From Gene Logsdon
Garden Farm Skills

Here are some quotes you expect to see regularly in the media these days.

“Today, from press and pulpit, from publicists and legislators, comes the cry, ‘Back To the Land’! The problem of the “small farm” is becoming a very interesting one. The cry is ‘Back To the Land’ but the drift is away from the land.”

“The question of the big farm versus the small farm is very hotly debated… Good farming must perish with the breaking up of large farms, contends one side. Not so, replies the other side.”

“Two classes of people enthusiastically advocate the ‘Back To The Land’ movement…editors of our city papers and the high-cost-of-living sufferers… The metropolitan editors usually say: ‘Be independent. Be good citizens. And by quitting the city for the farm, you will become both.”

But those quotes appeared in print in 1921. Almost a century ago. The writer was James Boyle, his book, Agricultural Economics. At that time, the first big wave of gigantic farming in the United States, called bonanza farming, was breaking up on the shoals of economic reality. Some of those farms were over 10,000 acres in size, powered by cheap hired help and hundreds of teams of horses. There was a great hue and cry both for and against them. If the reader replaces the word ‘bonanza’ with ‘big’,  many of Boyle’s quotes read exactly like quotes today.

“Mr. Budge says there are several bonanza farms in North Dakota and mentions one of above seven thousand acres. He adds that he would like to see them all out of the way. They take up so much space that it hurts the school districts. The owners ship in supplies from the East. They ship their men in and out too.”

“Mr. Greeley considers bonanza farming to be a curse to the country and if carried too far, after population gets more dense, it will keep thousands of men from having homes of their own.”

“The bonanza farms are well conducted upon strictly business principles, the farming is done more scientifically and economically than on small farms and the percentage of profit is larger; but the general results to the people of the country are not good, and the people would generally favor the abolition of bonanza farming.”

But 1921 did not mark, by any means, the first “back to the land” movement, nor the first debate about farm size. The ancient Romans understood well enough what Cato wrote a century before Christ: “A farm is like a man— however great the income, if there is extravagance but little is left.”  Boyle gives examples of how well articulated the debate over farm size had become in Norway and France by the 1700s (not to mention in the uproar that came in England when the government enclosed its public lands and threw hundreds of thousands of peasants out of a livelihood). One of the best commentators on the subject was Arthur Young. He was a proponent of big farms but admitted in 1787 that the small peasant farms characteristic of France were more productive than the bigger farms of England.

So there’s nothing new under the sun. Farming begins with small holdings and then slowly graduates to larger and larger units until it falls apart. Or starts with large holdings and breaks up into small ones and then repeats the cycle over and over again. Every generation must have its “back to the land” movement. I have lived through three of them now— in the 1930s, the 1970s, and now in the 2000s. They come about every 30 to 40 years, just like clockwork.

The bonanza farms of the northern and plains states that flourished from about 1890 to 1920 were the first orgiastic dance of big farming in modern times (not counting the cotton plantations of the South). But the economy these farms were built on was a false one, based on overcapitalized land and cheap labor, and so it died out, just as the present big farming balloon will burst.

I notice that economists at Iowa State University are predicting the same thing I’ve been saying— another crash in farmland values is in the offing. I do not presume to be a prophet. I just study history.  Someone at Iowa State must do so too.
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Image: One of Gene’s back-to-the-land books (1980)
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From Gene Logsdon

Living close to nature, I learned long ago there were mysteries as yet unexplained by science or even by the art of farming. Or maybe I just don’t read the right books. Anyway one of those things that science calls a phenomenon occurred again this morning. We have witnessed this occurrence so many times that it can’t be happenstance. When the hummingbirds run out of sugar water in their feeder right outside our kitchen, one of them flies up to the window and gently bumps it. Doesn’t run into it as if by accident, but hovers right at the pane and deliberately bumps it. The hummer seems to be saying: “The feeder is empty, you dolts. Get with it.” And they never bump the window unless the feeder is empty. They know. How do they know?

But a stranger mystery occurred last winter when a frog got into our house. It happened this way. We have a Christmas cactus that as far as we can figure is at least a hundred years old. My grandmother owned it and cussed it. Then one of my aunts owned it and cussed it. Somehow we inherited it. And cuss it. The pot it grows in is almost as big as a bushel basket and that’s why we cuss. Plant plus pot equals at least eighty pounds. All of us being inveterate farmers and gardeners, none of us have had the steel courage to get rid of it. We have tried starving it to death to no avail. It will not die. We time its movements into the house as winter approaches and back out as summer arrives when our son and son-in-law are visiting. Now they cuss it too.

Anyway, the frog evidently burrowed into the the Christmas cactus pot one summer and was still in it when we brought the plant inside. We never did see it— it being a tiny, tan creature that takes up very little space— but its song came loud and clear from the depths of cacti leaves and roots.

Our singer of frog songs was a spring peeper. It gets called a rain frog because its singing is supposed to portend rain within three days. Or as we learned, snow in winter. Since in our forsaken climate, it manages to precipitate, or threaten to precipitate, about every three days except in summer when we need it, there was no chance that the rain frog could be wrong even if it serenaded us every day which is what it often did. Rain or snow was on the way or had just quit, no matter whether the frog sang or not. The weather forecasters have learned this lesson too. You will wait many a week in Ohio for a long range “forecast” that does not mention the possibility of rain about every three days. Except in summer when we need it. Weather reporting would be a whole lot cheaper if we just raised rain frogs in flower pots.

Our frog gave us much to ponder on the subject of communicating with animals. I really wonder why humans are interested. Aren’t we punishing ourselves enough by learning to communicate with each other? Why do we want to communicate with animals too? Perhaps it is because humans have invented every imaginable technology for communicating with each other and have failed, so they want to try their luck with animals. It seems never to occur to science that animals might not want to communicate with humans. Except when the bird feeder is empty.

At any rate, in an effort to be helpful to science, I would like to add my “data” to the growing body of knowledge about communicating with animals. Rain frogs evidently delight in conversing with sweepers. Whenever Carol started sweeping the rug, our frog unlimbered his or her vocal chords and responded with gusto. What the frog was saying to the sweeper would be interesting to know. I imagine it went like this:

Frog: “You are one bad act, Mr. Sweeper. Couldn’t you at least wait until I finished my nap?”

To which Mr. Sweeper might be retorting: “Look, buster, this is what I do for a living. Get some ear plugs if you don’t like it.”

The rain frog definitely preferred some kinds of music over others. It almost always sang along with Beethoven but remained sullenly silent when rock and country filled the airways. Mr. Frog responded best to a sound that I don’t know how to describe delicately. I’ll put it this way. When you are at home alone and perforce must use the bathroom, you are somewhat more careless about trying to cover up the explosions of wind emanating from your nether quarters than you are when there are other humans in the house…. Are you still with me?

Well, our rain frog really dug that noise. He would start singing lustily every time. I am convinced that I am on to something here. I just don’t know what.
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Image Credit: Spring Peeper from A Moment On Earth
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From Gene Logsdon
Garden Farm Skills

Of all my old,  junk machinery, I like my pickup truck the best.  I could not function without it. I use it to haul hay, straw, manure, mulch, lambs, rams, calves, pigs, chickens, corn, wheat, grandkids, apples, firewood, logs, cans of gas, rototillers, dirt, lawnmowers, water tanks, fencing, gates, posts,  lumber, chainsaws, shovels, forks, concrete  blocks, trash for the recycler, gravel, rocks, railroad ties. To name a few. In the process, I also use it to back into trees, sideswipe gate posts, run into stumps, drop a front end loader on (insurance paid for one new side of the truck bed), and take incoming stones on the windshield (only one chip out of the glass so far).

I thought I was the wise guy, see. I should have traded the poor old thing in long ago, but I was sure a financial collapse was coming. No society could live as crazily as ours and not suffer retribution. So I decided I would wait until the second Great Depression hit and then I would drive a real hard bargain on a trade-in and get a new truck at a five or even ten thousand dollar savings.

So the collapse finally came. I waited patiently for the car companies  to cut prices drastically. Nothing much happened except they moaned and groaned until the government gave them billions of dollars. The price of the pickup that I wanted did not go down one farthing.  Oh yeah, a rebate here and there. The old maneuver. Jack up the price several thousand dollars and then give the poor dumb buyer a fifteen hundred dollar rebate and he’s supposed to dance around the showroom in utter bliss.

Then, it happened.  The car companies didn’t do it, but good old Uncle came up with the Cash For Clunkers deal and I could get $4500 for a truck that did not have a hundred dollars of trade-in value left in her dear old cylinders. I sped into town and presented myself proudly to Bill, my favorite car dealer. I would not only get my $4500, but because of the hard times, I’d be able to dicker four or five thousand bucks off the sticker price.

“What year is your truck?” Bill asked.

“A 1981,” I said proudly.

Bill got the strangest look on his face, as if he didn’t quite believe what he had just heard.

“Yes, and she’s only got 40,000 miles on her,” I added, to show what a good green American I was, willing to have my beloved old gas-guzzling clunker executed for the good of the environment even though she had plenty of life in her yet.

“I’m sorry, Gene,”  Bill said, and I could see he was having a hard time suppressing a smile.  “You’re clunker doesn’t qualify. It’s too old.”

I’m sure people could hear my teeth grinding half a block away. My clunker was too old.  I muttered that sentence over several times trying to come to terms with such strange logic. It only had 40,000 miles on it but MY CLUNKER WAS TOO OLD.

Well, since I was where I was,  I thought I might as well see what kind of hard bargain I could drive in these, ho ho ho, hard times. The truck I wanted cost about $30,000 less a rebate or two. I offered Bill $20,000 cash and my dear old truck with only 40,000 miles on her, take it or leave it. He chortled. I think that sound is what you call a chortle anyway. Number one: they were selling cars like crazy because of the cash for clunkers scam, so they didn’t have to dicker. Number two: the days of dickering were over anyway. The company set the price, not the dealer. If I wanted to haggle, I would have to go to Detroit and talk to Henry Ford’s latest successor.

But all was not lost. In fact quite a bit was gained. In the five seconds it took me to absorb the reality about my clunker, I made about $25,000, which I bet is  better than even Bill Gates has ever done.  I decided that I would never trade in my beloved old pickup. I know a mechanic or two who can keep it running as long as my doctor can keep me running.
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