Written by our youngest daughter, Clarissa
Here
we find ourselves. February is already looming large on the horizon, but we are
still settling into the new year’s routine with undeniable hope and a sense of
bewilderment at the inevitable passing of time. This is my second winter off of
Dreamfarm, but my first winter in the city. Last Sunday my sister, Alicia, and
I made the trek from our Madison flat back home to the farm. As we left the
metropolis behind and rural Wisconsin came into view, I found the expanse of
winter in front of us had settled with a kind of grace not evident within city
limits. Fields, flourishing with corn, alfalfa, and soybeans mere months ago,
now seas of white shimmering in the late afternoon light. As we pull into our
driveway, we are greeted by our faithful, old farm dog, Oliver. My parents,
Diana and Jim, emerge from the barn, bundled against the cold and wave hello.
The first words out of my father’s mouth are, “Come check out Little Jimmy!” He
is referring to the newborn lamb born just a week before, on my father’s birthday,
thus his namesake. We do so, check out Little Jimmy, that is. A mere fraction
the size of his mother, Alicia and I take turns holding him, this little bit of
sheep, and nestle into his tiny warmth and familiar lanolin scent. The first of
many newborns that will grace Dreamfarm’s pastures in the coming months and a
sure sign that spring, somewhere through all this cold and snow, will
eventually emerge. Little Jimmy’s mother on the other side of the fence grows
impatient, reluctantly we return her son to her, he runs beneath her
round winter belly and begins to nurse. We make our way through the barn; the
milking does lay in their bedded pens, their silky summer coats replaced with
thick, fluffy winter ones. They rest for the season, allowing their energy to
be put into the babies growing inside of them, ensuring the furtherance of the
tiny circle of life my family has created on Dreamfarm. My parents finish up
the afternoon chores hours earlier than they would on any given summer day.
Operating a seasonal dairy not only allows our animals to rest, it gives our
family the chance to slow down as well. And slow down we do, but never too
much. This time of year my mother does much of Dreamfarm’s desk-work; ordering labels,
applying for grants, organizing the CSA, renewing our farmers’ market
membership, and has recently completed a new and improved Dreamfarm website (up
now!). She also sends our Jacob sheep’s wool to be spun at Blackberry Ridge
Woolen Mill. It returns in long scanes in which she winds and labels to be sold
at the farmers’ market. In addition, she finds enough free time to embark on a
few knitting projects of her own, a hobby that is simply impossible to
cultivate during the farming season. My father, who balances a full-time job
along with doing his part on Dreamfarm, has been splitting wood since early
fall to feed our wood burner. He finally takes some time to enjoy the warmth he
has labored to create, finding time to read or paint another beautiful barn
quilt. This year, he is creating our first official farm sign using a
traditional barn quilt design. Upon completion it will hang on the building
that houses our cheeserie. And of course, they finally get off the farm on occasion as well, if only to snowshoe the
nearby portion of the Ice Age Trail or to catch a local folk show. This winter
season of rest is vital to the way that we farm, allowing us to begin each new
farming season with a feeling of replenishment. It allows us to find joy in all
that arises as the days grow longer, and subsequently busier. To many, the
conditions of winter are less than favorable, but for the seasonal farmer, it
can be a saving grace. Living in the city, my loathing for winter it much
greater than it ever was on the farm. It is when I return that I find my place,
once more, among the outbuildings and the fields, within the seasons, and
beneath that endless stretch of Midwestern sky. It all plays such a significant
part and serves such an important purpose within the
beautiful connectedness of all living things. Although my teenage angst only
allows me to admit it on rare occasion, the farm is my solace, it is home.
