Making Sense of Amish Country Scents

This has to be the best time of year to get out there for a hike.  Last fall was great, with amazing beauty all its own, and winter was bearable—most of the time—and sometimes downright pretty, but right now, in the month of May, as all the vegetation and trees have returned to life, and the critters are happily munching in the pastures, the walking has become absolutely sensational for the five senses.  Most often, we talk about the beauty of spring colors, or the joyful sounds of birdsong, but today let’s see if our nose knows how to make sense of scents.

Leaving our driveway and heading east on Jericho, I walk past the fragrance of the remaining Lilacs.  They’re pretty much over for the year, and we enjoyed the “heady” aroma that pleases the nostrils with an unmistakable old-fashioned sweetness.  Just past our property a pasture is literally exploding with volunteer wild daisies and tiny, bright-yellow buttercups.  Can’t say that I can smell those meadow flowers, but the drifting scent of mown yards and the fresh horse manure on the road, begins the walk with a sensory mixture that you don’t get in a car.  This is one of the advantages of walking.  You can see everything and enjoy the scent of everything, unless you’re passing by an animal that has expired a few days ago.  In that case, you pick up the pace a little.

As I made my way up Zuercher Road, I began noticing the ever-so-sweet fragrance of wild Phlox.  Patches of it are growing everywhere right now, about two feet tall, and in a variation of colors ranging from white to deep purple.  It’s fun to pause and bury the nose deeply into a cluster, and just breathe it in.  There is amazing beauty there—another of our great Father’s gifts.  You just can’t get that when driving a car down the road at ninety miles an hour—or even at forty.  

Farther up the road we go, where the early crops, like oats, are growing rapidly, and next to the oats, the Amish farmers are finishing the field preparation for planting corn.  Corn is more sensitive to late frosts, so it needs to wait until about now, late May.  One thing I like about the freshly worked-up soil, is that I can smell it.  When there is just a small drift of wind coming off the field, the musky, earthiness in the air is wonderful, and gives hope for future harvest.

Walking around the S curve, and farther up the road, there’s a tree giving off a lot of smelly pollen.  You might think all flowering trees smell great.  No, not so.  Walk around a pollinating Chinese Chestnut sometime.  The chestnuts are delicious to eat, but the pollen smells really bad.  Take my word for it.  The bees love it though.

Soon we go past the woods where the scents are a mixture of leafy trees, moist vegetation, and the pleasantly earthy smell of gently rotting leaves and moist undergrowth.  It smells like a woods.  If you don’t know what a woods smells like, then find one and go for a walk sometime.   Be cautious if there are bears in your area, and wear little bells on your shoes to let them know you’re nearby.  It’s not good to surprise a bear.   Oh, and keep an eye out for bear scat.  That’s how you know they’re around.  And the way you can tell if it’s bear scat—it has little bells in it. :)

Walking on across Western road, I met up with a mixture of scents that came as a package.  This made my olfactory receptors go into a fit of gymnastics until they got it all sorted out.  From the east side of the road, a waft of odor came from the veal barn, and from the west, and much closer to me, the cows, their manure, and the hay and silage they were eating, presented me with the nostalgic blend of dairy farm air.  This I don’t mind.  In fact I learned to enjoy it.  From my earliest memories, and the days in Gallia County, I really like the smell of cows and the food they eat.  And I don’t mind the odor of the byproduct that drops from the south end of northbound cows.

Many years ago, when our children were young, we hosted a “Fresh Air” child for a week.  This is a program where inner city kids can spend a week in the country.  Jamal was about nine years old, and a really nice kid.  We set up the tent and slept outside one night, and all the country night sounds of crickets and katydids sort of did him in.  He couldn't sleep, so we went inside.  I suppose if there had been sirens wailing, he may have slept better.  The one thing he really found distasteful about his week in the country, was something we call “good ol’ fresh country air.”  That happens when the farmers are cleaning the manure out of their barns and spreading it on the fields.  That got to Jamal.  He was pretty dramatic about his dislike of the odor.  When the week ended, we took him back to Cleveland, to an old part of town where the houses were pretty run down, and the air hung heavy with the fumes of factories and auto exhaust.  I mentioned to Jamal that his air didn’t smell very good to me.  He thought  his air smelled just fine.  We laughed about that.  I guess it makes a difference where you grow up, and what you are exposed to.  

Now as I continued walking south, all the country fragrances and odors were jumping around in my nose like happy children turned loose on the playground, when into the mixture, an angelic scent wafted towards me from the large Honey Locust tree that grows beside the road.  It was in full bloom this past week.  Again, I had to stop and bury my nose in the blossoms of a low hanging branch.  This was the icing on the cake.   Really, there is very little on earth that compares to the sweet scent of the honey locust.  And true to it’s name, bees love these blossoms, and produce a light, very sweet and mild honey from these delicate flowers.  It’s hard to find honey that is primarily from the locust tree, but if you can, grab it up and enjoy it.  And bring me a jar of it.

Heading down the hill, I pass Jacob Hershberger’s farm buildings, and there in the pasture by road are three of the prettiest red and white Holstein heifers you will ever see.  I stopped by the gate, and they walked over to me as I draped my hands over the rails.  Sleek and shiny, with big curious eyes, and not at all fearful, they put their wet noses against my hands and gave a lick with their rough, sand-papery tongues.  At the same time, I caught the pleasant aroma of cow breath, which almost always smells sweet and grassy—sometimes resembling the scent of molasses.  

These ladies aren't milking yet, but they will be soon.  It’s obvious they’re pregnant, and their udders are growing.  They will be great milk cows.  I don’t know how Jacob has tamed them so much.  Often, cows don’t become that docile until they’re handled every day with the milking.  But the heifers stood there and let me scratch around their ears, and behind the bump on their heads, and enjoyed it, just like horses and dogs do.   I hope Jacob doesn't mind my fussing over them.   He may be nearby, or in the barn when I pause at the gate; and he may wonder about the “Englishman” talking to his cows, but he can rest assured that no harm will come from me.

On up the road we go, where Enos Hershberger is out spreading cow manure.  It smells kind of nice.  It’s not like the acrid odor of chicken manure, or the effluvium that gets sprayed on the fields from the pits next to veal barns.  The fertilizer value is there in all of it though, helping to make the crops grow.

There were many days during our time on the dairy farms, that we pumped the tank spreaders full of liquid from the manure pit, and hauled it to the fields after harvesting a cutting of hay.  That’s the perfect time to “dress” the fields, and makes the next cutting of hay grow deep green and luscious.  

Speaking of hay, the Amish farmers are just now taking off the first cutting.  The English farmers took some of it off earlier, and put it in silos or bags for haylage or baleage, but the Amish farmers put it up dry and must wait for better drying weather.  It’s that time now, and one can go for a drive in the country—hopefully getting down wind of the field—and breathe in one of the most pleasant scents on the farm.   While he was still living, Dad would often go for a drive in the country this time of year just to smell the hay.  He loved it that much.  He was still that farm boy, and there were two scents he always loved about the farm, and often made remarks about them.  Hay and horses.

I still remember our pony, Silver, and the day we was delivered to us.  This was my first memory of close contact with a member of the equine family.  My brother’s mean horse, Sam, had made himself an object of fear when I was younger, and I wanted nothing to do with him.  But here was Silver, a very gentle pony I could call my own.  Dad led him off the trailer and put his nose against the pony, and said it several times, “I love the way a horse smells—takes me back to my childhood.”  I agree with Dad.  Hay fields and horses—two of the most pleasant scents on earth.  

News from the neighborhood:  

There’s going to be a barn-raising on Zuercher Road next Saturday, weather permitting, between Western Road and State Route 250.  That should be fun to observe.  It won’t be the whole barn, but a portion of the old one is being rebuilt, and turned into a new, larger addition.  The posts and beams are all cut, and this past week a crew has been notching and drilling them in preparation for the mortise and tenon construction.

An Amishman was looking for a bull for his herd, and found one that an Englisher was advertising in the local paper for 100 dollars.

He went to look at the bull and decided to buy him if the Englisher could deliver him.

"Sure will,” says the Englishman, “but it will have to wait until tomorrow.”

The next day the truck pulls up and the Englisher gets out.  

He says, "sorry, bad news, I loaded up the bull before breakfast, and when I came back out to bring him over here, he was dead.”

The Amishman says, “Just give me my money back then”.

"Can't, I spent it already!"

"Well... unload him anyway."

"What ya gonna do with him?"

"Raffle him off!"

"Naw, ya can’t raffle off a dead bull!"

"Just watch me!"

One month goes by and the Amishman and the Englisher run into each other at the hardware store.

"What did ya do with that dead bull?"

"Raffled him off.  Sold 100 tickets at two dollars each and made 98 dollars profit."

"Didn't anyone complain?"

"Only the winner, so I gave him his two dollars back!"

And that wraps it up from the east-side suburbs of tiny Kidron, Ohio.   Hope your week is pleasant.  Let’s count our blessings, and be grateful.  So long.

Amish Mafia and Swiss Cheese

Don’t be fooled by terrible shows like Amish Mafia.  Please don’t waste your time.  There is no Amish Mafia.  Pretty sure you knew that.   It’s all about money, folks.

Quoted from Wikipedia: The series has been controversial both locally and in national media as a result of its alleged bigoted and inaccurate portrayal of the Amish. Churches and Lancaster County residents have banded together in opposing the show. Additionally, former Pennsylvania Governor Tom Corbett called for the show's cancellation, saying it was "bigoted" and "an affront to all people of faith and all secular people with moral principles.

And we’ll leave that right there.

One thing is true though, the Amish are just like other people, and have some of the same problems facing humans in general.  Abuses also happen among them, and too often go unreported because of their desire to remain separate from the world.  But that’s changing too.  Abusers are being reported, and they must face the music just like anyone else.  There is something the Amish do right, and we could learn a lot from them.  That’s what I want to talk about.

The community of Amish around here, particularly the Swartzentrubers, don’t make a big deal about anything.   They just go about life, keeping a low profile, raising large families, doing what needs to be done to keep families together and food on the table.  Farming is the preferred method to achieve this, but large families and dwindling available acreage have diminished the ability for a lot of them to continue farming around here.   For this reason, many have moved to other places and states to find farmland.  Others stay home and figure out other ways to make a living.  

Logging and carpentry, large truck patches (vegetable plots), furniture builders, and numerous cottage industries have sprung up all over.  Amish entrepreneurs abound—anything to bring in some cash for living.

You can go for a drive in the countryside and find any number of primitive signs at the ends of driveways advertising baked goods, eggs, brooms, rugs, canned goods, hand-woven baskets, quilts, comforters, wall-hangings, rabbits, goats, sheep, furniture, maple syrup, sorghum molasses, and very soon now, strawberries and vegetables.  Their prices are good, and the quality is usually excellent.

This sign is between Mt. Eaton and Dalton, on route 94.

There’s a Swartzentruber Amish fellow by the name of Eli G. that sits out at the end of Kidron Rd—right beside Shisler’s Cheese House—nearly every day when the weather permits.  He sells high quality products made by himself and others.  He’s a friendly guy—always a smile and a wave if you’re driving by—and good conversation if you stop.  I did stop, for the first time last Saturday.  I was looking for an item he didn’t have on display.  In the conversation, I learned that Saturday was the fourth anniversary of his first wife’s death.   He said it kind of matter-of-factly between bites of tortilla chips. He must have been thinking about her.

I asked Eli how the sales were going, and he said it had been a little slow for a Saturday.  A couple rugs and some jars of canned beets, but no baskets yet.  He makes the baskets and his present wife makes the wall hangings.  He sells the other items for other people—a good example of how the Amish look out for each other.   What I wanted was a straw hat.  I know I could go to Kidron Town and Country and buy one, but I’d like to have one that was hand-made right here in the community.  Eli looked a little skeptical at my request, but he told me who makes them.  I wondered out loud if he thought they might not want to make a hat for an “Englishman”.   He wasn’t sure.   I will find out.  My hunch is, if a dollar can be made, they’ll do it.  

It’s the barn raisings that really paint the most graphic picture of how the Amish community comes together to help each other.  It was fun to observe the next best thing the other day, when an old barn was given a face-lift.  All the old roofing and siding was torn off, as well as the roof rafters and runners.  Nothing left but the main frame—a skeleton waiting to be rebuilt.  I thought it might happen last Thursday, so I drove by, but there was not a soul in sight. That’s when I remembered that it was Ascension Day.  Forty days after Easter, the Amish pause for a day of remembrance on the day Jesus ascended back into heaven.  It’s like a Sunday for them.

So Friday I drove past the farm again, and took some photos of men crawling all over the barn, rebuilding and reskinning it.  By day’s end, the job was done.  This is what the Amish do right.  Can you imagine tackling a job like that with family and a couple friends.  Or, hiring a crew to do it with a crane?  This is one of the ways they look out for each other, and it’s a beautiful thing.

The project began last winter when the Stutzman family was cutting trees in their woods, and dragging out the logs, lining them up beside the saw mill.  I had no idea what they were logging for, but now I know.  Later this spring the family saw-mill was up and running, and they were cutting many different sizes of lumber.  It’s all there now, under the nice new metal roof.  And at a very minimal cost.  Trees from their woods, and no labor cost.  All mutual aid.  The expense for the job was the new steel.  There will be another project very similar to this at the Jacob H. farm in the near future.  I hope to get some shots of that one too.  

Tonight as I walked, two of Jacob’s teenage boys were running their saw-mill, getting ready for the barn project.  Some new block wall is up, and the barn expansion project is under way.   Teenage son Henry told me how they will be tearing an old part off, and rebuilding larger.  This will be even more like a barn-raising than the Stutzmans last week.

A few days ago I stopped and talked with Jacob for a while.  He was just inside the barn, milking a cow by hand.  His teenage daughter was also milking next to him.  They both sat on tiny stools and had buckets between their legs—and with strong arms and hands, were swiftly milking the cows. Jacob said they’re milking sixteen right now.  Red and white Holsteins. Beautiful cows, with nice udders.  This fellow knows his cows, and he’s got good ones, with really nice body conformation and large udders with good attachment.  I don’t know everything about cows, but learned a little bit during my time on the farms in Southern Ohio, and can recognize a decent cow.  It was a good education, with Jim, Lisa, Matt, and Phil taking time to teach me some of the finer points of dairy husbandry.  I will always love those days—with wonderful memories.  

     These are red and white Holstein heifers, not yet milking, but soon will be.  They are beginning to bag up.

Most of the Amish around here milk their cows by hand, and because of that, and several other factors, the milk cannot be sold as Grade A.  When you pour milk on your cereal, you can be sure it did not come from a Swartzentruber Amish farm.   Laws are what they are for mostly good reasons, but the truth is, there are some Amish that I’d rather buy grade B milk from than some of farms I’ve seen that sell grade A.  The milk is tested though—both grades A and B—for bacteria, antibiotics, somatic cell count, temperature, as well as by sight, and a good sniffing for odor.

Grade B milk ends up in other products like butter and the fantastic cheeses that are made around here.  You may think of Wisconsin when you think of cheese, but in my almost-humble opinion, the best cheese anywhere is made in Holmes County by the Guggisberg Cheese factory a few miles south of here.  There are other excellent cheese factories around here too, but Guggisberg Swiss cheese has been my favorite for a long time.  And the experts agree.  Guggisberg has a long list of awards, and has been Grand Champion in a lot of Ohio competitions, but as of last year, they won the United States Cheese Championship.  Reigning champs, they are!  Great cheese!  And it starts right there in Jacob’s barn.

We’ve taken a little rabbit trail since starting with the Amish non-Mafia, and ending with Championship Swiss Cheese.  It’s all tied up with the Amish though—the good folks who live quiet lives, helping each other, producing fine milk to make great cheese.  For the most part, they are really good people, and I’m happy to have them for neighbors.

And that’s all from the our lovely little home town of Kidron, Ohio, where all the homely men work hard at keeping the kids in line, and keeping Mama happy, because as they say, “when Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.”   So long.  

Groundhogs and Bedtime Prayers

For the last number of weeks I’ve been seeing groundhogs in the field across the creek behind our property, and a few more as I walk along the road through farmland.  A lot of memories are stirred when I see the critters—some things we did to keep them out of the fields on the dairy farm in Southern Ohio—and some childhood memories that were less than pleasant.  It’s interesting how the sighting of a common rodent can trigger a chain of thoughts that go all the way back to bedtime on the farm at Elida, Ohio—the place of my earliest memories, and my first prayer.

Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the Lord my soul to keep,

If I should die before I wake,

I pray the Lord my soul to take.

Painting by Eastman Johnson.

This was my first bedtime prayer.  It must have been taught to me when I was three or four years old.  It was a good habit to begin early in life.  But it scared me.  I was afraid to go to sleep.  The prayer brought up the possibility of dying before morning—something I didn’t want to think about.  What little kid wants to lay his head down on his pillow and worry about dying?  I didn’t want the Lord to take my soul.  Not yet.  I had a lot of living and growing up to do, and besides, I didn’t want to go anywhere without my parents or brothers.  

It was a common child’s bedtime prayer, but I didn’t teach it to my own children for the reason already mentioned.  I only recently learned that there are other versions that are much more comforting—versions that don’t mention death.  A kid shouldn’t have to think about that in their last moments before sleep comes.  

Somewhere along the line, besides the possibility of dying,  I learned there were other things that needed to be feared, and my prayer grew longer.

“Lord, please protect us from lions and tigers and bears.”

Then, as more time passed, I heard about even more.

“And from robbers and kidnappers and murderers.”

And then I learned that I was a sinner.

“And forgive me for all my sins, Amen.”

There was plenty to fear, and it was good to pray about it.  That’s how it is when you’re a child, and you start hearing about all the things out there that can get you hurt or killed, and worse yet, that we’re sinners, and those who continue to sin will be met with a very frightening end.  It really scared me.  A lot.

Sometime early in life, I learned that Jesus was going to come back, and those who had accepted Him as their Saviour would immediately go to be with him—meeting Him in the air—and everyone else would be left behind.  It took a while for this to really sink home, but when it did, the full implications were frightening.  The big issue was sin.  I was probably around the age of seven or eight when I became fully convinced that I was a sinner, and the chances of being left behind loomed ever larger .  I accepted Jesus over and over  and constantly asked Him to forgive me for this and that, and even for things I may have forgotten.  But I knew I would probably forget some sin, and maybe even sin right at the last moment—one second before He came back—and I’d be left behind to starve to death and eventually end up in the place of eternal torment.  It terrified me.   

But then I remembered hearing that Jesus wouldn’t come back when anyone was expecting him.  So I took to expecting him at every moment.   It became an obsession.  As long as I was expecting him, I wouldn’t have to worry that it would happen.  It was a big load for a little boy to carry—this preventing Jesus’ return.  But I believed it.   Really, I did.  So pitiful was my understanding.

Sadly, the childhood fears were private fears.  It wasn’t possible to talk about these things with anyone else.  No one would understand.  Surely all the adults in my world had it all together, and were saints, and could not conceive how one little boy was tormented with sins and thoughts like this.  That’s the thing about us introverts.  We’re born that way, you know, and we live in our heads—and some things we keep to ourselves.  It would be quite a while until these fears mellowed out.  I learned to trust that God was not waiting to pounce on His children, but wanting to walk alongside us, gently reminding us of our failures, and picking us up again when we fell.  No different than a loving parent who is always there for their children—loving them and helping them to grow and mature.  

But there were some other things to worry about.  Night-time was definitely the worst.  We slept upstairs in the old farmhouse.  At the top of the stairs, we’d make a left-hand u-turn, head back the hall, and into the bedroom that four of us shared.  That was the one consolation.  I wasn’t alone. There were two double beds, and each bed held two boys.  Stan and Wes slept in one, and Gene and I in the other.  The arrangement was okay, I guess, except there were issues of crowding, and we knew exactly where the center line in the bed was, and no one had better cross it.  But at the same time, it was nice to have brothers nearby.

Of course, in the tossing and turning of sleep, the line became blurred.  Worse yet, I remember waking up wet on occasion.  When two boys sleep together, and the big wet spot is in the center of the bed, and both boys are wet—who did it!?  I blamed him.  I wasn’t a bed-wetter, at least not that I knew of.

One night I had a terrifying dream.  It was so real, that it altered the arrangement of my grey-matter for the duration of our time in that house.  At the top of the stairs there was a room that belonged to the oldest brother, Dick.   Never mind that he had a room to himself, and the rest of us shared a room—although this did seem strange.  The worst thing was that he kept an angry ground-hog under his bed.  I learned this by accident one night while sound asleep in a world of scarey dreams.  In this dream, I was headed up the stairs to go to bed, and just as I passed Dick’s doorway, a crazed groundhog came charging out from under his bed, prepared to do battle with my bare feet and legs.  It’s large teeth were snapping and clattering, and a vicious growl emanated from its throat as it ran towards me.  It was all so vivid!  And it was one of those dreams where it is impossible to run.  The legs and feet are suddenly so powerless—they might as well be encased in five-gallon buckets of concrete.  I barely escaped the massive rodent.  In the middle of the terror, I woke up panting and sweating,  and discovered that one of my legs was hanging over the edge of the bed.  But now I imagined that the groundhog was under my bed, and even the slightest movement would mean that my dangling foot would be ripped to shreds.

I let my motionless leg hang there until it was unbearable, then in a flash, yanked it under the covers and held my breath.  The groundhog remained in place.  But now I had to pee.

This brought a new element to my predicament.  The house was silent—my brothers all sound asleep—and I lay in terror with bladder nearly bursting.  Desperation calls for desperate measures, and an unthinkable thought crossed my mind—I could wet the bed on my brother’s side, and he would take the blame.   No, I couldn’t do that.  I could wake my brother to go with me, or I could go back to sleep.  I somehow managed to go back to sleep, and morning soon came, and the bladder that had been squeezed by fear, held out.

The angry creature remained under Dick’s bed for another year or two until we moved to a different house.  We parted ways then—the groundhog and I—and I never feared him again.  Nothing left of the imaginary rodent but a memory that can be recaptured in my head at any time—more than fifty years later.

But what about the groundhogs out in the fields right at this moment?  No doubt they’re descendants of rabid, mutant, boy-eating, bedroom dwellers, but right now they’re calmly feasting on fresh, lush alfalfa, looking good—as good as a groundhog can look, that is.   Can’t really say they’re a lovely creature, and I don’t really know what their purpose is, except that some people eat them, and others use the hide for shoe laces and banjo heads.  Not kidding.   

Other than the holes they dig, groundhogs are pretty harmless creatures, and it would be nice to have a peaceful coexistence with them.  However—not wanting to sound malicious here—I have yet to ascertain what good can come from mosquitoes, rattlesnakes,  and groundhogs—unless we go back to that banjo thing. You see, the problem is that for the folks who produce our food, the holes that the groundhogs make are a hazard.  So we need to respect and think kindly of those who must necessarily find ways to deal with them.

Alright then, enough rambling from the Jericho Road suburbs of Kidron, Ohio.  It’s been a busy week for the men and women around here, mowing, gardening, planting flowers, mulching, and sprucing our places up.  The kids are a big help, when they’re not playing ball.  It’s warm outside—just what we were longing for—and there’s an ice cream treat calling my name.  Hope you have a great weekend, and sweet dreams!

Burn Jack

Does the title ring a bell?  Probably not.  To be clear; it wasn’t Jack’s fault, and no one wants to burn him.  I learned the meaning of the words when I was probably five or six years old, and had just discovered the “benefits” of a plant that grows wild in pastures and near streams.  “Burn Jack” is apparently a localized moniker for a plant that the rest of the world knows as stinging nettles.

I was hiking with my brothers and cousin Jim one day, and wearing shorts.  Normally shorts weren't allowed for conservative Mennonite children, accept by the very young, and I guess I hadn't crossed the line into puberty yet.  Suddenly, my legs were burning!   My tender young skin felt like it was on fire, and I ran to the house, bawling my eyeballs out.  

Cousin Jim in the striped shirt, brother Gene in the bibs, and me in the middle.

Mom took one look at my legs, and asked where I had been.

I told her through the tears.

“You must have walked through ‘burn jack’,” she said.  

I didn’t know what it was, so she explained.  She also said that it was going to burn for a while.  I don’t recall that she had any remedy for it.  That was a lesson in horticulture, and I learned to avoid the plant with the hairy, jagged leaves.  But it does seem that every child needs to learn that one the hard way.  I’ve pointed it out many times to children, but until the day it is experienced, the lesson doesn't really soak in.

We often go to the pasture to pick tea.  Two varieties of wild mint grows there,  and to a child’s eyes, mint tea leaves and nettle leaves have a similar appearance.  Unfortunately, they grow in the same places.  It just takes a time or two to learn the difference.

Nettles on the right, mint tea on the left.

Last summer—after all these years—I learned that nettles are edible.  They can be used as a survival food, and are quite nutritious.  I learned how one can carefully pick the leaves and roll them tight before chewing them.  When carefully chewed and crushed with the teeth, they lose their sting.  I tried it.  It was true.  I did feel a tiny scratchiness in my throat, but was satisfied that if I would need to eat nettles to survive, I could do it.  And that was it.  Until last week.

I was returning from a four-mile jaunt on Zuercher Road, and in the distance, saw three “English” people out in the middle of the pasture across from Amish Jacob Hershberger’s farm.  Earlier, I had spoken with Henry, Jacob’s son, as he was walking along the road to the saw mill to retrieve a jack that he needed for grinding feed with the diesel engine.  A good kid—probably about sixteen years old—and a hard working young man.  Last winter I snuck some pictures of him and Jacob pulling logs out of the woods with a team of horses.

So as I headed back up the road towards their farm, and saw the people stooped over picking something, my curiosity was piqued.  Were they picking tea?  Maybe looking for sponge mushrooms?  Nah, not likely mushrooms out the the middle of the sunny pasture.  Must be tea.  I had to find out.

They kept glancing up at me as I crossed the pasture and approached them.  Sure enough, they were in the middle of a large patch of tea.   I bent over and reached for some leaves, and at the same time realized this wasn’t tea.

“That’s nettles!” I exclaimed.  

They laughed.  “Yes, nettles,” they said.

This was the first time I had seen anyone picking nettles, so I had questions.

“Do you eat them?”

“Yes, and make tea.”

They went on, “It’s good for arthritis.”

“Really!”

“Yes, back in our home country of Romania, the old people will strip down to their underwear and roll in it.  They break out in a red rash all over, but they say it makes their arthritis feel better.”

Wow! That seemed like overkill to me, but then, I am not plagued with arthritis pain yet.  

I love hearing about folk remedies like this, but I’m also wary of old wives tales, and need to check them out.  After arriving home, I went straight to Google.  Sure enough!  Studies have proven the many medicinal values of the plant.  It has a long history of treating a wide variety of ailments.

Yep, I thought, as doubt crept in, another one of those snake-oil cure-alls.  Take a look at the following paragraph that describes the many curative qualities.

“Stinging nettle is an astringent, diuretic, tonic, anodyne, pectoral, rubefacient, styptic, anthelmintic, nutritive, alterative, hematic, anti-rheumatic, anti-allergenic, anti-lithic/lithotriptic, haemostatic, stimulant, decongestant, herpetic, febrifuge, kidney depurative/nephritic, galactagogue, hypoglycemic, expectorant, antispasmodic, and anti-histamine.”

That’s a mouthful!  I suppose one would have to know how to use it to receive all those benefits.  But this much is widely accepted:

1. Nettles offer excellent nutrition, with lots of protein, iron, magnesium, and many vitamins.  Boil for at least 30 seconds to remove the sting of the plant.  Recipes for using nettles are readily available on the internet.
2. Studies have shown the value of nettles for treating the pain of inflammation and arthritis.  Again, quite a bit of information available on the internet.
3. What I had discovered as a child, is done intentionally, and it has a name.  Urtification.  

Because of the many years of considering this plant a nuisance weed, it’s a little difficult to adjust my thinking.  But my goodness—if the value is there for nutrition and pain relief, it would be worth a try.  I know what’s going to be on the menu soon.

When I returned home from work on Monday, I headed out to the pasture with a glove on my hand, and cut a nice amount of nettles.  Brought it to the house, washed it, and steamed it.  (We’ve been steaming veggies for the past year or so, and they’re much better than cooked.)  There were some left over mashed potatoes in the fridge, so I heated those too, mixed them together with the nettles,  and topped it with a good portion of shredded cheddar.  Delicious!  Tasted a lot like spinach.

My second meal of nettles, with Mac-n-cheese.

My brother Wes—likely the one who led me through the nettles when I was a child—was visiting from Virginia this week.  He spent his career as a family doctor, and achieved a reputation for being a really good one.   He’s retired now, but I’ve always liked bouncing ideas off him.  I told him what I was learning about nettles, and he smiled.  I knew what he was thinking.  Here we go again, another old wives tale.  But he agreed that using nettles as a topical treatment on arthritic joints might have the same pain-relief capabilities as an over-the-counter product called Capsaicin.  Thankfully, Wes is still able to speak in layman’s terms, and his explanation was that Capsaicin “fools the nerves”—giving temporary relief from the pain of arthritis.  

Now if only nettles could be used for balding heads and hearing loss.  

*If you really want to know the long version of “fooling the nerves”, read the paragraph at the bottom of this story.

It sure is fun to learn, and once again the benefits of walking have extended beyond exercise.  The unexpected happens out there.  Give it a try some time, and keep your eyes wide open.   

From the land of blessings and surprises, Kidron, Ohio, where the homely-but-hopeful men are burning the candle at both ends; the lovely women are doing their best to balance jobs, flower-beds, laundry, and meals; and the energetic children are learning how to mow the lawn and work in the garden.  Have a wonderful day!

* * *

*Capsaicin relieves pain by depleting your nerves’ supply of substance P, the “bad pain” neurotransmitter. Physicians classify pain as “good pain” or “bad pain”. Although you might find it hard to admit that any pain could be “good,” in fact, the short-term (acute) pain that you feel when you accidentally rest your fingers on a hot stove instructs you to jerk your hand away before it is burnt to a crisp, so it is good. “Bad pain” is long-term (chronic) pain, and is mediated by a different neurotransmitter than the one that signals good pain. Nerves that send good pain signals are fast, but nerves that send bad pain signals are slow, and they generate chronic, long-term pain. The bad pain neurotransmitter is called substance P (the “P”, of course, stands for pain). Capsaicin causes your bad pain nerves to deliver off their substance P to other pain nerves up leading to the brain in a big way. The bad pain nerves lose so much substance P all at once that they are depleted of this molecule, and are unable to release any more. Initially pain is felt, but after the substance P supply is dumped, the nerves are no longer able to send a pain signal to the brain, because they are all out of substance P, and don’t have time to make any more.

Jersey Calves

Now that the pastures are green and lush, the Amish neighbor’s cows have been turned out to graze.   Their horses spent a lot of the winter out there, pawing around in the snow, getting exercise and toughing it out.  They had a shed for shelter if they wanted it, and were also fed hay, but for the most part, they roamed around the large pasture, experiencing all that winter had to offer.

The cows were sequestered in the barn where they could munch on hay and silage, stay warmer, and produce milk.  It wouldn’t be good for their milk handles to freeze, so they need to be protected inside a building.  It’s amazing to walk into a barn full of cows on a cold winter day, and feel the difference in temperature.  They really do put off some heat.  Enterprising cats  will often seek out a cooperative cow to sleep on.

It’s a pleasant sight to see the cows—blacks, browns, black and whites, and some cross-breds—all looking happy for freedom and fresh grass.  Bright brown eyes watch me curiously from both sides of the road as I  stride up the Zuercher Road hill.   I talk to them.  Why wouldn’t I?  I’ve been talking to animals for a long time—as long as I can remember—sometimes in English, sometimes in the language of the critter.  It’s okay.  I’m pretty sure others do this too.  

This is the time of year that my father-in-law used to love going for a drive.  He was a farm boy, raised on the south end of Kidron, growing up on a tractor and helping to milk a herd of Holsteins.  It was in his blood.  He seemed to enjoy nothing more than driving through Holmes County, viewing herds of clean black and white cows grazing on the green hillsides.  Juanita and I used to go with my mother and father-in-law sometimes on Sunday afternoons.  He would ask me to drive so he could look at the scenery.  Even if I had cars on my tail and they couldn’t pass, my pappy-in-law would ask me to slow down, so he could revel in the beauty of the scenery.

I had never really thought about how cows on a hillside could be beautiful, until he called attention to it.  We see it so often, and take it for granted—this pastoral beauty that is just waiting for us to pause and notice.  It’s refreshing to take a little time to appreciate this view of creation, to re-acknowledge that we are here temporarily, and it is God who “owns the cattle on a thousand hills”— and long after we’re gone, there will still be cows out there peacefully grazing on the green juicy grass of spring.

My earliest memories include Jersey cows.  Dad and Mom bought the small farm north of Elida when I was “in the oven.”  It was a “lock, stock, and barrel” purchase, that came with equipment and animals, including a Jersey cow for milk.  This was a dream come true for Dad.  Here, he could raise his boys and give them the pleasures of farm life.  I am forever grateful.  I think we all are.

Of all calves, there is none more winsome than a Jersey.  The small size, the large brown “doe” eyes, the trusting temperament, the natural curiosity—this is beauty on the farm.  And the nice thing is; there will be another new born calf every year in order for the cow to give milk.   Cows are no different than any other mammal.  They have a baby, and their bodies produce milk to feed the baby.  A cow produces a lot more milk than they need for the calf, and we can enjoy the many products.  Butter, yogurt, cottage cheese, cheese, and ice-cream, to name a few of our favorites.  

After our years on dairy farms in Gallia County, Ohio, we returned to Wayne County with a desire to keep on farming.  We were soon blessed to have the opportunity to purchase a mini-farm where we raised quite a few different species of critters.   We talked about that last week when we wrote about goats.  But we didn’t limit ourselves to goats.  Seems like we needed to try it all.  

We didn’t have them all at the same time, but through the course of several years we raised chickens, turkeys, horses, donkeys, and one accidental mule.  We thought the horse was never in contact with the donkey jack, but a little black mule proved us wrong.  

Now the mule is an interesting animal.  I’d take her for long walks back through the fields, through creeks and ravines, over and under fallen trees—there just wasn’t anywhere that the mule wouldn’t follow.  It was fun until the day I took her mama out of the pasture, leaving her penned in, and it made her angry.  She hauled off and high-kicked the gate, narrowly missing daughter Angie.  That was it.  I loved the little mule, but I love my children more.  So she was sold.  The mule, that is.  

We soon added Jersey calves to the mix.   After the years of learning to love bovine creatures in southern Ohio, it was a natural step.   And besides that, we wanted to raise our own meat.

Some Jerseys are spotted.  This one came from a registered herd.

Some would question the wisdom of raising a Jersey to eat.  It is true that they are slow-growing, and don’t pack on the pounds like a beef steer.

However, the cost per pound of meat in the freezer is quite low.  Back then, the price of a three-day-old Jersey bull calf straight from the farm was ten dollars.  It didn’t cost much to bottle feed them until weaning, and then they could go out on pasture for the summer with a very small amount of grain each day.   I’d buy them in early spring, and by late October, when the pasture was pretty much done for the year, I’d send them to the butchering shop.  In some ways, it was a sad day, except that the excellent tender young beef soon made us glad that we did it.  

In the meantime, we enjoyed the animals, and they became nearly like pets in the first few weeks while bottle feeding.  Once they’re turned out to pasture, they don’t get much attention, and they soon lose the baby cuteness.  That’s fine.  Helps to not miss them as much once they’re gone.

By the time fall rolls around, the calves average weight is around five-hundred pounds.  About forty percent of that weight will come back to us as meat to feed our hungry children.  The bonus for butchering them at this small size, was that we didn’t have to feed them hay and grain all winter.  There would be more meat if we raised them longer, but there would also be additional cost and labor for each pound.   For us, this was the lowest cost meat possible.  The price per pound was much less than store-bought.  And we know where it came from.  And we are thankful that we can participate in this cycle of life.

They say you should never name an animal that’s destined for the dinner table.  Okay, that’s fine for some people, but we choose to name them.  Perhaps it is nothing more than an indication of warped humor, but we like to give the calves names that reflect the purpose for which we raise them.  It helps us keep perspective on why we are doing this.  Table fare.  We’ve had calves named Sir-Loin, T-Bone, Chuck, Hot Dog, and a few others that I’ve forgotten.  

Nearly all bull calves are destined to become meat.  For those who look at the pictures of a beautiful, brown-eyed, innocent calf, and just can’t imagine the day when it graces the table, I understand.   We need to be careful not to judge one another.  Some people will never eat meat, and others will eat it every day with thanksgiving.  This is life.  We should all be grateful that we have food.  

From Kidron, Ohio, where the sturdy men are busy working in the yards and fields; the patient women are looking healthy and happy working in the flower beds; and the energetic children are tearing it up on the ball field.

Go for a drive in the country if you’re able.  Appreciate the beauty of the season.  Be thankful.