Story Time at Clatter Ridge Farm

Life to me is like a dinner party that I don’t ever want to end. Everyone I have ever cared about is seated at the table next to me. I am surrounded with friendship and immersed in love. The food is phenomenal (all grown locally and sustainably of course.) The beeswax candle on the table flickers, and smells divine, but it never melts. A gentle fire crackles in the fireplace nearby. A nostalgic playlist sets the mood and reminds us of all the good times we’ve had together. Toasts are being made and the conversation flows easily. The meal glides seamlessly from one course to the next. I never feel full; the food is just endlessly enjoyable.And then, one by one, the people I love begin to leave.No one was surprised by my parents’ departure, least of all not me. We could all see it coming. Their shoulders were slumped and their eyes were glazing over. They were profoundly tired and it was getting late. I desperately wanted them to stay but I knew it was time to let them go. After they left, we raised a glass and toasted their life, their love, their friendship, and their legacy. At some point we all leaned in a little to fill the gap their absence created, and the evening moved on.Since then, many friends and family have said their goodbyes and taken their leave. One by one. We raised our glasses, toasted their departure, leaned in a little and the evening moved on.There were loved ones too, that just vanished with no warning at all. They never said anything, I had only looked away for a moment and when I turned back, they were gone. We all expressed our shock and sorrow and leaned in a bit and did our best to carry on.My mom always told us to take the Christmas tree down while it was still green and to not be the last person at a party to leave. Lately, I’ve become painfully aware of all those empty places at the table. When I noticed the hostess starting to yawn and look my way, I knew I’d overstayed and that she was about to ask me to go. But instead, she just smiled and asked if I wanted another slice of pie.Perhaps a little too enthusiastically I said “yes please! At least one more- and some ice cream too, if there’s room on the side”I raised my fork and settled back in. Though my table is definitely getting smaller, I’m still in no hurry to leave. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit clatterridgefarm.substack.com

We had several lambs born this week. Most of them are very healthy and full of beans, but as always, we have a couple whose commitment to staying alive is dubious at best. I had a vet tell me once, “sheep are born looking for a way to die.” At the time I thought he was terribly cynical, but sometimes I think he might be right. As wonderful as newborn lambs are – there is an inordinate amount of stress for the first few days of their lives.On the other hand, as if not to be outdone by the lambs once again, our shiitakes have woken up from their winter’s slumber and hit the ground running. Mushroom farming is, in fact, the perfect antidote to livestock farming. It is, by comparison, a completely stress-free endeavor. When I finish up in the mushroom yard at the end of the day - I just walk away. When I return in the morning, the logs are all exactly as I left them. Always. The mushrooms never escape, they never misbehave, and they never get sick. Best of all, the only predators I have to contend with are; a squirrel who has developed an expensive taste for shiitakes, a chipmunk that has a fondness for our chestnut mushrooms, and my sister, who lives next door.We have over 1,000 logs inoculated with various types of mushrooms. We have Shiitake, Oyster, Lion’s Mane, Comb Tooth, Chestnut, Maitake, Chicken of the Woods, and Turkey Tail. We also have raised beds inoculated with Morels, Almond Agaricus and Wine Caps.Each type of mushroom has its own culinary preferences and distinct personality. Shiitakes prefer oak logs but are aggressive and will quickly take over most any hardwood. Hericium mushrooms (lion’s mane and comb tooth) are the most finicky. They prefer beech trees and sugar maples and are so slow to colonize a log, I’m not sure how they have succeeded as well as they have “in the wild”. When we inoculate logs with any Hericium strain, we use twice the amount of spore (mushroom seed), otherwise another mushroom will undoubtably take over.Wine caps are the least fussy about what they eat and are definitely the most gregarious of all the mushrooms we’ve raised. They’ve quickly spread throughout our mushroom yard and are happily commingling with all the others.Even within the same species, different strains fruit at different times. Our cool weather shiitakes are fruiting now but will slow down when the temperatures get more summerlike. That’s when our warm weather strains take over and get us through the farmer’s market season.Highly prized in Japanese cooking, the first and last shiitakes to fruit each season are the Donkos. The fluctuating temperatures of spring and fall weather stresses the cool season mushroom out and intensifies their flavor. Like the arrival of our first lamb in the spring, Donkos are a distinct marker of changing seasons.Our two border collies always accompany me to the mushroom yard but quickly settle in for the duration. Of all the illogical things I do on a daily basis, moving logs from one pile to another is clearly beyond their comprehension. They know their services won’t be needed but they don’t let me out of their sight. Each dog resting with one eye open, they watch carefully just in case any of our logs look like they are in need of herding.Welcome to our sweet, precious lambs – I look forward to some seriously raucous days ahead!Welcome Donkos and the start of another mushroom season.And, of course, welcome Spring - the beginning of everything. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit clatterridgefarm.substack.com

The most wonderful sound in the whole wide world is, without a doubt, the evening song of the Wood Thrush. The mesmerizing flute-like notes carry and echo across the ridge and weave their way in and out of the forest’s edge. The sound is soulful, somewhat haunting and deeply magical. When I hear it, I know I’m home and that no matter what else is going on beyond my forested retreat- at this moment in time, everything is going to be okay.I love the little potbellied Wood Thrush deeply - but I have to admit that the sound that brings me the purest joy, bar none, is the chorus of the Spring Peeper. In early spring, the tiny frogs gather along the swampy edges of ponds and wetlands and compete for the love of their lives – or at least, for a chance to procreate. The louder and faster a male Spring Peeper chirps, the more likely it is that a female will choose him to be her mate. Though each frog is less than an inch in length, their springtime chorus can reach 90 decibels and be heard one to two miles away.I know the chorus they produce is just a heartfelt love song not intended for the likes of me, but in its melody, I can feel the certainty that spring has arrived and that winter has been left in its muddy wake. It is pure hope, belted out with amphibian acapella joy. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit clatterridgefarm.substack.com

In an attempt to protect their monopoly on the wool industry, England tried hard to discourage one from ever taking hold in its American colonies. To that end, the exporting of sheep to America was expressly forbidden, but by 1655, a few smuggled sheep had multiplied to 10,000. Oops! I’m not sure what I find more amusing; that colonial sheep smuggling was actually a thing or that breeding sheep became such a subversive (and successful) act of independence.Clearly unable to completely stop America’s burgeoning sheep industry, British Parliament in 1699, attempted to at least contain it by enacting “The Woolens Act”. The law prohibited the export of any woolen items from the American colonies (and Ireland) and the import of textiles from any country other than Britain. Though the law had a devastating effect on Ireland and effectively crushed its economy - it was not well enforced in the American colonies.That benign neglect ended when King George III ascended the throne and made wool trading in the Colonies an offense punishable by cutting off the offender’s right hand. That renewed and elevated threat, along with various other taxes and tariffs, set the stage for the rebellion that soon led to the Revolutionary War.Many colonists boycotted British goods and proudly wore homespun clothes as a sign of their patriotism. And while their male counterparts formed the “Sons of Liberty” and rioted drunkenly in the streets, the women of colonial America held spinning bees. They came together peacefully not only to produce yarn and textiles but as a show of their own solidarity and patriotic fever.Join us Sunday, March 29th, 2026, from 10-4 at Hill Stead Museum as we shear our sheep and demonstrate how their wool can be turned “from sheep to shawl”There will be rebellious lambs, sheep shearing, lots of spinning, weaving and solidarity. Public displays of drunkenness, rioting and looting, however, will be strongly discouraged.See you there! This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit clatterridgefarm.substack.com

When I was in my twenties a scuba diving accident landed me in the hospital for ten days. I was living in California, and though I didn’t have any family nearby I had a lot of friends. They all rallied around and visited me often and while most of them made a concerted effort to cheer me up, what I remember best was my friend Jules. She was taking an art class at a local community college and would stop by in between work and school. I’d wake up and see her sitting in the chair sketching. I’d say “hey” and she’d look up and smile and say “hey” and then she’d go back to sketching and I’d go back to sleep. When I’d wake up again, there’d be a sketch of my feet, or of the view out the window, propped up for me on my nightstand. There was something extraordinarily comforting knowing that she was there, and that I didn’t have to do anything. She wasn’t trying to entertain or distract me. She was just quietly keeping me company on my journey.I like to think that’s what I have to offer with my writing and with the photos that I take. I can’t fix anything. I can’t change the trajectory of the planet’s health - or that of my friends, but I can quietly keep them company on their journey and perhaps leave them something I’ve written, or a photograph, on their nightstand. I write, in part to bear witness to a changing way of life- to a changing planet and ecosystem. To a way of living and being and also as a chance to explain myself.A couple of years ago I went to a memorial service for someone who I didn’t know very well but whom I appreciated for all the work she’d done in the community. I went to show my appreciation and pay my respects. At the service her husband was understandably inconsolable and unable to speak. The only other people who spoke were her boss and her hairdresser. Her boss shared with us that she was really good at filling out forms and her hairdresser talked about what a friendly client she was. I thought “God help me, this is going to be me.” I spend so much time alone and in my own head I’m afraid all anyone will be able to say about me is that I was pleasant and really good at filling out forms.And in fact, that would be a stretch. I’m not good at filling out forms at all. Most forms don’t leave enough space for the answers, so I often feel the need to write in the margins. And as far as being pleasant – it kind of depends on the day.Writing is the best way I have of expressing myself, so, after that memorial service I started writing and I haven’t stopped. I love Robin, the woman who cuts my hair, but if there is ever a service in my honor, please ask her to read something I’ve written.Humor has a curious way of making the darkness lighter. This is a collection of essays - sharing that humor, bearing witness to a changing climate and a changing way of life. It is a way of explaining myself so that at my memorial service no one else has to. I am a writer, a thinker and a farmer. It’s who I am, what I do and what I love. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit clatterridgefarm.substack.com

When we open up the sugar house in the morning, there’s often just the sound of the frozen ground crunching beneath our feet, the singing of a few early morning birds, and perhaps an intermittent drip of sap dropping into an empty sap bucket. As the day progresses, though, the trees warm up and the sap really begins to flow. The warmer it gets the faster it flows, and by mid-day the trees surrounding our sugar house are a symphony of drops dripping and splashing as the taps flow in earnest. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit clatterridgefarm.substack.com

We tapped our sugar maples this week, and that to me is the beginning of spring. The sap will run as long as the temperatures are below freezing at night and well above freezing during the day. The “sugaring” season usually lasts about 6 weeks, or until the trees start to bud.Maple Syrup was a dietary staple for the Native Americans that lived in New England. When little else was available in early spring, they relied heavily on maple syrup for sustenance. It takes at least 40 gallons of sap boiled down to make 1 gallon of syrup, and without the use of kettles they collected the sap in hollowed out logs and boiled it down by dropping hot rocks into it. (Okay, I quit).Later, the colonists used copper kettles over an open flame which made the process infinitely easier. (It’s all relative right?) They boiled the sap beyond the syrup stage and turned it into sugar, which without refrigeration was much easier to preserve. An average family would make 200 pounds of maple sugar and an exceptionally industrious family could make 1,000 pounds. Any excess was an easy commodity to trade or sell. (For comparison’s sake, if Anne and I converted the syrup we make each year into sugar, it would probably be about 50 pounds, slackers that we are).In 1789 Benjamin Rush and a group of Philadelphia Quakers started a campaign to end slavery by convincing people to use maple sugar as a sweetener instead of cane sugar, which was grown in the West Indies with slave labor. Rush described maple sugar as the “morally superior” choice. His mission was to “lessen or destroy the consumption of West Indian Sugar, and thus indirectly destroy slavery.”Thomas Jefferson picked up the cause and attempted to start a “sugar orchard” at Monticello. Using the labor of enslaved people, he planted maple trees which he had purchased while touring New England. Jefferson’s interest in breaking the cane sugar trade was “to help relieve the misery of the West Indian slave trade” and to break Great Britain’s grip on the United States. Sugar was the number one import of that era, and it all came by way of England.After the civil war, beet sugar became popular, the price of cane sugar dropped, and the demand for maple sugar collapsed. Maple syrup, instead of maple sugar, soon became the maple product of choice.After multiple failed attempts, Jefferson was finally able to get some of his sugar maples to grow, but the trees never produced any “sweet water.” There is something about the freeze thaw cycle and temperature differential of our northern climate that creates the sugar, and the flow of sap. During the summer months the tree collects sunshine and turns it into a simple sugar which it stores over the winter as starch. In the spring the starch turns back into sugar. When the tree becomes pressurized, through a process which is not entirely understood, the sap begins to flow from high pressure to low, and the tap hole gives the sap an easy way out. Technically, it’s all a byproduct of photosynthesis, but really - that’s just a fancy name for something that is nothing short of pure magic. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit clatterridgefarm.substack.com

Luckily for me, the joy of spring is wrapped up in its anticipation. If I woke up one morning to a garden in full bloom, I’d be thrilled and in awe, but I’d acclimate, and the novelty would quickly fade.Spring for me is like a wonderfully drawn out, well-crafted love story. And like any great courtship, there is allure and longing - and impatience bordering on despair.The daytime temperatures this week were warm enough for collecting sap in short sleeved shirts. It felt so decadent and then came the demoralizing winds of a “bomb cyclone” to drive us all back inside.The sap flows and stops, a mirror of nighttime temperatures. True spring is never far off, and it will arrive eventually. The daffodils are pushing their way out of the barely thawed ground - only to be dumped on by a heavy blanket of wet snow. The daffs are still there under the snow waiting patiently - they know this drill all too well.Time is on our side. Like the leaves of the skunk cabbage emerging from still frosted streams, we just have to wait for the sun to do its magic. Patience, though, is perhaps a tonic best served warm. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit clatterridgefarm.substack.com

As Christianity spread half a world away, a new way of life was also taking hold here in New England. About two thousand years ago, the cultivation of corn – though curiously slow to catch on, was transforming how the woodland tribes lived and related to their environment – and to each other.For several thousand years, the tribes that called New England home had lived as hunter gatherers. Survival was challenging, but their world was relatively peaceful. Traveling in small bands of 5-30 members, they went where, and when, the food was most plentiful. I’m sure that all the things I have tried to learn, they would have known intuitively, as they passed through the woods and fields, I now call home.They’d have known at a glance where the deer and bear could be found, where the nuts and berries could be gathered, when the fish would be spawning and what birds would be migrating through and when. They followed the seasons and harvested what the landscape provided for them. They were friendly, family-centric and peaceful members of the Eastern Woodland Algonquian speaking tribes.Corn started its journey to New England, 9,000 years ago, as the exotic mutant grass known as maize. First encouraged, engineered and grown by the ancient Mayans in South America, it eventually made its way north via trade routes to the southern and midwestern tribes of North America. From there, it took several thousand years more to make its way east to New England.The native Hopewell traders of Ohio were frequent visitors to northern New England and had a well-established trade route with the Eastern Woodland tribes. Though the Algonquians were quick to adopt the ceramic pottery the Hopewell traders were known for, the concept of cultivating the soil and growing the small multicolored maize took several hundred years to really catch on. It pleases me to know that the original inhabitants of New England were as stubbornly set in their ways as some of us “Yankee” farmers are still accused of being today. Perhaps it was, and is, our unpredictable weather that makes us so resistant to change.When the growing and harvesting of corn finally did catch on, it became a staple food, and its cultivation completely changed how the hunter gatherers lived and related to their surroundings. They became more sedentary and their populations and encampments grew exponentially. They quite literally became rooted in place and quickly discovered the gifts and burdens of agriculture.Having cleared large swaths of woodland, planted the corn and diligently tended to it all summer, the tribes became territorial as they had now made a significant investment in their land. They learned the hard way that though corn was easy to grow and store, it was difficult to defend. There were jealousies, hostilities, and outright wars with formerly friendly neighbors. Villages became fortified and stockades were built for protection. Gone was the fluidity and cross pollination of culture, knowledge, and ideas.Just as the seeds of Christianity united and divided nations abroad, the seeds of agriculture united and divided the former friends living among the woodlands, and newly cleared fields of New England. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit clatterridgefarm.substack.com

Not a day goes by that I don’t wonder why I keep farming.A couple years ago, we bought hay from a farmer whose family has been farming the same land for a hundred and fifty years or so. He said jokingly “I have come to the realization that I’m not a farmer anymore, technically, I’m now a pet food manufacturer. You are the only one buying my hay for livestock - everyone else is either feeding pet goats or rescue ponies.”I knew he was making light of it, and I laughed, but even so it tapped into a sadness that just won’t quit. I can’t quite shake the feeling that I am bearing witness to the end of small family farms in Connecticut. Real farms. I can’t imagine that he takes much pride anymore in being a fifth-generation pet food manufacturer. Since then, whenever Anne and I stop by, we bring him pork chops or some bacon – something to let him know that we, at least, are still producing food, so he’s still a farmer after all.Last year one of our sows had a piglet stuck while giving birth, which I tried in vain to get “unstuck”. When we called our farm vet for help, we discovered that not only do they no longer take care of pigs, there are, in fact, no longer any vets anywhere in Connecticut that will care for a pig. So, despite spending five hours with the sow, trying to help her - I lost them both.I was so despondent that night, that in my mind at least, I quit farming. By morning though I knew I couldn’t quit, and I know it’s all just a vicious cycle. If I quit there’s one less farm to support a farm vet, the hay farmer, our wonderful abattoir, the sheep shearer, the spinning mill, the weaver, and perhaps most importantly of all, it’s one less opportunity for kids to see animals raised outdoors, on pasture and not just in a petting zoo.When I was growing up in Farmington, there was a cow barn on Main Street. My mom used to bribe us that if we went to church (and behaved) she’d take us to see the cows afterwards. There’s an astroturf soccer field where the clover used to grow. I often wonder what the honeybees think of us humans when they fly over the acres of synthetic plastic grass and past all the overly manicured lawns in Farmington in search of clover – or anything that we haven’t sprayed or mowed.When we purchased our first pig 15 years ago, we decided on Tamworth pigs, a heritage breed that do well on pasture and are relatively easy on the land. At the time, we had a choice of three farms in Connecticut from which to purchase that particular breed, and there were a dozen other farms raising other breeds. When I went to buy a piglet to replace the sow we lost last year, I couldn’t find any farms selling any piglets of any breed except for one farm which had 150 sows all indoors confined to farrowing crates. It’s no wonder there are no pig vets here anymore – there are no pig farms to support them.So, for now we’ll just keep on keeping on, and doing the very best we can. We’ll keep on raising our animals outside on pasture and know that, if nothing else, because of that, there will be plenty of clover for the bees, bacon for the hay farmer, fiber for the spinnery, yarn for the weavers, and there will still be plenty of kids, in their Sunday best, walking down the farm road to visit our sheep after church. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit clatterridgefarm.substack.com

After my dad passed away, two of his friends clearly felt an obligation to keep an eye on me and my various endeavors.“Uncle” John had been an engineer with my father at Hamilton Standard, and a lifelong friend. He made a point of stopping by to monitor Anne’s and my home building progress - which admittedly took forever. We only worked on our house nights, weekends, and in between other building projects, so progress was indeed pretty slow. Not infrequently we’d find notes stuck to the front door – or where the front door would have been if we’d taken the time to install it. Notes with good natured observations like;“If you hadn’t put the hammock up first - your house would probably be done by now – love John.”Howard, who had worked as a forester and used to help my dad with various land trust projects, whole heartedly disagreed. He left us notes like;“Such a comfortable hammock, and it’s hung in just the right spot! Keep up the good work. HC”Howard went to Connecticut Agricultural School (now UConn) in the1920s and was not as interested in our building progress, or lack thereof, as he was with our farming. He took a vested interest in all our animals and fell hopelessly in love with our maple sugaring operation. Between lambing and sugaring, he pretty much moved in with us for two months every spring.He loved to help when we tapped our trees, even though we had different theories about the best placement of each tap on every tree. He preferred to place the taps over the biggest roots, assuming that the sap flowed from low to high. I liked to tap on the sunniest side of the tree figuring the sap flowed better where it was warmest. His theory was based on 1920’s Ag school science, and mine was based on anecdotal intuition. We were both partially right and partly wrong. The sap flows up and down throughout the tree, and what is warmest in the morning might be shaded by afternoon.I would use my cordless drill, which was exactly like the dozen other cordless drills I’d owned over the years. Suitably utilitarian, but in the end just as disposable as the 5-gallon plastic bucket I carried it around in. Howard used his “bit brace hand drill” which he stored in a cloth lined leather case. It was the same brace he’d owned for 70 years. It had clearly been put to good use, but it aged well and was still in perfect condition.He asked me once if he could try my drill, so we swapped tools for the afternoon. He liked the speed and ease of using the cordless drill but not nearly as much as I liked his brace. The bit was so sharp I could actually feel it as it grabbed and sliced into the wood. I could even feel the difference in the density of the wood as the bit noiselessly made its way through the punky bark, past the hard layer of cambium and into the sap wood.We’d boil all day and into the night until eventually I’d call it quits. Howard would insist on staying up all night to “keep the boil going”. I tried to convince him it wasn’t necessary, and privately I worried that keeping a 90-year-old working all night was surely some form of elder abuse. When I mentioned as much to his daughter, she said I’d probably need a restraining order to keep him away, and it would break his heart if I tried.So, I’d leave him there in charge of the fire but before going to bed I’d look out the window and I could see from the lack of smoke coming from the evaporator chimney, that he was already sound asleep. I’d go back down to the sugar house and try and get him to go home or at least come “take a nap” on our couch. He’d insist he had barely dozed off and was good for the night.If I’d known back then what I’ve come to appreciate now, I would have started each sugaring season by putting the hammock up just inside the sugar house door. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit clatterridgefarm.substack.com

The 6.1 magnitude earthquake that hit Los Angeles early one morning in October 1987 literally rocked my world and my whole sense of security within it. It was the first time I had experienced nature as something to be afraid of – before then it had always been a good friend. A friend I thought I knew.The noise of the earthquake was in itself terrifying, as it roared like a freight train passing underneath. Every fiber of my being wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. Standing up was hard enough, running wasn’t an option. I watched the floors and ceilings of my apartment bulge and buckle and the walls twist and crack. The fish in my saltwater aquarium lay sideways as the vibrations flattened them and prevented them from swimming upright. I could see the streetlights outside my window thrusting up, and slamming back down, as the ground beneath them heaved like waves on an angry sea. Dogs were howling and every car alarm in the city was blaring. Time stood still for the 30 seconds that the earthquake lasted, and I was certain that I was doomed. As a carpenter, I knew there was no way the ceiling and walls could move like that without the entire building coming down. But it didn’t come down, the building was fine, and I was fine. As soon as the earthquake stopped, my fish snapped upright, and for them at least, life instantly went back to normal.At the time, I was in charge of building maintenance for a nonprofit housing project and even before the proverbial dust had settled, I started getting calls. Everyone was okay but people were trapped in their apartments because doors had shifted and wouldn’t open. I didn’t have time to relive the panic, or to worry about the future- I just started functioning. One foot in front of the other, I spent the day at work, rehanging doors and assessing the damage. When I left at the end of that excruciatingly long day, I drove past various clusters of people who were camping out on lawns, sidewalks and parking lots, sleeping on lawn chairs, too afraid to go back inside. It was a surreal dystopian scene - and it quickly got worse.On the way home, two cars and a motorcycle collided in a major intersection in front of me. It was a brutal crash, and it seemed unlikely that either the motorcyclist or the driver of one of the cars were going to survive, but there was another driver, who was still conscious. His legs were pinned, and he was struggling to get free. There was gasoline leaking everywhere and, in his panic, he tried to start his car. Afraid the spark would cause an explosion, I pried open his door and got him to stop. I tried to convince him that he was going to be okay, that he just needed to stay calm while we waited for help. He grabbed my hand and asked me not to leave him. I assured him I wasn’t going anywhere, and without thinking I said, “I love you, it’s going to be okay”. He started crying and for the second time that day - time stood still.I was acutely aware of everything and of nothing. I could hear people talking but I couldn’t understand what they were saying. I could hear the hiss of a radiator overheating. I could hear someone stepping on crushed glass nearby, and I could hear sirens in the distance. I could smell gasoline, radiator fluid, and my own sweat. I could feel the grip of his hand and how it shook as he sobbed. I could tell the sirens were getting closer only because they were getting louder, but it felt like an eternity for the paramedics to actually arrive. When they finally got there, I let go of the man’s hand and like the fish in my saltwater aquarium, I stood up and everything snapped back into focus.I often think of that day and remember the total improbability of it all. The shocking hostility of the earth. The resilience of the buildings all around me. The ability of fish to simply carry on. But truly the most improbable thing of that whole improbable day was me, holding the hand of a stranger and how in that moment, I truly loved him.There were a lot of lessons for me, and they’ve stuck with me over time. Since then, I have never questioned the importance of building codes, and I no longer take nature’s friendship for granted. I learned that I can function, and keep on functioning, even when I really, really, really don’t want to. And after that day, I’ve never questioned a fish’s ability to swim on its side (though admittedly this lesson has yet to come in very handy). Clearly though, the most important lesson I learned that day - and I’ve thought a lot about it this past year; I learned that sometimes the only thing we have to offer each other is kindness - and maybe that’s all that’s needed to keep someone alive until the paramedics arrive. Or, like now, until someone figures out how to shut off this spigot of nastiness.Thanks for reading Clatter Ridge Farm! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus epi

Seeing the holidays in the rear-view mirror is not unlike getting over a virulent stomach bug. The relief of simply getting back to normal is so satisfying as to be positively transformative in nature. The gratitude, the deep contentment, the blissful solitude – it’s possible that I have just gained a whole new lease on life.Our dogs have come out of hiding and are sound asleep - sprawled across the living room floor. Happiness for them is found in the simple things as well. Like being able to nap wherever they want, knowing their humans will step over them and not on them - like well-intended, but accident-prone children and house guests sometimes do.Our chickens who, as a matter of course, consider any sudden movement or unexplained noise an existential threat – did not, in fact, weep to see our beloved grandchildren leave. Perhaps as life returns to normal and the hens realize it was just the end of the year and not the end of the world, they’ll start laying again. Perhaps…Our sheep, who are not unlike the chickens - or me, find comfort and contentment in the quietly mundane. Life for them is good once again – simply because everything is as it should be. Everything is back to normal.Our pigs, who are accustomed to a daily cornucopia of hay, day old bagels, acorns, and a variety of fruits and vegetables - were fed nothing but dry pig food for the entire holiday week. They have been boisterously unhappy with the menu, and there is nothing quite as unfestive, or as threatening, as an unhappy pig. I brought them acorns and apples today, they’ll have squash and pears once again tomorrow and depending on what next week brings - I just might be forgiven by spring.For Anne and me, the departure of our house guests has been like opening presents all over again as we rediscover all the misplaced objects and the things we put away “somewhere” for safe keeping. Look! I found the bread knife and oh! There’s my favorite coffee mug!!Tranquility washes back over me today, as I bask in the silence and can write quietly, once again, in my favorite chair - my reading glasses, and cup of coffee right beside me-exactly where I left them…Heading out the door to do chores this morning though, my heart felt an awful tug. I sorely miss that little hand reaching up for mine. I miss his happy chatter and gentle laughter. I miss the chance to see the world again, vicariously through his eyes. To explore and discover all the wonder that there is to be found in all the things I now just take for granted. I miss him mightily - but for a few more days at least, I’ll still have the cold he gave me, and for now that’ll do. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit clatterridgefarm.substack.com

There are few things on this planet as peaceful as walking in a New England forest after a snowstorm. The sound deadening blanket covering the earth creates a blissful silence and is the perfect tonic for an overly noisy world. The welcomed hush is broken only by the gentle rustle of leaves stubbornly clinging to a few outlying trees.Most deciduous trees drop their leaves as soon as the color fades in Autumn. But a few, like white oak and beech trees, are “marcescent” and hold on to their dead leaves through the winter. Researchers have yet to agree on why these trees do this. Some theorize that marcescent leaves provide a fresh layer of mulch in the spring when the trees need it most. Some think the retained leaves offer shelter for birds, which in turn fertilize the ground below them. Some think the unappetizingly dead leaves help protect the tasty new buds from being eaten by browsing herbivores. I’ve often thought that the leaves were just left there for me to enjoy, like muted wind chimes on a wintry day.Curiously though, and perhaps revealingly so, is that the majority of marcescent leaves are within twenty feet of the ground. A white oak tree which might be eighty feet tall, will only retain the leaves on its lower branches. If the purpose of marcescence is to provide a layer of mulch, or shelter for the birds, surely retaining the upper leaves would be useful as well.The fact that the only leaves retained are ones within reach of passing herbivores lends credence to the theory that it’s a form of protection from grazing. To discourage our contemporary white-tailed deer, the twenty-foot cut off point is definitely overkill, but oak and beech trees evolved for millions of years in the company of giant sloths and mastodons. In fact, back when beavers were the size of bears (about 10,000 years ago), your average run of the mill herbivore could easily have grazed from the gutters of a two-story home.The only things that kept those super-sized grazers from consuming the entire planet were the equally impressive hypercarnivores that hunted them. Despite today’s allure, I seriously doubt I’d find my meandering wintertime stroll so relaxing if I had to share the forest with saber tooth tigers, American cheetahs, and dire wolves. Perhaps the true purpose of the marcescent leaves is to serve as a reminder that though the modern world might seem loud and at times stressful, at least I can aspire to be something more than just an appetizer in the food chain of life. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit clatterridgefarm.substack.com

Our friends with culinary ties to the South made their annual pilgrimage to buy smoked pork jowl from our farm last week. The jowl is traditionally cooked with collard greens, black-eyed-peas and served with cornbread. All of which are believed to bring good luck and prosperity in the New Year. The meal served either at midnight, or on New Year’s Day, has many iterations across the South and very specific ingredients and traditions surrounding each variation. I can’t keep track of them all but the gist of it is that the black-eyed-peas are considered a “lowly food” and eating them shows humility - which in turn will be recognized and rewarded by God.The color of the collard greens symbolizes money, and the color of the cornbread symbolizes gold.Hogs represent prosperity, because historically, if you owned a hog, your family would have plenty of food for the winter. Also, because pigs can’t turn their heads to look over their shoulder, they symbolize a “forward looking” nature which is perfect for the start of a new year, and of progress towards one’s goals.Out of curiosity I ask everyone who purchases our jowl how they cook it and how they celebrate the New Year. Everyone seems very happily committed and amused by their family’s interpretation of the tradition.Some make “Hoppin Johns” with black-eyed-peas, greens, rice, and pork.Some use kale, or cabbage instead of collard greens.Some use smoked ham hocks instead of jowl bacon.Some put pennies in the dish - some put a penny under the dish.Some swear the coin must be silver and placed inside the pot – or not.Most use black-eyed-peas, but some substitute red peas, lentils, or cow peas.Some are very committed to the exact number of peas that must be eaten. Too many or too few can bring bad luck – or good luck, depending on who you ask.Anne’s and my own New Year’s Day tradition is much less complicated. We drive to Hammonasset Beach and watch as the sun rises over the ocean. This year standing at the edge of our world, we watched the tide come in and the sun come up. Surrounded by magic, filled with awe, and overwhelmed with gratitude, I tried to count all my blessings. If happiness has a monetary value, I’m as prosperous as anyone I’ve ever known. In this coming year, there isn’t a lot more I would wish for myself but if I thought it would result in a kinder,saner planet, I’d happily eat my body weight in black-eyed-peas. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit clatterridgefarm.substack.com

I always thought my mom’s tradition of putting an orange in the bottom of everyone’s stocking was a waste of perfectly usable stocking space, and I told her so every Christmas. She explained that growing up oranges were a special treat, and as a child, one of the magical joys of Christmas. As a kid I found that hard to believe, but it makes sense to me now. In an era before refrigeration and mass transportation, everyone ate locally. You knew your farmer, and you ate what was in season, and I can certainly imagine how exciting something as exotic as an orange, grown in a faraway place by total strangers would be to a small child. I’ll likely never know the thrill of such “exotic” food, as now everything is shipped everywhere and available any time of year. Probably the closest I could come to that kind of culinary thrill is tasting something that is just absurdly expensive.On one of the first Christmases that I spent away from home, my mom sent me a small package, labeled very clearly “not to be opened until Christmas morning”. I should have known what it was, but it was small enough, and light enough, that I didn’t think about it, I just stuck it in the bottom of my backpack as a friend and I headed out to hike the Kalalau Trail on the Na Pali coast of Kauai.The hike was strenuous but the views and the beach at the end of that hike were absolutely stunning. A mile of pristine sandy beach nestled between the ocean and the cliffs of the Kalalau Valley. The place was completely deserted except for a couple we could see setting up their tent at the far end of the beach.It was a surreal spot for a New Englander to spend Christmas eve. I fell asleep on the beach, under the stars, to the sound of a 300-foot waterfall thundering into the ocean below.I awoke, just before dawn on Christmas morning, when the unnerving sound of waves coming in way too close and way too fast, pierced my consciousness. We quickly moved to the elevated safety of the dunes and waited for sunrise.As the sun came up, we could see that the couple down the beach had not been so lucky. They lost everything to that rogue wave. It had swept them away while they were zipped up and sound asleep inside their tent. They managed to get out of their tent and swim to shore but lost everything they had brought with them. They were completely traumatized, but very happy to be alive.The four of us walked the beach trying to retrieve anything we could find in the roiling surf. We recovered a tent pole, a hiking boot, and a couple random things, but there was actually very little the ocean was willing to give up. At some point we stopped looking, sat down, and with a deep sense of gratitude for just being alive, we wished each other a Merry Christmas...We eventually left the couple there on the beach - shoe-less, and still wearing their wet pajamas- promising to contact the park ranger as soon as we got back to our car, so that a helicopter would be sent in to air lift them out. Before we left, though, I opened the package from my mom. My “Christmas Orange” looked pathetic, alone in that box, with no stocking, wrapping paper, or gifts to keep it company - but split four ways, that orange tasted every bit as exotic, as my mom had always claimed them to be. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit clatterridgefarm.substack.com