The halfway homestead
FOR SEVERAL YEARS, since we were first married, Kathy and I have planned a future in which we would buy more land where we could have big gardens, livestock, pasture, barns, a workshop, and a bigger house. At one time, we thought we would be there by now, but we are still working on it. For the time being, we have a house that is small but nice enough and an acre and a half of land, most of which is wooded, in a suburban neighborhood.
As we've progressed from a two-bedroom apartment to a tiny rented house
to our present home, we've picked up homesteading skills. Kathy has expanded
the garden year by year, growing small quantities of a large variety of
crops, learning to grow them better, discovering what she enjoys and is
good at growing. Now we have three good-sized raised beds, two small plots
in the process of being sheet-composted, a pair of potato bins, and a
pile of logs we hope will grow shitake mushrooms. I call it the experimental
garden. She has the lettuce, greens, herbs, beans, and peppers down; this
year she's trying to expand her mastery of tomatoes.
When I was still in college, I made apple
butter for my friends for Christmas presents, mostly, I guess, to see
if I could. My girlfriend thought I was nuts: nobody makes their own
apple butter, she told me, so I dumped her, went to graduate school
and met Kathy. Each year I added varieties to the rotation, and now I
make all of the jam, jelly, marmalade, pickles, catsup, and sauerkraut
that we eat, and also can fruits for winter pies. (You can see a photo
of the fully-stocked cabinet I built to hold this bounty.)
My woodworking
began by accident. Before Kathy and I were married, her roommate moved
out and took their coffee table, and she needed to buy a new one. We were
disgusted with the quality of the tables we found in her price range,
and I remarked that I could build one better than that! So I did, after
re-inventing the dado and dowel joints and swearing in many (I'm sure)
fascinating ways at my countless mistakes. For a first effort with cheap
tools it wasn't bad, but with better tools, more shop space, and a lot
of practice I've gotten much better. I've now built much of the furniture
in our house, including a set of cherry side and coffee tables to replace
my first effort.
We have a few other homesteader's habits,
too: brewing beer, knitting, making curtains. We cook everything from
scratch; this has become a matter of principle now. I don't think either
of us ever wants to produce all our own food, but it is interesting,
and rewarding, to add one activity at a time.
But there are limits to what we can do in a backyard, and as the "homestead"
kept getting pushed further into the future, we started growing frustrated.
The problem with dreams deferred is that they can quietly become dreams
forgotten: you have to keep moving toward what you want, even if by baby
steps. And I felt that we were stalled.
Then, a year ago, in a fit of mild insanity,
we got a flock of seven ducks. They live under our second-story deck at
night and in a portable grazing pen during the day, and they lay eggs
for us. We simply decided that we were tired of waiting for our homestead,
and that there was no reason we couldn't have at least a halfway
homestead while we waited.
It was as if a dam burst. Now we've refinanced
our house and committed to staying here at least another five years, while
we save money and decide what exactly we want. We're going to clear about
2500 square feet of woods by the street and use the space for more gardens
and a second shed so I can have a dedicated woodshop. Kathy is working
hard at growing mushrooms; if she succeeds, we'll be eating little else
this fall but mushroom omelets. We still don't have room for llamas, so
it isn't a permanent solution. We'll keep working on that. In the meantime,
we'll have our halfway homestead.
After all, every homestead is a halfway homestead. No real homestead
ever quite lives up to the dream; life is a compromise between ideal and
necessity. We can never be or do everything we'd like — but
that fact doesn't absolve us of the responsibility to try. So we try,
every day, and we move forward by baby steps. And ten years, twenty years,
a lifetime of baby steps adds up.
Too many of us who want change in the world
envision the world we'd like to live in but never figure out how to get
there from here. It is daunting to think about a divide so great, so I
advise trying not to think about it. Keep the end in mind, but focus on
the small things you can do rather than the big things you can't.
And so the halfway homestead is our answer to
the question What can we do right here, right now? It's about
putting down roots where we are, rather than holding back until we're
where we think we'd like to be. It's about taking the scenic route, enjoying
the ride, and holding open the possibility that we might find a better
destination than the one we had in mind.
If you want to read a bit about our "adventures in suburban agriculture," browse the links at left. Take a moment to meet the locals. And be sure to read about our success with raising ducks in a suburban backyard. I am fairly certain that if two historians with no farming experience can successfully raise ducklings to adulthood and produce the world's best eggs, anybody can.
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