I was born into a long line of small farmers. Gifted with an innate affinity for all things natural, this affinity was recognized by my elders early on and nurtured. The hard-learned lessons of maintaining the delicate balance between man's needs and that of the earth were poured into me, an empty vessel questing for knowledge. These lessons put my feet on the path of my ancestors, where I made my own discoveries and learned my own lessons. Follow me gently over the fold to journey with me along that path, and mind where you step, please.
The lessons I learned in caring for the earth came from my paternal grandparents and my father and his youngest brother, who were partners in farming until the bitter end. Each had their own lessons to teach me. I paid attention and learned well.
My grandmother was a gardening master. No chemicals ever touched her garden. Companion planting and herbaceous borders for beneficial insects and birds was her answer to pests, and weeds were pulled or hoed away. As an infant I flailed my arms in delight from the confines of a basket lined with blankets as she planted potatoes, or peeked over the edge of a makeshift sling tied around her neck as she harvested the tender young shoots of asparagus. As I learned to crawl she'd plop me down in between the rows as she pulled weeds or harvested. I'd crawl along behind her, sampling a green tomato here or a dirt clod there. I cut my teeth on the raw green beans she handed me.
As I grew older, she took me to the woods where we harvested morel mushrooms and the nutty corms of spring beauty, collecting wild greens from the woods, stream banks and the barnyard. It was she who taught me how to distinguish the difference between the sound of a black snake flogging the leaves beneath the wild berry thickets in imitation of a rattlesnake and the ominous rattling of the real thing. She taught me that the best defense against snake bite was to carry a stick and thump it on the ground and against the canes or bushes to alert the snakes of intruders so they could mosey away (a very handy tip in copperhead country.)
Grandpa's lessons were different. From him I learned how to seine the creek for bait to set trotlines, which fish to keep and which to release. He taught me how to identify trees by their bark and leaves, which trees were diseased or invasive and therefore appropriate to cull for firewood and which should be left alone to maintain a healthy forest. He taught me to examine a rock and the area around it before moving it, because the rock you move today may cause an unwanted gully tomorrow.
My dad and uncle taught me the ways of good farming. It was they who taught me which springs and streams had clean, drinkable water and how to lay on the ground next to the water and suck the cool fluid gently (something I would no longer advise due to the ruination of our waterways by chemical runoff). In the days before the advent of soil testing the time-honored method of tasting the soil was passed on to me. Many times I stood in a field between the two of them, watching as they bent and grabbed a fistful of soil. They'd each run it through their fingers from one hand to another. I'd hold out my cupped hands and one of them would deposit a bit there. We'd all put this in our mouths and chew it thoughtfully, spit it out and then "the conversation" would take place. "None too sweet, is it?" one of them might say. Lime was in this field's future. "Not much chew there..." meant it lacked organic material. A cover crop of alfalfa or clover would be grown, cut for hay and let grow again to be plowed under the following spring. And so on, and so on...
These lessons and so many more were learned at the knees of my elders. And they taught me these lessons not just because I wanted to learn them or because they wanted me to carry on this honored tradition, but because they felt it was an imperative from God. These were good Christian people in the very best sense. And the word of God instructed them that we are stewards of the earth, that it is our responsibility as stewards to honor the earth and care for all its creatures, whether fauna or flora. "By their deeds ye shall know them" and "to everything there is a season and a time and purpose under heaven" were not just empty, meaningless phrases from an antiquated book. They were a way to show by example the important tenets of caring for the planet we live on, for themselves and for future generations. Take care where you step, because others live beneath your footsteps, and their existence is of value, too.
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As a young adult I abandoned organized religion and carefully selected lessons from other religions and cultures to achieve my own philosophy and inner peace. But the foundation for my future was firmly anchored in the example of my Christian forebears. As I embarked on my own stewardship of the earth I took the lessons I'd learned and built upon them. I gardened organically, as I'd been taught. Our livestock was treated honorably, and their sacrifice honored. And I tried to lead by example. In the main, those lessons were absorbed and stored for future reference by my sons, and I learned to show by example while letting them learn lessons of their own. It was not always easy to let them make mistakes and learn those lessons, but in the end it stuck. They, too hold a reverence for the earth.
My eldest son was a casualty of ADHD before it was all the rage. He struggled with school because he required a different way of learning and because he was bored. He was an unhappy child because of this, and I worried about what path he would take. It was hard to see evidence that my example was taking hold.
In the late spring of his twelfth year, he got it in his head that he wanted to build a dam across the creek that wandered through our farm. He selected a spot that was bordered on one side by a steep bluff and my garden in the bottomland of the creek on the other. The creek itself was solid rock upstream and graveled clay downstream. Day after day he would spend his time prying boulders from the steep hillside upstream and the clay banks downstream. I watched this with trepidation, knowing that there would be unforeseen consequences. One day I wandered down and sat on the bank of the stream as he pried at a boulder with a crowbar, sweaty and red-faced. I said nothing and he didn't look at me.
"You're gonna make me stop, aren't you, momma?" he said to the rock.
"No," I said, "just remember that your actions will affect things in ways you don't yet understand. But carry on, we'll wait and see what happens. Just don't go higher than one more row or the next big rain will flood the garden."
Neither of us said anything more. I watched him a while longer and then returned to the garden.
The following fall was a wet one and the stream rose. Water built up behind the dam and flowed over and between the boulders. A deep hole developed on the downstream side and the muddy banks began to fall away, eating in to the pasture. The creek level was held high on the upstream side, clogging the natural pathways of the springs that fed it. I began to notice a shifting on the steep hillside. It began to slump down into the creek. When fall was followed by a bitter cold winter with excessive snow I began preparing myself for the environmental catastrophe ahead. As winter gave way to spring the wet weather continued, not just in our area but across the entire Midwest. Day after day of heavy rains produced massive flooding. The water in the stream was high and angry. The boulders that held the dam gave way and tumbled downstream. and as it rolled away the slump of the hillside became a landslide. You could measure the daily slide in feet, not inches. The trees put up a mighty battle to hold on, but in the end they had no toe-hold and one by one they slid down the rocky face of the hillside, taking everything with them in their path.
One afternoon I looked out the kitchen window through the cold, rainy gloom to see my son sitting on the remnants of one of uprooted trees which had been deposited just below the garden. It was pouring rain but he just sat there and didn't move. I threw on my gumboots and a windbreaker and wandered out into the cold rain to join him. I sat down beside him, and as I turned to look at him I saw tears swell in his eyes and course down his cheeks, mixing with the raindrops as he stared at the gaping wound where once a thriving woods held sway. I didn't know what to say, so I waited.
After a few minutes he whispered "I did this, didn't I, Momma?"
"Yes, I'm afraid you did," I said, feeling that honesty was the best policy.
"We can't fix it, can we?" he asked.
"No, I'm afraid not," I said, "but Mother Nature will effect repairs in her own way. It won't be as it once was, but she'll do what she can."
"The earth is fragile, isn't it?" he said.
"Yes," I said. "Yes it is."
Lesson learned.
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As time has passed, my elders have faded away, leaving only my dad remaining. When my uncle died he left the land where I learned how to care for the earth to me and my sister. This includes the original parcel of 150 acres that my great-great grandfather purchased from a French trapper in 1849. The joy and burden of insuring this land is properly cared for is now mine alone for the moment, as my sister has neither the skill or desire to do it. My children have expressed their desire to return to the original homestead to learn new lessons from me, refresh their memory on lessons learned and then forgotten and to care for my sister and I there as we enter our dotage. My heart sings at the very thought of this.
My grandchildren now accompany me to the woods on my frequent trips back home. Out of the eight of them, only two of them appear to have the gift of stewardship. Nevertheless, I do my best to teach them all the lessons I hold dear, knowing that anything they absorb is better than nothing at all. If I can teach them to mind their footsteps, I will have accomplished something. And as I wander the woods with my little charmers I hear the echo of my own voice asking the same questions I once asked my elders.
"Why do you pinch off the mushrooms instead of just pulling them up?" they'll ask.
"Because if we remove their base we'll remove the stuff that will make more next year," I'll answer.
"How come we only take some of the berries but not all of them?"
"Because if we take them all the birds will have no food."
"Can I pick this flower for Momma?"
"It's kind of delicate and won't stay pretty, and we might kill it. Then it won't be here to greet us next year. But we can take a picture for Momma, and pick her something else."
Tentatively, they're placing their feet gently in the footsteps of those who went before them.
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I've always thought of the example I set for walking gently on the earth as something that only my children and grandchildren would learn by observation. In the past few years of living in a suburb of Chicago, the frustrated farmer within me has taken a generous yard of scrawny grass and gradually turned into something of a garden spectacle. The dull grass and salty clay soil have gradually given way to lush beds filled with compost-rich soil in which perennials, herbs and vegetables thrive.
I didn't give much thought to "by their deeds ye shall know them" in this context. It is for my own piece of mind that I toil away in what my sons refer to as "Momma's sacred dirt." But as the area of lush foliage and fruit has grown in direct proportion to the shrinking area of useless grass that must be mowed, I've noticed that my neighbors are beginning to follow my example. I see their flower beds expanding in ways that bear a striking resemblance to mine, and new beds taking shape. I frequently get asked about what's growing in this bed, would I mind making a start of something in that bed for their new flower patch, what kind of tomatoes did I give someone, they sure are tasty. So I answer their questions, start pots of flowers for anyone who asks and share the bounty of my garden and the knowledge of how they can do it themselves.
Yesterday my next door neighbor came by to borrow my spade. Now, I could see a spade just like mine hanging in her shed but I gladly handed her mine, and then we took a stroll around my back yard.
"Come here, I want to show you something," she said, and then walked to the fence between our yards. I looked over the fence and there was a tiny bed, about 2 ft. X 4 ft. It was sparsely planted with a tomato plant and surrounded by annuals that will grow well there. She'd scraped enough leaves from along the fence to make a thin layer and then covered that with cedar bark.
"I was so excited to show you this, I thought you'd be proud," she said. Her eyes were glowing and her smile was broad. I smiled back and told what a good job she'd done. We chatted about her plans for other beds and I passed on advice on how to achieve what she wanted. I could see her drinking it all in as she listened to my advice and she was more animated than I've ever seen her. "I'm going home and writing all this down," she said.
I smiled broadly at her enthusiasm, chuckling inside.
"Baby steps, " I thought. "Baby steps....."
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