November

“The ultimate goal of farming is not the growing of crops, but the cultivation and perfection of human beings.” Masanobu Fukuoka, The One-Straw Revolution

Those first sleepy moments of morning are driven off by the cold in the mudroom as I tug my thick overalls and muddy boots on over my pajamas. There is something to knowing you're needed, a mutual, satisfying feeling between the animals and me. We always say that every day is a good and pampered one for the animals except for their last.

At Hallowtide, slaughter time entereth in,

And then doth the husbandman's feasting begin.

From thence unto shroftide kill now and then some,

Their offal for household the better will come. Five hundred pointes of good husbandrie.

FIVE HUNDRED POINTS OF GOOD HUSBANDRY by Thomas Tusser

Imagine the loneliness of a farm with no animals! In November we load lambs off to slaughter. As they peer from out from the transport with innocent, questioning eyes, I cry and seriously consider giving it all up. But then I remember how sick I was without meat. To the best of my ability, I avoid all factory farmed animal products, but I’m not perfect. Life is a series of compromises. Not a single human soul is truly pure or innocent.

The very sense of unity that had thrilled him as they had yelled themselves hoarse standing elbow to elbow at twilight turned ghastly under the moon. Yet just the same he felt a satisfaction that he had stood among them. He remembered Captain Grover saying once that the sleep of the dead brave is sweet.

“This be what soldiers do,” he mumbled to himself, now thinking of the pigs he had helped his uncle slaughter. At slaughter time Waldo always struggled with the squeals and panic of the beasts, but he’d gutted their carcasses and enjoyed the bacon just the same. “This be what farmers do,” his uncle had said.

BY THE SHORES OF SOLON POND by Adrienne Morris

In America’s past, November signaled the end of the droving season where thousands of cattle, pigs and sheep were led in long parades to slaughter. The roads were usually dry this time of year. Miles away a great cloud arose alerting people to the arrival of the animals being led by a trusty lead ox on the final journey of their lives. Farmers and children stopped work and lined the road to watch as the spectacle passed.

...the month equivalent to November for the pagan Anglo-Saxons was called Blotmonad, 'month of sacrifices', because at that time the cattle which were to be slaughtered were consecrated to their gods.

WINTERS IN THE WORLD by Eleanor Parker

When you raise animals, you tend not to waste their sacrifices. I laugh at the ram lambs as they gambol about and admire the proud ewes as they murmur sweet nothings to their newborns. They clean and dote over them with such soft looks in their eyes -- looks that disappear after the little brutes get bigger and nearly upend her seeking milk.

“I dislike the thought that some animal has been made miserable to feed me. If I am going to eat meat, I want it to be from an animal that has lived a pleasant, uncrowded life outdoors, on bountiful pasture, with good water nearby and trees for shade.”

WHAT ARE PEOPLE FOR? by Wendell Berry

Every night there's the big sky in its various moods as I trudge down to the barn. The wind, the snow, the sun, the autumn leaves in little whirlwinds in the apple orchard -- all things to keep me forever in the world, forever in the seasons, forever dirty, forever unfinished.

For the curious there is always so much more to learn. For someone like me who is so attached to the past, there is nothing better than discovering how my ancestors went about doing the same seasonal chores I do now.

Physical work keeps me sane, and the seasons keep me from ever complaining about the monotony of work. Chores aren't really monotonous anyway. Chores are dependable. Every night I announce, even when we have visitors, "Okay, I have to go do the animals." It's funny to think that for thirteen years I've said it exactly the same way. Not a single word changed. The tone is one of reluctance to leave the warm fire and pleasant conversation, but once I'm alone and outside I'm happy to be making things comfy for the sheep, the horses and the chickens.

"He who tills his own land has food in plenty, but he who follows idle pursuits is a fool." Proverbs 12:11

The mini horse with his big personality has always whinnied at the sound of the house door slamming. He still likes to push me around, but I've charmed him into doing things I want to do as well. We've become friends. Every year I get quieter. I think it's a spell that comes over some people who grow lots of things and keep farm animals. There's so much to witness, tiny signs and bugs that hint at future doom or survival. Intuition, that feeling in your gut, becomes attuned to the dull look in a sick chicken's eye. Sometimes in this quiet you know exactly what that dull look means.

I love the sound of a ticking clock. When I'm writing I prefer that to be the only noise. The other day the house was silent but for the ticking. I sat to write but was nudged by some spirit to go to the window. There against the golden, frosted corn husks stood a fox staring right into our chicken coop. He looked curious, but I'm pretty sure he was just deciding which color hen he wanted for lunch.

The indoor farm dog was sent out to chase as I stumbled into my boots shouting from the garage (as if a fox would ever listen to me). I didn't get to the coop as fast as I could have in summer not having to worry about shoes. We lost one chicken. I spent much of the morning trying to corral the frightened flock inside for safety. Some regarded me as their savior and let me carry them into the coop. I felt complimented. The chickens are lucky. We take the eggs they couldn't care less about, and they live until they die of natural causes (whatever that means for animals with so many predators loving the taste of chicken).

Good

The old man comes out on the hill

and looks down to recall earlier days

in the valley. He sees the stream shine,

the church stand, hears the litter of

children’s voices. A chill in the flesh

tells him that death is not far off

now: it is the shadow under the great boughs

of life. His garden has herbs growing.

The kestrel goes by with fresh prey

in its claws. The wind scatters the scent

of wild beans. The tractor operates

on the earth’s body. His grandson is there

ploughing : his young wife fetches him

cakes and tea and a dark smile. It is well.

COLLECTED POEMS by R.S. Thomas

I'm so happy that there are young people as entranced with the old ways as I am. The myth of total independence is just that -- a myth. Community is what’s needed. Yet community is something I struggle with. I’m obsessed with the idea of the farm communities of old and their shared feasts and festivals and even write them into my books with great pleasure, but I grew up with TV as my community and comfort. I know more about Chandler Bing than I do about my next-door neighbor. I’ll wave at every farmer passing me on the road, but bumping into a neighbor in town and having to make small talk is something I dread.

I always think maybe I should join something—a group of some sort, but there is no Grange Hall. Would I even go if there was one? The year is almost through and despite “Community” being one of my words of the year, I’ve been an epic failure at seeking it and fantastic at avoiding it. Guess I’ll keep the word another year.

Martinmas will soon be upon us, a time of celebration and feasting. Most of a farmer’s work is done for the year and the meat from our farm will be tucked in the big freezer with little fanfare. When served, my one daughter will ask every time, “Is this Fred or Buck?”

The Wine of Saint Martin's Day is the largest painting by Pieter Bruegel the Elder. It is currently held in the Museo del Prado