Only the Beginning


We killed two beef this morning. I just returned from burying the cast-off bits of in the compost pile and I smell of that particular wet gut smell of just-slaughtered bovine. Did you know that every just-slaughtered animal has its own smell? It’s true. I’ve noticed that pigs and beef smell a little sweet, though a different sort of sweet from one another. I think I like the beef-sweet smell better.

I can confirm that we did not “harvest” these animals; we killed them. I know because I saw them both go down; it was my finger on the trigger that released the hammer that ignited the powder that drove the .410 slug into the brain of the second animal we killed this morning. It is popular these days to talk about harvesting animals, and I can sort of understand why, but from the perspective of someone who just looked a trusting animal in the eye and dropped her to the ground with no more physical effort than it takes to pick his nose, I’m not buying it. She probably thought I was coming in to scratch her on the back of the knob where her horns would’ve grown if she’d grown horns, which is understandable, since I’ve done that at least once a day for the past two years. I liked that girl. Sometimes I stood with her for a few minutes, just scratching and looking out across our land and feeling like maybe I know my place in the world.

What I’m saying is, you harvest a potato. You kill an animal.

Down below the house, Penny and Rye are fleshing the silky hide from the cow I shot. She’s a Highland /Jersey cross and there is talk of huaraches and who knows what else. The heads, having been cleaved in half to extract the brains for tanning, went into buckets with holes drilled in them to allow in the ingress and egress of flies, which will lay millions of eggs on the rotting flesh. Our chickens will eat the resulting maggots. We will eat the chickens. If it’s true that you are not merely what you eat, but what you eat eats, then we will eat maggots. I find that perversely pleasing, sort of like when I was driving over to our friend Lucian’s a week or so ago with a couple of pig heads in a bag so he could make head cheese. I kept thinking of the opening scene in the movie Repo Man, where the old dude gets pulled over and the cop wants to look in the trunk. “Oh, you don’t want to look in there,” he tells the cop, which of course only makes the cop want to look all the more. I imagined getting pulled over and the cop asking me what was in the bag. I actually passed a cop just before I got to Lucian’s house. I tried to look like the sort of guy who might be driving around with something suspicious in the back of his Subaru, but he didn’t even look my way.

I believe this is the way it should work. Things should become other things and in the process they should not decrease, but increase. The cow I shot was a nurse cow to her calf and Apple’s. She provided milk to feed our pigs. She gave us shit to grow our beans. Her meat will give us the fuel to chop our wood and bake our bread and argue and love one another. Her hide will protect my children’s feet. The maggots that grow on the hollowed-out remnants of her head will make eggs and chickens we will cut up and fry in the lard that came from the pigs we raised on her milk. The calves she nursed will be next season’s beef and the whole damn thing will happen all over again. The trust. The trigger. The wet-gut, beef-sweet smell. The maggots. The lard. The chickens. The calves. The compost.

What I’m saying is, you kill an animal. But that is only the beginning.


Oh, Dang: A Story


I needed a part for the tractor. One of the many small linkage pieces that comprise the three-point hitch, which is the mechanism at the rear of the machine that allows for the operation of numerous implements, had come loose and tumbled unnoticed into the forest duff. I’d searched for longer than was strictly rational; after all, it was a $20 part at best and the spot I’d been working was down on the furthest corner of our land, accessed via nearly a half-mile of tractor road. I walked the half-mile down and back again and down once more, before abandoning my quest and striking out in search of chanterelles, which I knew were popping because the day before the boys had come home with their pockets full. We fried them in fresh butter and ate them with even fresher eggs. Damn.

Not long ago, if I needed a tractor part, I went to Rowell Brothers, the tractor and farm equipment repair business on the outskirts of Hardwick. I always liked going to Rowell Brothers; it was cluttered and confusing and generally unkempt, and smelled of grease and rubber and cleaning solvents. The man behind the counter was named Morris Rowell and I’m not sure how old he was, but certainly older than 70. Maybe older than 80. If Morris didn’t have the part I needed, he’d write it down on a scrap of paper and promise to order it and when I’d call a week later to see if it’d come in, he’d say “oh, dang, I forgot” and then he’d order it. After a while, I learned not to wait a week before my first call. That speeded up the whole process considerably.

There was a two bay garage attached to the parts room and anyone could walk freely into the garage to ask a question of Chris or Fred, the mechanics. There was no “employees only” sign; I doubt Morris gave much thought to liability, though he probably should have, given the profusion of things heavy, jagged, and precarious. These things were invariably as old as me or older; Chris and Fred did not think much of newer machines, though to be fair, the owners of newer machines probably didn’t think much of the minor chaos that prevailed in the garage at Rowell’s.

Rowell Brothers closed last year. Morris spent some time trying to find a buyer but no one stepped forward. It was one of the few times I wished to be wealthy, because I would have loved to buy the place. I wouldn’t have actually wanted to run it, but since I was wealthy, I could’ve just hired someone. Hell, maybe Morris would’ve stayed on for the right deal. Maybe then when I needed a part I could still stop by Rowell’s and Morris would either extract the part from where it was buried under a pile of entirely unrelated parts where no one but Morris could find it, or write it down and then forget to order it and in a few days I’d call to see if it’d come in. “Oh, dang,” he’d say, and then I’d know my part was really on its way.

As it was, I got my part at Tractor Supply, which is sort of like the WalMart of farm and garden supply stores. I’m not sure how many Tractor Supply stores there are across the country, but I think quite a few. I know of three within a one-hour radius of our place, though I’d never really needed to visit one before. Indeed, this was my first visit to a Tractor Supply. I found the part I needed quickly, with no assistance from any of the clerks. It gleamed in a well-lit bin and was cheaper than I’d thought it might be, and I briefly considered buying two, so I’d have a replacement if I lost another. But then I had the irrational notion that maybe I’ll find the original after all and thus have no need for a back up (this has not yet transpired). I checked out and emerged back into the sunlit afternoon. During the entire transaction, I’d spoken only three words: “Cash” and “Thank you.” I suppose I could’ve talked more but to be honest, I just wanted to get out of there. It was making me sad. And it smelled funny. No bad. Just… funny.

People often ask me about what’s happened in Hardwick since my first book was published, if the local food movement (or whatever you want to call it) is still gaining momentum. And I have to say that to be honest, I sort of stopped paying attention a while ago. I mean, I know that new food-based businesses have popped up over the past few years and I’ve heard they’re thriving and I’m glad for them.

You’d think that with all the food and ag-related activity in the area, Rowell Brothers could have thrived. And maybe its demise – or at least a piece of it – was by its own hand. After all, I know I wasn’t the only one who had to call Morris to remind him to order the parts he’d promised. Jimmy and I joked about it more than once.

But I also wonder if there was an inherent mismatch between Rowell’s and the shiny new 21st century local food movement, with all its entrepreneurial ambition. That sort of ambition can’t afford to wait for Morris to remember to order parts. That sort of ambition can’t really afford to run the aging, breakdown-prone machinery that needs those parts in the first place. It doesn’t need the encyclopedia of arcane knowledge contained in the heads of Morris and his mechanics. Because for everything Morris forgot, he knew 100 things more.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. Maybe Rowell Brother’s was just another business whose time had come and gone, like so many before it. The world will keep spinning. The parts we need to keep our tractor and implements running will keep being made and I’ll still be able to find them in those well-lit bins at Tractor Supply or at the dealer, where I’ll pay twice as much for the same damn thing. That was the other thing about Rowell’s: The prices were real good.

The funny thing is, I actually drove by Rowell’s on my way to Tractor Supply. Someone’s making chairs there, now. They look pretty nice.