The Radish Hunt

 

I didn't have a ruler, so I used my foot for scale.

When my 10-year-old nephew was bouncing around, I did what good aunts do: I sent him on a radish hunt.

“Go to the field behind the horse pasture and get two radishes,” I said.

As he darted off, I told him they were white and would be several inches long.

An adult standing around the fire muttered something about a snipe hunt.

 “No,” I said. “They’re real.”

After the wheat was harvested this summer, a radish cover crop was planted. Daikon radishes, with white tap roots often a foot long, help reduce soil erosion and also break up compacted soil. They’ll die this winter and decompose, leaving a loamier soil that dries out faster in the spring.

Usually about half the tap root grows above ground and half below ground.

I’ve planted Daikon radishes as a cover crop in my vegetable garden. They grew over summer, suppressing weeds. Over winter, the garden smelled like rotting cabbage as the radishes decomposed. In the spring, I didn’t have to work the soil. It was loamy and ready for planting. This is the first year, though, that they’ve been planted in our crop fields.

Minutes after racing off to the radish field, my nephew and two nieces returned to the campfire with several radishes.

A field of radishes on a snowy morning.

They were unlike your grocery-store radishes. Instead of red orbs the size of golf balls, they were white, cylindrical roots a foot long.

“I wonder how they taste,” my brother said, picking up a broken one and biting into the crisp, white flesh. “Wow, those are pretty good.”

When the Daikon radishes were growing in my garden and in the fields, I never thought to try one. I assumed they would be woody—and either too hot or super bland. So, I picked up one and, avoiding the exterior skin, bit into the flesh. The verdict: mild flavored and pleasantly crunchy.

I’m harvesting a few more before the freezing weather sets in and the decomposition begins.

As I was looking for a ruler, Niki, the Radish Thief, hauled off the radish.

Pandemic Chainsawing

 "The battery-powered chainsaw may be the best present you've given me," I say to my husband.

"What about the KitchenAid stand mixer?"

"It's nice, but the chainsaw..." 

Farm life consists of encouraging some things to grow and discouraging others. I chop thistles from the pasture, and plant clover; I coax young tomato plants along while taking a hoe to morning glory vine; I check on the sheep daily, moving them to the grassiest, most lush pastures, while securing fence to keep the coyotes out. Red-tailed hawks and bald eagles may be admired from afar, but they'd better stay away from the chickens.

Brush and trees are a constant battle. Brush encroaches on the crop fields; trees grow in the native grass and wildflower areas; trees fall across paths in the woods. Hand-held loppers are not enough for the job.

Cathy Essinger snapped this photo when I stopped to cut a few branches at her house. I'm wearing my visiting-my-friends-outdoors clothes, not my brush-clearing gear.

Last year, a friend introduced me to a battery-powered chainsaw, and I was intrigued. Lightweight and easy to start, I fell in love.

So, while others may be baking their way through the pandemic. I'm clearing brush. This fall and winter, weather-permitting, I try to spend an hour or two each day cutting brush or trees. And, I'm discovering it may be the perfect activity for these pandemic times.

The emerald ash borer killed the ash trees in the woods a few years ago, so dead trees fall frequently.

The coronavirus is, both literally and figuratively, lurking. It's in the news; it's a factor in so many everyday decisions: to wear a mask or not to, to stay home or go out, the risk-level of many activities. But, for two hours everyday, while clearing brush, I don't think about pandemics, politicians or other news.

I delight in the squirrels leaping from tree to tree, the red-headed woodpeckers and blue-feathered Jays, the occasional rabbit and deer. When clearing the wildlife strip, I sometimes talk to the neighboring cows.

I marvel at how how quickly some trees grow, curse the honeysuckle and try to avoid getting stuck by black locust thorns.

But, I also have a real sense of accomplishment. After a few hours, I can look at a strip of land that no longer has trees peeking above the grasses, or I have logs that can be split and used to heat the house.

Usually I'm also a little sweaty and tired. Cutting brush and especially dragging or moving it is physical work. 

But, as my friend points out, that's one of the advantages of a battery-powered chainsaw: it tells you when it's time to quit. Depending on the project, the battery lasts between 1 and 2 hours.

When I tell my husband that's another reason the chainsaw is so perfect, he responds, "You know we have a second battery, don't you?"

 

Counting Sheep

Ask me how many horses I have and I answer promptly.

Two.

How many chickens?

Five. (It's been a rough chicken year)

How many cats?

Two indoor and two outdoor.

How many dogs?

I pause on this question, depending on who is doing the asking. If it's a sheepdog friend, I'll say six. If it's someone else, I'll dance around that question as I don't want to sound like a crazy dog lady.

How many sheep?

This question gets a quizzical look, and it's not because I don't want to appear like a crazy sheep lady. It's that the number varies with the seasons.

During the winter, we keep about 35-40 ewes. About half of those are bred; the others, a combination of older cull ewes and ewe lambs, are kept for training the Border collies.

In late March and early April, the sheep population explodes during lambing season, and the number usually climbs to 70-75 sheep.

Then, over the course of the next several months, the numbers drop.

The ewe flock grazing on a November day.

I sell most of my yearling ewes that I've used for sheepdog training; I often sell some other ewes, either as culls or breeding stock; a few ram lambs are sold for breeding stock; others are sold for meat. Usually, by November or December, the number drops to about 35-40 ewes.

The ram lambs will be with us only for a few more weeks.

The white wether will join the ewe flock.

In the next few weeks, the last group of ram lambs is scheduled to go to the butcher. So, for three months, until lambing season, I'll be able to answer 37.