February 2014

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.