Crisp apples at the farm

I never really planned on becoming an apple farmer. But thirteen years ago, I bought a rundown eight-acre organic apple farm in the Sierra foothills.

I had lived next door to the farm and had admired it for years-how the apple trees would change with the seasons.  Bulging with bright red and green apples in the fall, stark and bare against the winter snow.  And then glorious and abundant with pink and white blossoms in the spring.

I got to know the elderly couple that owned the farm, Willi and Maria.  They were in their 90’s and had lived there for over 50 years, planted all the trees and tended the huge organic garden.

They reminded me of my Scandinavian grandparents, who were also farmers.  I felt like I was visiting family when I’d stop by and admire all their work and the wonder of the beauty and bounty that the farm provided.  They’d send me home with a box bulging with their harvest, bright juicy tomatoes, sweet corn, crisp apples.

Then Willi and Maria died, and there was a rumor that a developer was trying to buy the farm.

I was almost as astounded as my friends and family when I stepped forward and declared:  “I want to buy this farm and carry on their legacy.”  I did and the rest, as they say, is history.

A rich history, full of blood, sweat and tears, but looking back, I can’t imagine my life any other way.

That first summer, I fluctuated between awe at my good fortune and terror that I was going to ruin it all from my ignorance.  I studied and read and called every farm consultant in the county to get help.  That first fall, I harvested a bazillion small wormy apples.  I made a lot of applesauce, apple butter and apple pies.

Since then, I’ve learned the nuances of pruning, watering and caring for organic apple trees.  I’ve discovered that it is safer to climb the trees than to trust ladders.

I’ve also broken an irrigation pipe while riding my mower in tall grass, creating a fountain of water 20 feet high.  After racing to turn off the water, hunting down a rusty wrench from a shed and unscrewing the broken pipe, I hauled it into the hardware store and, covered in mud and sweat, pronounced:  “I need one of these.”  New pipe in hand, I went back, screwed it on, turned the water back on and rejoiced in my triumph.  No more fountain.

I grow a large organic vegetable garden, filled with luscious, juicy tomatoes, beans, melons, corn and too many zucchini.  I send friends home with boxes full of our abundant crops.

Eight plump hens lay large brown eggs each day, still warm when I gather them, with a soft down feather stuck to them sometimes.

My apples taste crisp, fresh and delicious, though the worms and I are still battling it out.

I don’t belong to a gym—lifting 50 pound bags of chicken feed, raking, dragging hoses around, digging and reaching—all the movements mimicked by gym machinery, I do on a daily basis, outside in the fresh air.

I’ve learned the humbling reality that Mother Nature rules, when one night of a late spring frost can kill a whole year’s crop of fruit.  I have to scrub hard to get the dirt out from under my fingernails to go out in normal society.

What I could not have known is how much I love it all.

There’s the satisfaction of having a first hand relationship with growing food—choosing the seeds, laying out the garden, preparing the soil, watering and watching the tiny shoots emerge.

Then the wonder as a patch of rich, brown dirt turns into corn, beans, melons, tomatoes, lettuce, carrots, potatoes, beets and too many zucchini.

It’s more than the thrill of how the fresh food tastes. I have a relationship with this land now that is as real as the ones I have with my friends and family.  I feel a responsibility for the care and welfare of the small piece of earth that I have had the good fortune to own for just a little while.

The fresh food I grow nourishes more than my body.  Living close to nature feeds my soul.

Watching the seasons turn and an apple blossom turn into a crisp, tart apple.

And at the end of the day, it’s magic.

Pure magic.

Pair of Wild Geese visit Willow Valley Farm

So it felt like a ‘love blessing’ to have a pair land at my farm last week.  I snapped a few photos of them—they let me get very close, before they flapped their enormous wings, called out their throaty cry and flew away.

I was so hoping they would come back and today there they were again, in the same spot in the orchard as last week.  I tried to give them some bird food and again they let me get close, but they were more interested in all the bugs in the grass.  We had rain, snow and hail yesterday and a hard freeze last night, but it all melted off today.

Not sure what will happen with the apple trees after the freeze.  That can really kill the blossoms and a whole crop can disappear in one night like last night.  I’m hoping some of the blossoms were already pollinated and will be okay.  We will have to see in a few weeks if any tiny apples are forming where the blossoms were.

I especially love the poem of Mary Oliver called ‘Wild Geese’ which begins with the wonderful line ‘You do not have to be good’.  So here it is.  Enjoy and pray for apples!

Wild Geese
Poem by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again,
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination.
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting-
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Ready to go up in the glider

The fat brown Jersey cows munched the thick grass, flicking their tails against flies, then moseyed along. They never even glanced over at the light planes that zoomed past on the grassy runway, recently reclaimed from their pasture. The slender gliders raced up and down, landing and taking off, like birds in flight.

To go up in a glider, you get strapped into your seat, then the glider, attached by a cable to a wench, gets towed down the runway till it takes to the air, sort of like launching a kite. You’re taxiing down the runway, then whoosh, up, into the sky. No motor, no sound, just the feel of lifting up fast, carried by the wind. The wench releases, attached to a tiny parachute and billows down to the ground.

Up in the air, the sound of the wind rushing past the wings, a thin Plexiglas cover is all you have between you and the open sky. 1,000 feet above the ground, catching updrafts, lift as they call it, up, then down, circling, just like the ospreys, hawks and vultures, I’ve watched soaring, drifting, circling- -amazing.

I was stunned by the beauty of the perspective, thrilled by the closeness of the treetops, awed by the sensibility of literally ‘casting our fate to the winds’ and depending on the whims of Mother Nature to carry us along.

The sheep and cows below looked like little dots of white cotton or brown fuzz. The sun sparkled off the Plexiglas cover, the clouds danced along the ridges, almost eye level to us now.

It must be one of the most direct experiences of flying that a person could have, except maybe hang gliding. I was reminded of the myth of Icarus who fulfilled his dream of flying but soared too close to the sun and melted the wax holding his wings together and fell to his death.

I’ve had dreams of flying and this felt pretty close. I can see why Landon has logged over 600 hours in a glider, feeling out the air currents, riding them and soaring through the sky.

How could I have missed this for all these years? Where was I that I didn’t know this wonder?

It felt gentle somehow, like we were riding Mother Nature, in some sync with her moods and fancies, flowing, natural like a bird. It felt like she smiled at us in a playful way, played with us a bit, a game of hide and seek, hiding the currents—catch me if you can—down, down, down, then up, up, up, over, always gliding, soaring, falling, then soaring again.

I thought about life–where are the updrafts, the places where I can soar with ease and grace, the wind beneath my wings, carried by something larger than myself, but which I am a part of?

And saw that gliding and life both require that you pay close attention to what is happening, moment by moment. Looking for the gifts, like the updrafts, the lift, which will carry you on.

Cockpit of the glider

Nelson Lakes National Park

Hello everyone,

It’s now Monday 2/22 here, so would be Sunday there. We’re up in the mountains in a place called Nelson Lakes. Landon is teaching gliding for 3 days and I’m comfy in a Lodge with internet. Just down the road is a crystal clear Alpine Lake. He is going to take me up in a glider sometime during these 3 days, so another exciting flying exploit coming up. Hoping we don’t do rolls or loops, but with him, you never know!

Last night we camped by a river half way here–about 3 hours from his house. He has a van with a comfy bed in the back and New Zealand has great free parks where you can just pull in and sleep or camp. So last night about 11, we pulled in. The stars are so beautiful–you can totally see the Milky Way and of course, the sky is different here in the Southern Hemisphere. This morning we jumped into the river to rinse off and then headed up here where he had to start teaching at 10.

I’m doing articles, blogs and radio about the trip so this Lodge gave us 1/2 off on the room and we got a 2 story suite with a view of the creek, a jacuzzi tub and living room. Lovely. He took the van, but I have a bike and have already pedaled around and down to check out the lake where I’m going to swim as soon as I send this out. Plan to take some photos early morning when the light is good. I’m doing radio spots each Friday morning and last Friday it was about the bi-plane ride. This week it will be about this area.

I’ll be sending a few photos from the past few days. One is at Wharariki Beach, a beach that you hike to over hill and dale. It was very windy that day, so we didn’t stay long but it was worth the hike. I hope to go back when it isn’t windy.

Then a photo from Landon’s deck of the ocean below. It’s amazing to watch the tide come in and out each morning and afternoon. Yesterday we took another long bike ride and then jumped into the ocean again. Really fun and I’m loving the biking.

It’s been great to slow down and relax and be here. One of the articles I’m doing is how this area resembles California and it does. I feel comfortable here and many of the plants are the same. It doesn’t feel ‘foreign’ at all and the people are very friendly.

It’s a beautiful place and so worth the 12 hour flight. It’s so fun to get an ‘insider’s’ view with Landon and not be a tourist. His home is lovely as you will see from the photo.

More soon and hugs from here,

Diane

If you’ve ever dreamed of being a stunt pilot, soaring high among the clouds and doing rolls and loops, this is your chance!

Read the full story at TouristTravel.com

I have never called the fire department, but when I saw flames up my chimney and my rock wall in front of the fireplace started crackling and popping, I was afraid I’d burn the house down on the coldest day of the year.  They pulled up in a few minutes, 3 trucks and men streaming out in all directions, checking out the problem and calming me down.  It all turned out fine and gave me a real appreciation for where our tax dollars go.

Sunny day with a bright blue sky against the white snow on the trees.  Chickens still hate the snow.  Their water was frozen this morning inside the coop, so I’m grateful they weren’t frozen too.  Guess those downy feathers do a lot of good keeping them cozy. They won’t budge out of the coop and their small run and I now have a new sense of what the term ‘cooped up’ means and where it came from.  They also don’t like to lay eggs when it is too cold–only 3 today.

Three fireman make sure my chimney fire wasn't going to burn down the house

a few apples left on the tree, in the snow

Sunset over the snowy orchard

I grew up in Southern California and in the 19 years I’ve lived here in the foothills, I never get over the marvel of the changing seasons.  We just finished harvesting, sharing and selling apples and figs and putting the garden to rest for the long winter.  Now the trees are covered in white cloaks, their trunks stark gray and bare in contrast.  It looks like Christmas and I’m amazed and grateful.  Now if the pipes can just not freeze tonight when it’s supposed to get down to 19 degrees…

The chickens are not sure what to make of the fluffy white stuff...

the apple orchard wearing her white winter cloak

winter has arrived

perfect!

The crisp days and nights made for bright fall leaves. Color at every turn on the farm.

I never get over the wonder of the seasons, reminding me to slow down and notice the subtle changes day by day.

My daughter Heather and Grandson Hunter discover the chickens

My grand nephew Dylan (age 3) thinks apple picking is fun!

apples ready to be picked