So Much Depends

We refer to our family's large compost pile as "The Midden Heap," playfully recalling a long gone era of kings and castles and their keeps. The midden in our yard hardly serves to supply sufficient sustenance for a kingdom, but it does provide needed nourishment to our land and to the many things that we grow, or attempt to grow here. The growth and health of all of our plants and trees depend upon our midden heap and, since we consume many of the fruit and vegetables we grow, our own health relies upon it as well. 

The midden grows out of the normal function of our daily lives. We consciously contribute to it the by-product from nearly all of the organic material that makes its way through our home. The pile nearly takes on a life of its own as the seasons wax and wane, rising and growing through the fall and winter as it is served its vegetable rich meals; warmly digesting its way towards spring; dwindling and shrinking through late spring and summer, as we harvest and distribute the rich results. Then replicating itself so that its twin can begin the whole cycle over again. 

Paper bags are an essential part of our midden. They will break down in the heap and will allow enough air to circulate and will also retain moisture, an essential component to the necessary decay. Bits of broccoli, carrot tops, the top, skin and core of a pineapple, or the skins of the limes we have likely reamed for a killer key lime martini, all get wrapped up in a paper towel and tossed into a paper bag lined with crumpled newspaper (the circulars we all inevitably get) to absorb the particularly juicy parts. 

These bag bombs get thrown on top of the pile along with occasional pizza boxes, paper towel and toilet paper tubes, and even shipping boxes that have traveled back and forth from friends and family, eventually retired. All of this paper helps to retain moisture in the compost, which is essential for our plants to thrive in our dry, sandy soil and intense high-altitude sunlight. Each item we add to the mix adds it own mix of nutrients to the blend, which will provide nourishment for our vegetables, flowers, trees and shrubs as it all breaks down and becomes nutrient rich soil. 

For many years I harvested the compost our midden produced in a red, metal Radio Flyer wagon, the same wagon I used to pull my children in when they were small. The first task before the stuff could make it into the wagon was to toss the compost from one pile to the other with the new pile, the parts that were still rough and not broken down, becoming the next year's midden heap. As I tore into the pile, the compost would sift through the tines of my pitchfork, capturing the essential remains of a year's worth of family meals. Once refined, I would back my wagon up to the midden and scoop in the results. My wagon and I would make our rounds, delivering the rich loam that would help our trees withstand the next season's barrage of wind and sometimes brutal high plains weather.

As I pulled my wagon over countless miles from the midden heap and back again, delivering the distillation of a year's nutrition for an American family of four, I was frequently brought to mind a William Carlos Williams poem that I have always loved. It was my wagon that served wheelbarrow duty, and there are no white chickens in the yard, yet(!). But those untold treks across my land, processing the leavings of our meals to feed our vegetables and trees at a time in my life when I struggled to feed my own children,  made me very aware of how very much does, in fact, depend upon our individual actions and how much depends upon each of us, doing whatever it is we can do to improve the world around us. Each of us, individually together. It is a theme that played frequently in my mind as the red wagon carried compost to the plants and trees. 

Last year, towards the end of the season, when I pulled my dented, dirty, squeaky, red, metal wagon up to the midden heap and backed it up, the rivets on the wheels disconnected from the frayed and rusty metal frame. The final crack of the metal sent a stitch of sadness to my heart. That wagon had been my companion for more than 20 years. It had helped to carry my children and then it helped to feed them. It felt somehow that this wagon represented the distillation not of organics, but  of a period of my life. A time when so much for me depended upon that red wagon. It helped me survive and I am grateful. 

I parked my wagon next to the midden heap, and there it will stay. For as long as it likes. 

Our new garden wagon serves its purpose perfectly and we like it very much. It is larger than my old wagon so it carries more, and the sides come down, which makes it easy to unload. It is yellow, not red. We looked at Radio Flyers, even the metal ones (they do still make them) with a higher side since we really need to carry large loads, but it somehow just didn't seem right. 

The Red Wheel Barrow

--William Carlos Williams

 Radio Flyer

so much  depends

upon

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain 

water

beside the white

chickens.

Reclamation through Reformation

Blizzards are one of my favorite weather events. As the wind rages and snow piles up, or promises to pile up, I feel particularly connected to the land yet tremendously humbled by such a tyrannical display of two major shaping forces, wind and water. I heard thunder in the approaching snowstorm. The awesomeness of the power represented by the rumble reverberated through my mind and made its way into my dreams as the  storm howled on through the night, driving sparkling blankets of crystalline moisture in its path.

The morning after 

One of the most rewarding reasons for living on the high plains is our immense and unobstructed view of sweeping weather events. Since our westward vista is the Front Range of the Rockies, we bear witness to the titanic mid-air collisions of major air masses as they make their way eastward towards Kansas and Nebraska. My heart belongs to this ancient prairie, which was once buried fathoms deep beneath an immense inland sea. I feel deeply connected to the past here, where native peoples roamed and hunted the once vast herds of bison and antelope, and where more recent American pioneers crossed to build new lives and forge new fortunes by living off the wild and unyielding land.

For many years, we lent our small patch of prairie land to graze neighbor's horses. Horses are beautiful, sensitive, graceful creatures and since I grew up around horses in the self-proclaimed Cowboy Capital of Ogallala, Nebraska (of Larry McMurtry and Lonesome Dove fame), and since I have extremely fond memories of "cowgirling" there, it seemed only natural to keep horses ourselves, as we have the land to support them and they are lovely companion animals. Eventually, however, we came to realize how hard the horses were on the land, so we decided to evict the neighbors' horses and to reclaim and reseed the prairie for the purpose of beekeeping instead. Bees are, of course, highly beneficial and, as they are in decline globally, and we have the space for them, we decided that this is something tangible and meaningful that we can do.

A hand-tilled acre

We welcome the moisture on the arid plains, despite the fact that it is a dry, desiccated snow driven by a raging, howling wind. In our attempt to reclaim the prairie, and to prepare for our bees, my husband and I have spent several recent days tilling an acre of land and hand seeding with prairie grass and high plains wildflower seed. This spring storm is an ideal top-dressing for the high plains appropriate, drought tolerant seed we planted on our prairie.

Seed selection is important, and I am very careful about the sources for our seeds, regardless of what we are growing. We prefer to buy organic seed, especially when we are growing vegetables for consumption, but we also want to be careful not to purchase seeds from sources like Monsanto that have GMOs  that are designed to release pesticides which destroy the insects that consume them, among other alterations. We primarily purchase heirloom seeds so that we can harvest the seeds for a stronger, healthier and more adaptive crop each year.

2013 Seed Catalog

One of our favorite sources for seeds is The Seed Savers Exchange, an organization committed to the conservation of American heritage seeds through preservation and exchange. When you place an order from Seed Savers, you have the option to join their registry so that the heirloom seeds you grow can be harvested and shared internationally. The registry allows prospective seed collectors worldwide to enjoy the vast variety and diversity of hearty heirloom strains. It also allows a potential collector to find varietals suited to a particular region or climate,  and to connect to our garden heritage through "participatory preservation."

The harvest and preservation of seed strains is new for us as hobby farmers. We are only just beginning to learn the processes and demands of harvesting and preserving seed strains as we continue to raise our own personal awareness of the demands of sustainability and the importance of avoiding monocultures, in all areas of life. We feel that this commitment to preservation and sustainability and to our garden heritage is important, even essential, as we attempt to navigate this "Brave New World" that continually unfolds before us in all its myriad complexities. 

Shenandoah Prairie

Welcome!

Our lifestyle here on the Colorado prairie is somewhat unique. We utilize, visit and appreciate our nearby city of Denver, but we perch at 6500 ft on the Palmer Divide, a geologic plateau about 40 miles southwest of the city itself. This distance allows us to enjoy a peaceful, yet somewhat rugged, lifestyle while still appreciating all of the wonders that our beautiful Mile High City has to offer. Our vista is the Front Range of The Rockies, from Pikes Peak to Long's Peak, a 70 mile span. Thus is the windswept and sundrenched backdrop for our small, beginning hobby farm on the Colorado Prairie.

View of The Rockies from Shenandoah Prairie 

As a hobby horticulturalist, I have encountered many challenges to my gardening skills on the Colorado Plains. And as we become more and more sensitive to the needs of our planet overall, my husband and I have attempted to respond in the ways that we can with the land that we have. We have worked to restore and reclaim the prairie and we are learning the beginnings of beekeeping. We are building an earth-sheltered greenhouse in an attempt to lengthen our growing season in order to grow heirloom vegetables 10 months out of the year, and harvest for 12. We are growing restorative, beneficial and medicinal herbs to preserve the strains of these important plants that will do well in our arid Colorado climate. Mostly, we are attempting to live with the land and to learn from and respect what the hobby of working the land has to offer.

Heirloom Harvest

I am often surprised at the lessons my small patch of land has yeilded. Not just obvious lessons, like patience (a hard one for me) and endurance, and appreciation of beauty, but also lessons about planning and business, decision making and relationships. Surprising, but appreciated. As a teacher by profession, it is apparently somehow embedded within me to share these lessons. I simply don't feel complete unless I know that I can teach the things that I have learned and am learning from living on the Colorado Prairie. It has so much to offer.  

This is our journey. Our trials and failures, our attempts and acquisitions, our musings and ponderings. Our learning.  As we become more aware, I understand that we are all learning together how to take more prudent care of our many precious resources and to make a more positive impact. Recorded here are our personal attempts, our own personal voyage.

Because it takes each of us. Individually. And it takes each of us, individually together.

I hope you'll join us!

Warmest Regards,

Annie