.

The only meat in my freezer was raised right here on our farm. I wouldn't have it any other way and realize how fortunate I am to have that luxury. Every night when I prepare dinner for my family, I know without a doubt that the meat is healthy, safe to eat and was humanely raised. An interesting fact, only FOUR mega-corporations process 80% of US beef. Every pack of discount beef, pork or chicken found in a big box store was commercially raised on a confinement farm. The farming status quo raises thousands of animals in minimal space, to save money. Economical, yes. Morally acceptable, no. Safe, probably not. Here's a scary fact, 80% of antibiotics used in the US are found in livestock feed. The meat safety issue is a whole other story. I'll save that for later. But for now, here is a link to Physicians for Social Responsibility http://www.psr.org/chapters/oregon/safe-food/industrial-meat-system.html. It is a simple article that is very informative, written by doctors who should know.
Taylor comforting an injured piglet.

Do a quick You Tube search of "commercial hog farm abuse", replace "hog" with "turkey", then "chicken",  then "beef", the results are horrifying. Not all large scale producers mistreat their animals and not all small farmers treat their livestock like family pets. Just be aware that livestock abuse is a problem and it does help to know your farmer. You can visit our farm and see the animals happily grazing on pasture or taking a mud bath. Try that at a commercial hog house or feed lot. If you could stand the stench, that reaches for miles, I'm certain you would not like what you saw.  I know the meat I feed my children, I know that animal was well cared for its entire life, it was never given any chemicals and was processed by a AWA approved slaughter house to ensure once the animal left my hands it was treated humanly till its last breath.
Our sons, Jack and Micheal.

We work very hard to ensure the well being of our animals. I firmly believe that a high quality of life results in a higher quality of meat. Ethically, it's a no brainer. Everyone is on the made in America kick, which is great. It's nice to know your clothing, tool and house ware purchases support American companies. The "Made In America" trend in a global market place is comparable to the "Buy Local Food" movement on a national level. I see moms in the grocery store go over the ingredient label on a box of cereal with a magnifying glass. One isle over she tosses a commercially produced pack of pork chops in the cart without a second thought. That's just my observation. Knowing where your meats and veggies come from and how they were raised is just as important as the unpronounceable list of ingredients on a box of Fruit Loops. That's just my opinion.
The Wright men.

Speaking of ingredients, after searching the entire east coast, we finally found a real German butcher who specializing in artisanal, fully cooked meats. This search was sparked by my husbands love of bologna. Have you looked at that ingredients list? Uggghhh! And, just so you know, bologna shouldn't be pink, that's a dye. Anyway, The Weeping Radish in Grandy, NC turns our pork into one pound packs of deliciousness! They use no artificial dyes or chemical preservatives. This small, family run business has the same dedication to their trade as we do to ours. The same is true of the small slaughter facility we use, no mega-corporations needed. I know my abattoir, I know my butcher and I certainly know my farmer. Each of us has a passion for what we do, it's more than just a job to us.

Our son, Jack, a farmer in training.
The daily chores required by this farm are not tedious, they are a rewarding part of daily life. Much like raising children, it has its ups and downs, good days and bad.  I wouldn't trade my worst day on this farm for the best day behind a desk. When one loves their work, they are usually better at it. In the back of my nostalgia clouded mind, I realize that this farm is still a business and must be made profitable. We have invested so much into the infrastructure of this farm that I doubt Allen and I will ever net a true profit in our lifetime. It is my hope and dream that at least one of our children will want to continue what we have started. I pray that one day, my grandchildren will be practicing sustainable agriculture on this land as well. That was the whole reason we started out on this farming adventure, to put "family" back in the family farm.