The First Rule of Farming

In 1973 my wife and I were seduced by the romantic notion of living off the land. We were two city kids who had no experience with anything even remotely agricultural, yet held the unsubstantiated belief we would be successful. We had to venture about 200 miles northeast of New York City before we found something we could afford. At one time it had been a dairy farm and the original white farmhouse and classic red barn with white trim were in decent shape. Most of the land had been sold off, but it still had five acres of overgrown pasture surrounded by twenty acres of forest.

Our goal was to start a preschool/kindergarten in one section of the farmhouse to provide some income, and learn how to be self-sufficient. We were armed with the Mother Earth News, the iconic DIY digest that explained in simple (and groovy!) terms how to provide for oneself without destroying the planet. The forest gave us firewood (my wife and I had our own chainsaws!), a sty housed a pig (or two!). Some stalls in the barn became the henhouse for a couple dozen layers. We cleared a section of the pasture and turned it into a garden, left the the rest to feed a milk cow (Sexy Sadie!) who could give us a calf a year for meat in addition to milk.

Our friends from the city visited regularly, coining the name “Far Out Farm” because all the animals mixed and mingled peacefully and paid little attention to the humans. Except for Brewster the Rooster. Brewster was protective of his harem, and not above charging noisily at visitors when we came to get the eggs. There was something special about reaching into the nesting boxes and pulling out warm eggs for breakfast so most of our friends were willing to challenge Brewster. One couple never would, until they were teased so much they had to give it a go. They timidly followed close to me, Brewster sensed their fear and made himself big, crowed as loud as he could, and charged at us. I casually gave him a swift drop-kick that sent him flying against the barn wall, he dropped to the floor, shook it off, and wobbled to the corner. My friends were aghast and looked at me like I was a monster.

“First rule of farming,” I said calmly. “Don’t take shit from a chicken.