When I began to tell people that I’d be spending part of my summer living in a cabin with a composting toilet and no running water, the responses I got tended toward the question, “Why?” followed by a look of slight pity. This blog will chronicle my experience interning at Deep Root Farm in Pierrepont, New York, and perhaps help to answer the question of “why.” The title of this blog, as well as my inspiration for immersing myself in the local, slow-food movement, came from a class I took during the fall of my junior year at St. Lawrence University. The class was entitled “A Literary Harvest,” and the piece of writing below was my final paper. I called it “For the Love of Dirt,” and it became the basis of something bigger for me—an adventure that has just begun. I thought it fitting to start this blog with that paper for several reasons: To introduce my readers to the farm and the area at large, and to remind myself what drew me here in the first place. Read on!
For the Love of Dirt
by Lettie Stratton
“A farm is a form of expression, a physical manifestation of the inner life of its farmers. The farm will reveal who you are, whether you like it or not.”
—Kristin Kimball, The Dirty Life
As we pile into my silver Saab, Zach attempts to cram his long legs into the tiny back seat and my first thought is how dirty my car, Maggie, will be when we return from Deep Root Farm. It’s pouring, like it has been all week, and I can picture the mud-streaked floor mats and Maggie’s soon-to-be filthy leather interior. As luck would have it, the rain really starts to come down hard when it’s finally time to leave the shelter of my toasty dorm room and brave the elements for the orientation to the community-based-learning (CBL) portion of my class. The class focuses on local, organic food initiatives in St. Lawrence University’s beloved North Country as well as India, in comparison. Six members of my class, as well as four freshmen, have been placed at Deep Root—a small farm and CSA (community-supported agriculture) that is relatively new to the area.
Driving down county route 27, my classmate Zach and I quietly tolerate the gossip of the unnamed freshmen whose bodies fill Maggie’s three remaining seats. I tune them out by turning up the radio and try to see the road through squeaky windshield wipers and rain drops that show no signs of slowing down. I take a right onto a dirt road—Glenmeal—hoping it’s the right one. We’ve been driving along roads that snake through wide, sprawling fields and forests for about 15 minutes now. We should be there soon. You could go on for an hour up here before realizing that you’ve missed your turn. We cheer, confident that our navigational skills have gotten us to the right place, when we see our landmark come into view. The neighbor’s dog, Gus, sits in the middle of the road, just beyond the mailbox that marks our destination—270 Bonno Road. I’m amazed. We got an email earlier in the week, predicting that Gus would be in this exact spot—and there he is, happily welcoming us to his territory with a big, sloppy tongue and a body that more closely resembles a bear than a dog.
We pull into Deep Root and it doesn’t take long before I realize that I’m not dressed for the occasion. My thin, canvas shoes are no match for the soggy ground and within minutes, my thick bangs have been slicked down against my forehead, slightly impairing my vision. Farmer and owner of Deep Root, Mike Corse, greets us with a shy wave as we leave behind the dry warmth of the car. On his thin frame, Mike sports faded jean overalls, black, muddy rain boots, and a grey sweatshirt, soaked with rain and rolled up around his elbows. His hands are strong—the hands of a farmer—leathery and stained with dirt. He wears a black beanie on his shaved head and finishes off his look with a reddish-colored goatee. From his first words, Mike seems like the kind of guy you could depend on—friendly yet reserved, likeable and unimposing. We stand awkwardly in the mud as the rain beats down on us, waiting for the other carload of students to arrive.
Once we’ve all gathered, Mike leads us slowly and patiently around his farm and garden, which doubles as his home. He pauses to answers our questions and is in no hurry when we stop to play with Bernie—his adorable three-year-old yellow lab. Mike tells us that he and his family moved to this house in Pierrepont, New York (just outside of Canton) from Potsdam in 2005, in an effort to have access to more useable land. He lives off the grid and uses as little water as possible, relishing in the fact that his extremely efficient washing machine uses only 15-20 gallons of water per load, compared to the 40 gallons used by a normal machine. He has to physically pump his water each day, so it’s no wonder that he knows these numbers offhand. We quickly discover that in addition to water, Mike makes great use of his land, which is home to a garden, a chicken coop, a greenhouse (which includes tiny red peppers that will leave your body sweating and your mouth ablaze), and an area for mushroom cultivation. For a small property, Mike’s land produces a huge variety of products and goods—plenty to sustain himself and his family, with enough left over for his six CSA members. I’m impressed by his preparedness and organization. I think that if I were to try to gather food for people each week while making sure my family is fed, the weeds are under control, and nothing is wilting under the hot sun, on top of keeping up with my endless mental to-do list full of farm chores, people would be going hungry left and right.
Mike kindly allows us into his house—muddy clothes and all. He and his wife built this wooden, green-roofed structure in an efficient way with walls one foot thick, insulated with newspaper. This place is neither small nor large, but comfortable. Bernie greets us from inside with cautious barking, but quickly warms up to the company and basks in the attention we give her. We stand together in a sort of half circle in the middle of Mike’s cozy home, underneath wooden beams, which are holding up racks of drying herbs and peppers. He stands with his arms folded, softly grinning, piping up once in a while with tidbits of information about what we’ll be doing during the coming weeks--pulling up old plants, organizing his property, and helping out with the general cleanup that’s necessary before the North Country snow hits. Mostly we stand in silence, taking in the sights around us. It feels good to be in a home.
Mike eventually leaves his place in the circle to check on the drying peppers overhead. “Nope, still a little rubbery,” he reports back to his wife, Maria, who is at the stove making dinner—squash soup. The scent of fresh cooking makes my mouth water. Someone finally takes the initiative to sit down and we all feel a little more at ease. The conversation drifts lazily between sustainable gardening practices, Mike’s children (Ian, 16, and Mackenzie, 13), and Jethro Tull—the band, not the British agriculturalist.
When it’s time to leave, we say goodbye to Mike and Bernie, sloshing our way back to the car. In seconds, Maggie is full of mud from our shoes, and the precipitation collected on our rain jackets dampens the seats. I don’t mind, though. I feel refreshed yet preoccupied as we drive back to campus—back to comfort, back to ease, back to leaving lights on and cords plugged in when we’re away. Back to turning on the faucet and expecting water to come out. Back to not seeing our food grow—not knowing where it comes from. Seeing only the finished, packaged product. Back to blindness.
…
Lots of places have a North Country, but few are as unique and well loved as New York’s —a place that borders Lake Ontario, the St. Lawrence River, Vermont, and the Adirondack mountains. This particular North Country is home to St. Lawrence County—often deemed the poorest county in New York State, and my home from late August until early May. Poor in one sense, but rich in another, 25% of the landmass here is dedicated to the practice of agriculture. People like Mike may not add a huge boost to the county’s economic status, but that’s not to say Mike doesn’t lead a rich life, full of things more important than large sums of money and overconsumption. A low-income area such as St. Lawrence County often elicits responses such as “Oh, how awful, how do people get by?” and in some cases, this is surely true, but I’ve seen people living with next to nothing who are happier than the richest people I know, which in turn suggests that a low level of income isn’t always paired with a downtrodden, underprivileged lifestyle. It’s important to consider more than the economic status of a place when determining its worth and value.
Over 400,000 acres of land are being farmed in St. Lawrence County today, which makes me wonder why only 10% of food on my campus comes from a local source. “This 10% is a 2% increase over the past two years,” says Cindy Atkins, director of dining services at St. Lawrence University. Although it’s certainly great that my school is taking steps toward incorporating more local food into its menus, I wonder why it’s taking this long to begin with. If we have it, why aren’t we using it? Why aren’t we taking advantage of what this land has to offer? Why, instead, does the majority of our food travel thousands of miles, through packaging and processing plants, before it reaches our mouths? It seems that these 400,000 acres should be able to feed the immediate local population with no problem, so why do we still go to Price Chopper and other superstores before looking in our own back yards?
In Bringing it to the Table, Wendell Berry writes, “With industrialization has come a general depreciation of work” (Berry 35). Since working with Mike on his small family farm (the polar opposite of an industrial agriculture site), I see the truth in this statement. Industrial farmers aren’t concerned with what the land has to say to them—they don’t listen when it tells them that it has no more to offer. They take, and take, and take, until there’s nothing left, and then they load on the chemicals and they take some more. They don’t invest themselves in the work or find joy in the simple acts of farm life. As Berry puts it, they rape the land when they should be asking for its hand in marriage. He continues, “The effort of husbandry is partly scientific, but it is entirely cultural, and a cultural initiative can exist only by becoming personal” (Berry 101).
The more I think about what Mike is doing—the way he’s living and truly connecting with the land he farms—the more Berry’s words resonate with me. It’s clear that Mike loves what he does. After one particularly dreary afternoon of working outside stacking firewood, he said, “I really feel like I’m where I’m supposed to be in life.” Hearing him reflect on his choices to commit to this lifestyle of “husbandry” toward the land reminded me of one of my recent professor’s takes on Buddhism. Professor Boyd would say, “Buddhists wash the dishes to wash the dishes—not to clean them. They don’t walk to arrive—they walk for the sake of walking.” He meant that Buddhist ideals are centered around living in the present moment and being fully involved and invested in what you’re doing at any given time. It seems that in order to have a successful farm and be happy working it, you have to adopt this mindset. You can’t go out in the morning dreading the chores that lie ahead of you, thinking of nothing but what you’re going to do when the day of work is finally over. Maybe there’s a great book you’re dying to finish, or friends to meet up with—but if you don’t appreciate each task and enjoy the time you spend communicating with the land, what’s the point? Mike commented that he feels fulfilled by the work he does each day. Sure there are hard times, times when the last thing he wants to do is go out and weed the garden, but still, Mike recognizes the importance of what he’s doing and continues to love it. In Professor Boyd’s terms, he weeds the garden to weed the garden. Buddhist monks even use gardening as a form of meditation. It helps clear their minds and remind them of where they are and why they’re doing what they’re doing. In coming years, Mike’s style of mindful living will be not only a personal need, but a global necessity.
…
A few weeks later. It’s a crisp, chilly day and so peaceful out in the woods—one of those days where you can feel the snow coming. I’m back at Deep Root with Lizzie, another classmate and friend. Each Friday, we pile into the car, looking forward to starting off our weekends with a little honest labor. We’ve both taken to setting our muddy jackets and pants aside each week, without washing them. We’ll be back next week to cake on a little more dirt, so we figure we’d save ourselves the trouble. I have a pile of designated “Deep Root” clothes in my room, ready and waiting for the next trip to the farm. After doing several odd jobs, we start the day’s big chore—raking leaves. “Well, I’ve been trying to think of dry jobs, but there aren’t any!” Mike chuckles as he attaches a small trailer to the back of his four-wheeler. Lizzie and I hop in the back, unsure that the trailer will hold our weight, as he drives us into the woods. Mike wants to collect about six trailers full of leaves so he can have a stockpile later on, instead of having to go out in the spring to do the gathering. We rake the damp leaves, fitting much more into the small trailer than I first imagined. Once in a while I just stop, look up, and listen. The woods are quiet, yet busy. Lizzie and I wonder how many living things are watching us, just out of sight. The repetitive nature of the work—rake, collect, dump, rake, collect, dump—gives me time to think about what I’ve gleaned from my CBL experience thus far. As I examine a foul-smelling mushroom that’s hiding underneath the leaves and wet soil, I think about the day I realized the true beauty in depending solely on the land for your well-being.
It was during the fifth week, I think, on a day when the weather couldn’t make up its mind: Rainy and cold one moment, warm and sunny the next. I was sitting in the back of Mike’s black pick-up truck with another classmate, Scott. At the moment, the sun was shining but the air was raw. I unzipped my rain jacket and took off my hat so I could feel the breeze on my skin. Scott and I sat on either side of the truck bed, trying to balance and not get thrown by the ruts in the road as we made our way down the narrow driveway to Mike’s camp, called Sally’s Place—a small, red structure with minimal furnishings. It’s nice, though—it smelled like fresh wood, and I could see why Mike wanted to make more use out of it. Bernie ran swiftly behind us with her tongue hanging out, in an effort to catch up to the truck. We laughed at her mouth, flapping in the wind. Eventually she stopped and sat down in the middle of the dirt road to await our return, tail wagging incessantly.
During the short ride to Mike’s camp, I wondered if I could live this sort of life. I thought I wouldn’t mind growing my own food, pumping my own water, and collecting firewood for the winter. In fact, I think I’d enjoy it. I wouldn’t miss trips to Walmart or Price Chopper, trying to find the produce that looks the least wilted and unappetizing. At Deep Root, I had seen how hard Mike works from week to week, but I had also seen the reward, and so that’s what I concentrated on—the simple pleasure I got from riding in the back of a truck, feeling the wind in my face and the sun on my back, as we drove down a scenic dirt road. I thought, Could I do this? Could I really commit to this lifestyle? Wouldn’t I miss cafés and shopping and people-watching on busy streets? TVs and movies and travel? Instead of indulging in these activities, most of my days would begin before dawn and end only when my limbs gave out. My white shirts would turn brown and I would perhaps, on average, talk to more plants than people. What sane person would choose this life? And still…
In The Dirty Life, Kristin Kimball writes, “As much as you transform the land by farming, farming transforms you.” I think about my childhood and how I lived before the fast-paced, disconnected, electronic lifestyle set in. My family used to live a life similar to Mike’s. We had a small log cabin in the middle of southern Vermont’s thick woods, a huge garden, no running water, and no electricity. We didn’t have a computer until I was 11 or 12. I spent my days outside, and that was it. Our garden grew tomatoes, green and yellow beans, lettuce, carrots, beets, Swiss chard, potatoes, corn, peppers, radishes, turnips, zucchini, summer squash, and cucumbers. My mom canned tomatoes and made pickles, running a generator to the pump for water to wash the jars. With the other crops, we ate what we grew as we picked it. Kids from my preschool came over to dig potatoes or go out into the woods to pick blueberries and make pie. At the time, I’m sure I thought nothing of it. I was young, and that was just the way we did things. Looking back, I was undoubtedly “transformed” by this experience, as Kimball suggests, whether I realized it at the time or not. Now, thinking about how far removed I’ve become from that life, I crave to go back. Working with Mike has reminded me of that. Although nothing about the way he lives is simple—no, it’s quite complex and intricate—I remember the simple pleasures one gets from working with their hands, connecting with the land, and sustaining themselves with the food they’ve grown with their own sweat and hard work.
“Take it one step at a time.” That’s the advice Mike said he would give to young people who are interested in sustainable living practices. Instead of giving two weeks notice at the job he held with the federal government before committing to Deep Root Farm, Mike gave a year’s notice. It’s clear that he took his own advice in taking things bit by bit. Miserable at his old job, he now loves what he does—providing food for his family and CSA members and generally living in a sustainable way that makes him feel like his life has meaning. Mike realizes that it doesn’t have to be all or nothing—he’s still settling in and making improvements to his household and farm, being patient and careful—wanting to do things the right way.
Working at Deep Root, I’ve learned about many different levels of off-the-grid living and I feel much more aware of how much we use and consume on a daily basis—things we don’t even think about. I don’t have to pump my water each day—it’s just there. I don’t have to make sure I have enough firewood for the winter—I just flick a switch on the thermostat and the heat comes on. For Mike, Maria, Ian, and Mackenzie, it’s a little more complicated: if they don’t pump their water each day, there won’t be any available when they need it. If they don’t chop enough firewood, they’ll be cold all winter long. Being around Mike—someone who is extremely self-sufficient and well prepared—has inspired me to make some lifestyle changes and try to think about what I’m using and how I’m using it. Are all these comforts and luxuries that I’ve been accustomed to really necessary?
It occurred to me that sustaining yourself is one thing you can truly control—a definite, positive step in the right direction toward a sustainable future for the planet. People say you’re just one person, you can’t make a difference, but you can. You can provide for yourself, when saving the planet seems just a bit out of reach. Mike’s values are in the right place. Previously spread out at Farmer Bill’s, a friend’s farm several miles from his house, Mike is moving his gardens solely to his own land so he can do things on a smaller scale and pay more attention to each individual crop. He knows that it’s not all about the money—it’s about doing things the right way. In The Dirty Life, Kristin Kimball speaks of the ups and downs of farm life, her struggles and triumphs. She paints a picture that doesn’t leave out the gritty, bloody, dirt-stained details of her life, yet makes it seem attractive and enticing nonetheless. She speaks of the reward she feels, and that’s what I want—to know that what I’m doing with my life has a meaning and a purpose—something that fulfills me, like Mike said, and makes me feel good at the end of each day. “Farming takes root in you and crowds out other endeavors, makes them seem paltry. Your acres become a world,” Kimball writes. “Maybe you realize that it is beyond those acres or in your distant past…that you were deprived. Deprived of the pleasure of desire, of effort and difficulty and meaningful accomplishment” (Kimball 5).
…
A few weeks later, our CBL experience at Deep Root has almost come to a close. Lizzie and I drive down Bonno Road once again, debating whether or not the snow will finally come and grace us with the opportunity for new outdoor activities. I’ve come to appreciate and look forward to these drives with Lizzie—it’s amazing how quickly and deeply you can connect with someone after you’ve shared hours of physical labor. The wide, rolling road looks perfect for Nordic skiing, and Mike has even offered us to come ski on the trails behind his house—something I think I’ll take him up on when with weather decides to cooperate with my desire to strap on the planks and glide through the woods. We say hello to Mike and learn that Bernie has been given a gift by the neighbor. She’s now the proud owner, or eater, of a deer skull, which she chews on contentedly, sprawling herself across the grass. We go over and peer around her head to get a closer look. Apparently Lizzie’s foot got a little too close to the prize, causing Bernie to jump up and growl, protecting her bone as if it were her pup. Mike picks up pieces of the deer’s lower jaw and we comment on how sharp (and dirty) the teeth are. “This is why we brush!” Lizzie says.
After a quick trip to the compost pile to empty the previous day’s waste, we head over to the neighbor Paul’s place. He needs a hand turning over his compost piles. Paul is a big, towering man—probably well over six feet (but slim), with a short beard and a friendly disposition. “So, you guys like soils, huh?” he says, addressing Lizzie and me. “Well, yeah, I guess I do,” I think to myself, before realizing that Paul thinks we’re the freshmen Dirt folk—the other class that’s been coming to help out at Mike’s. Mike explains that we’re part of another class and Paul says, “Well, thanks for helping out!” as we continue on in search of pitchforks and shovels.
Paul’s compost is comprised entirely of hay and old vegetables—he has a separate area for other waste. He gets free produce from Price Chopper, the stuff that’s not perfectly symmetrical or shiny enough for regular sale, to add to his piles. It’s easy to pick out the industrial veggies—they’ve got the telltale stickers on their sides, marking them as world travelers. Lizzie picks up a red worm from the pile, and all of a sudden we notice that they’re everywhere. I think there are more worms than twigs in the pile. Even Mike is surprised when he comes over and sees how many there are. “I always tell Paul, ‘I hate Bill’s soil, I like mine, but I love yours,’” he tells us with a laugh. He says that worms for the compost and mushrooms for the soil are two things every farmer needs.
It doesn’t take long before Lizzie and I have shed our layers, working in thin t-shirts in the middle of November. The compost pile is hot, too. We can see the steam rising up from it as we turn it over with our tools. We finish our task and Mike says, “Do you guys have a few minutes? I want to show you something—it’s sort of a secret spot.” Intrigued, Lizzie and I follow closely behind as Mike takes us on a path behind Paul’s property. A few minutes later, we arrive at a large metal gate that separates us from a huge field filled with immaculate rows of blueberry bushes. A small patch of Paul’s onions occupy the far right side of the field. Mike fights with the lock on the gate, finally wins, and we step into the field. It’s beautiful. He tells us that Paul sells berries at the co-op and sometimes the Canton farmer’s market. I’m assuming that this is the secret spot Mike was talking about, but it isn’t.
We keep going, squeezing through the gate on the other side and going down into the woods. Mike has a definite spring in his step—almost childlike—as he clamors over logs and ducks under branches, eventually leading us to one of the most unique structures I’ve seen in a while. It’s an angular wooden cabin of some sort, with sheets of metal on one side of the slanted roof to shelter it from the elements. The boards have jagged edges and the “windows” are simply cut out spaces in the wood. It’s safe to say that they always remain open. There’s no door and nothing to suggest a long-term stay, yet there’s something extremely inviting about this place—something that says, use me. “It would be nice to have this be a place where people can come and lose themselves,” Mike says, after a thoughtful silence. Crunching leaves under foot, I step into the shelter and look at the view. The sun illuminates the tops of the bare trees and I look around to see that we’re all smiling. Lizzie and I exchange looks; both intrigued by this place.
In my opinion, this is the second “secret spot” we’ve seen today, but apparently there’s a third awaiting us. After a bit of confused walking through some pricker bushes, Mike finds what he’s looking for. He brings us up to a cliff that overlooks the beginning of Little River. This view is unexpected and gorgeous. Below, the water is moving at a moderate pace, sparkling under the sun’s bright rays. Small logs and fallen pieces of wood interrupt the smooth flow of the River, and it hits me that this is nature in its natural state—something that we see far too little of in our day-to-day lives. Across the water, we can see another wooded hillside—mostly uninhabited, Mike says. The three of us stand there for a while atop the rocks, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the glimmering water below.
As we head back to the house, I think to myself, a little composting and a quick jaunt through the woods, and I feel like a new person—refreshed and ready to take on the rest of the day. Something about this evokes the youthful innocence and freedom that is so appealing. If this were my life all the time, would I feel the same way? Would I appreciate it more? Less? Get tired of it? Love it? Need it? I don’t know, but I do know that it’s important to try—to try to sustain myself, be aware, and be conscious of my decisions and choices. Mike has shown me that it’s important to take a step—even just a small step—in the right direction, because when I look outside, I don’t want to see industrial farms and agribusiness—I want to see calm, clean water, undisturbed forests, and gardens that look like gardens, not factories. I want to see change.
Works Cited
Atkins, Cindy—Director of Dining and Conferences Services, St. Lawrence University.
E-mail
Interview. 04 Nov 2010. 11 Nov 2010.
Berry, Wendell. Bringing it to the Table - On Farming and Food. Berkeley, CA:
Counterpoint,
2009. Print.
"Farming in St. Lawrence County, NY." St. Lawrence County Agricultural Department.
Kimball, Kristin. The Dirty Life - On Farming, Food, and Love. New York: Scribner 2010. Print.
Nearly six months later, after some time in Vermont and a trip to Africa, I find myself back at Deep Root Farm, living in Sally’s Place and ready to dig deeper, both literally and figuratively. Join me as I discover firsthand what it really takes to live “The Dirty Life.”
