The most recent issue of Lonestar Music Magazine is available online. Check out the article I contributed on Javi Garcia as well as the rest of the magazine:
Here.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
Corn harvest 2010
Sabbath eve, August 27, 2010
Corn harvest is near done and the end can’t come soon enough. I am seriously considering not planting corn again as a commercial crop. Like many that have studied sustainable agriculture, I decided to get away from genetically modified grains. So the corn we planted was non-Roundup-ready corn. Not only non-Roundup-ready corn, but also a non-hybrid. The idea was to grow corn from which I could keep back my own seed.
Our fields lie along the banks of two rivers, the San Marcos and the Guadalupe. We had an unusually wet spring and early summer this year, a good thing. Actually, too much of a good thing. Every time we cultivated the field it rained and some of the weeds survived the disruption. After the third pass through the field, we had a single day rain of ten inches and much of our field land was flooded, particularly the 120 acre field bordering the San Marcos. By the time the ground had dried, the corn was too tall to cultivate again.
It’s a common practice to apply atrazine, a pre-emergent herbicide to a field in these parts to reduce weed populations. I did not use any. After the flood, careless weeds, blood weeds, sunflowers, cockle burrs, Johnson grass and tie vines (morning glory) came up amongst the corn. I could have sprayed the whole field with roundup after the corn had matured, but that seems to defeat the purpose of avoiding herbicides.
So, I had a royal fucking mess on my hands when harvest time came. Quentin Holtz, the guy that owns the combine wanted to whip my ass for the first couple of days. By the time we got done on the San Marcos place, I had eight men wielding machetes and one young man riding the combine with Quentin to unstop the header when it clogged. Couple that with temperatures well above the century mark. Despite being mad, Quentin persevered. He doesn’t understand and he won’t be back again if I plant this kind of crop next year.
My right arm and hand is so sore I can barely make a fist and my back hurts to the point that I grimace with each move. I know each and every one of my helpmates is exhausted as well.
For all of this we harvested about 60 bushels to the acre, while most people that grew Monsanto’s best harvested between 120 and 140 bushels to the acre. They didn’t work half as hard as we did. Half hell, one-tenth as hard. Their crop is worth as much or more per bushel than mine in the local market.
There’s a reason farmers use chemicals and genetically modified grains. People want cheap food. Farmers want to make money growing food. Oh, you’ll hear talk about organic this and that or natural this or that. Bottom line: at least 95 out of every 100 dollars worth of food sold in this country is produced by industrial agriculturalists. You cannot grow good wholesome food for those prices. Period. Every goddamned advance in efficiency or productivity over the years has been met with a price cut in the value of the commodity produced.
The hell of it is, I still remain convinced modern industrial agriculture will fail, probably catastrophically. During the first Great Depression, almost half the people in the land lived on a farm or in a rural area. Now farmers make up less than 2% of the population.
In foreign lands, subsistence farmers have also been broken by industrial farming techniques. Mexico, Brazil, Argentina, China, or India. It doesn’t matter. Hand labor can’t compete with fossil fuel powered machinery.
Quentin left a few acres of the field un-harvested. I plan to send men in to pull the ears by hand. Past experience has taught me that if I pay them the value of every grain they can collect, they will earn less than minimum wage. So I will take my loss and smile. Or try to, anyway.
But we will have sacks of corn. And it will be good corn. My horses will eat it. So will my chickens, goats and milk cows. And so will I, good Lord willing.
An old joke goes something like this: A man asks a farmer, “What would you do if you inherit a bunch of money?”
His reply: “I’ll farm until the money is gone.”
Corn harvest is near done and the end can’t come soon enough. I am seriously considering not planting corn again as a commercial crop. Like many that have studied sustainable agriculture, I decided to get away from genetically modified grains. So the corn we planted was non-Roundup-ready corn. Not only non-Roundup-ready corn, but also a non-hybrid. The idea was to grow corn from which I could keep back my own seed.
Our fields lie along the banks of two rivers, the San Marcos and the Guadalupe. We had an unusually wet spring and early summer this year, a good thing. Actually, too much of a good thing. Every time we cultivated the field it rained and some of the weeds survived the disruption. After the third pass through the field, we had a single day rain of ten inches and much of our field land was flooded, particularly the 120 acre field bordering the San Marcos. By the time the ground had dried, the corn was too tall to cultivate again.
It’s a common practice to apply atrazine, a pre-emergent herbicide to a field in these parts to reduce weed populations. I did not use any. After the flood, careless weeds, blood weeds, sunflowers, cockle burrs, Johnson grass and tie vines (morning glory) came up amongst the corn. I could have sprayed the whole field with roundup after the corn had matured, but that seems to defeat the purpose of avoiding herbicides.
So, I had a royal fucking mess on my hands when harvest time came. Quentin Holtz, the guy that owns the combine wanted to whip my ass for the first couple of days. By the time we got done on the San Marcos place, I had eight men wielding machetes and one young man riding the combine with Quentin to unstop the header when it clogged. Couple that with temperatures well above the century mark. Despite being mad, Quentin persevered. He doesn’t understand and he won’t be back again if I plant this kind of crop next year.
My right arm and hand is so sore I can barely make a fist and my back hurts to the point that I grimace with each move. I know each and every one of my helpmates is exhausted as well.
For all of this we harvested about 60 bushels to the acre, while most people that grew Monsanto’s best harvested between 120 and 140 bushels to the acre. They didn’t work half as hard as we did. Half hell, one-tenth as hard. Their crop is worth as much or more per bushel than mine in the local market.
There’s a reason farmers use chemicals and genetically modified grains. People want cheap food. Farmers want to make money growing food. Oh, you’ll hear talk about organic this and that or natural this or that. Bottom line: at least 95 out of every 100 dollars worth of food sold in this country is produced by industrial agriculturalists. You cannot grow good wholesome food for those prices. Period. Every goddamned advance in efficiency or productivity over the years has been met with a price cut in the value of the commodity produced.
The hell of it is, I still remain convinced modern industrial agriculture will fail, probably catastrophically. During the first Great Depression, almost half the people in the land lived on a farm or in a rural area. Now farmers make up less than 2% of the population.
In foreign lands, subsistence farmers have also been broken by industrial farming techniques. Mexico, Brazil, Argentina, China, or India. It doesn’t matter. Hand labor can’t compete with fossil fuel powered machinery.
Quentin left a few acres of the field un-harvested. I plan to send men in to pull the ears by hand. Past experience has taught me that if I pay them the value of every grain they can collect, they will earn less than minimum wage. So I will take my loss and smile. Or try to, anyway.
But we will have sacks of corn. And it will be good corn. My horses will eat it. So will my chickens, goats and milk cows. And so will I, good Lord willing.
An old joke goes something like this: A man asks a farmer, “What would you do if you inherit a bunch of money?”
His reply: “I’ll farm until the money is gone.”
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
A story
A young man living and working illegally in the United States decides that he wants to bring his wife and his seven year old daughter to this country. He learns of a woman that supposedly can get them across, over the bridge and through checkpoints, but the price is high, $3,000 apiece.
The young man’s father lives and works in the United States legally. Unlike his son, the father can come and go across the bridge, legally. So the father goes down to San Luis Potosi on a bus and picks up his daughter in law and his granddaughter. They ride the bus to Nuevo Laredo. When they arrive, he tries to call the woman but can’t reach her on the phone. A man approaches, one of many that seem to be looking for potential pollos.
The father in law tells him he’s waiting on someone that will take his daughter in law and his granddaughter to the US. But he doesn’t know who exactly he is there to meet.
“I’m your man. Come with me,” the man says. The father in law, the young woman and the seven year old girl get in a taxi and go to a house. At the house is another woman and a young boy about 16 years old, also waiting to cross.
“Do you have the money?”
“I was told I didn’t have to pay until they are delivered to the US.”
“No, you must pay me to get them across the river and then pay the woman the rest.”
“How much?”
“Three hundred dollars.”
“I don’t have three hundred dollars.”
“How much do you have?”
“Two hundred in Mexican Pesos.”
“That’s not enough, but if that’s all you have it will have to do.”
“That’s all I have.”
The father in law gives the man the money and is taken to the border where he has to stand in a long line of people waiting to cross on foot. He is told to wait on the other side for his daughter in law and his granddaughter.
The young woman and her daughter are taken to the river by the coyote along with the sixteen year old boy and the other girl. They are told to wade the river, that someone waits for them on the other side. They cross the river and run into a couple of border patrol agents.
“A donde van?” the agents ask.
The sixteen year old boy turns and makes a run for the river. He is shot and killed by one of the border patrolmen.
The two women and the child remain still and are taken into custody.
The young mother and her daughter are immediately deported, but the other young girl is not. Or maybe she is, too. The young mother doesn’t know for sure.
This story takes place three days ago. There is no mention of any death along the banks of the river in the media.
But then why would there be, since this is just a story.
The young man’s father lives and works in the United States legally. Unlike his son, the father can come and go across the bridge, legally. So the father goes down to San Luis Potosi on a bus and picks up his daughter in law and his granddaughter. They ride the bus to Nuevo Laredo. When they arrive, he tries to call the woman but can’t reach her on the phone. A man approaches, one of many that seem to be looking for potential pollos.
The father in law tells him he’s waiting on someone that will take his daughter in law and his granddaughter to the US. But he doesn’t know who exactly he is there to meet.
“I’m your man. Come with me,” the man says. The father in law, the young woman and the seven year old girl get in a taxi and go to a house. At the house is another woman and a young boy about 16 years old, also waiting to cross.
“Do you have the money?”
“I was told I didn’t have to pay until they are delivered to the US.”
“No, you must pay me to get them across the river and then pay the woman the rest.”
“How much?”
“Three hundred dollars.”
“I don’t have three hundred dollars.”
“How much do you have?”
“Two hundred in Mexican Pesos.”
“That’s not enough, but if that’s all you have it will have to do.”
“That’s all I have.”
The father in law gives the man the money and is taken to the border where he has to stand in a long line of people waiting to cross on foot. He is told to wait on the other side for his daughter in law and his granddaughter.
The young woman and her daughter are taken to the river by the coyote along with the sixteen year old boy and the other girl. They are told to wade the river, that someone waits for them on the other side. They cross the river and run into a couple of border patrol agents.
“A donde van?” the agents ask.
The sixteen year old boy turns and makes a run for the river. He is shot and killed by one of the border patrolmen.
The two women and the child remain still and are taken into custody.
The young mother and her daughter are immediately deported, but the other young girl is not. Or maybe she is, too. The young mother doesn’t know for sure.
This story takes place three days ago. There is no mention of any death along the banks of the river in the media.
But then why would there be, since this is just a story.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
Living in hell
Sabbath eve. August 20, 2010.
This week started on a sour note. Monday morning Victor called to tell me he planned to turn out our stallions in order to clean their stalls. We’ve been so busy with hay of late that the horses have gone neglected. Truth is, Victor probably had a hangover and used this as an excuse not to come out to the ranch. Monday afternoon he called to tell me that Racing Rhinocerous, my solid black fifteen year old Thoroughbred stallion was dead. Then he said something like, “I don’t know what happened….”
Well let me tell you what happened, you (expletives deleted)... It was 102 fucking degrees in the shade and about 120 in the direct sun. You put the horse in a pen with no shade and probably no water. Noss died of a heat stroke. Made me want to stake Victor out in the sun for a day. But…
I too bear responsibility for this cruel and senseless act. I pay others to assume my responsibilities, and have not been diligent in ensuring that things get done. Poor Noss has lived in a cage (stall) for a couple of years now and I didn’t take the time to check on him. I relied on someone that has proven himself unreliable.
Do not try to console me for this shortcoming. You nor any other creature on this planet has the authority to forgive my sin. I hope someday when I die, I go where Noss is and that I get the chance to say I am sorry.
Tuesday, I learned that another friend had been hit while riding her bicycle and was in critical condition in an Austin hospital with a shattered arm, a compound fracture to one leg (protruding bone) and a punctured lung. Sarah is an intelligent and pretty young woman, trying to stay in shape by riding her bike. I don’t know exactly how she managed to get run over, but it’s a tragedy, regardless of the circumstance.
My corn crop is past ready to harvest, waiting on the combine, but we’ve had a bumper crop in these parts. Despite a board price of $4.36 a bushel at the moment, local buyers are full and not taking corn. Feedlots might take a load here and there for $3.50 a bushel if you get down and grovel. I was told that all local storage bins are full and some farmers are leaving corn to stand in the fields, to cut and sell to feedlots, as needed.
I grew white corn, non-genetically modified, also non-hybrid, so the seed can be re-planted. It is suitable for human consumption. I made tortillas from it last week and they came out great. Feral hogs are testing my fences daily and have managed to do quite a bit of damage. The corn is dry and fragile and any kind of rough weather could be devastating. Luckily, I found a man that once raised hogs and was forced out of the business with an empty grain storage bin. It needed repairs and a good cleaning, but we’re on the way to getting it fixed up and should start cutting corn Monday, good Lord willing.
The heat continued to hammer on us for the remainder of the week; each day temperatures reached a hundred or more. Pastures are turning brown. I don’t know if we’ve reached the end of this year’s wet spell, but it wouldn’t be a surprise if that turns out to be the case. At least we have plenty of hay stored and possibly feed and food as well. I don’t call a job done until it’s done.
Meanwhile I’m irrigating once again. Preparing a fall garden. Doesn’t seem to make a lot of sense at the moment, but I’ve learned a man better do all he can while he can for the day will come when you can’t.
I think people are beginning to realize that this downturn in the economy has just begun. We are about 3 years into what will turn out to be a 20 year crisis, with no guarantee what survives. But something will survive, and a new day will dawn on this planet.
Of that, I remain relatively certain.
In the meantime, there’s no need to go looking for hell. We’re living in it.
This week started on a sour note. Monday morning Victor called to tell me he planned to turn out our stallions in order to clean their stalls. We’ve been so busy with hay of late that the horses have gone neglected. Truth is, Victor probably had a hangover and used this as an excuse not to come out to the ranch. Monday afternoon he called to tell me that Racing Rhinocerous, my solid black fifteen year old Thoroughbred stallion was dead. Then he said something like, “I don’t know what happened….”
Well let me tell you what happened, you (expletives deleted)... It was 102 fucking degrees in the shade and about 120 in the direct sun. You put the horse in a pen with no shade and probably no water. Noss died of a heat stroke. Made me want to stake Victor out in the sun for a day. But…
I too bear responsibility for this cruel and senseless act. I pay others to assume my responsibilities, and have not been diligent in ensuring that things get done. Poor Noss has lived in a cage (stall) for a couple of years now and I didn’t take the time to check on him. I relied on someone that has proven himself unreliable.
Do not try to console me for this shortcoming. You nor any other creature on this planet has the authority to forgive my sin. I hope someday when I die, I go where Noss is and that I get the chance to say I am sorry.
Tuesday, I learned that another friend had been hit while riding her bicycle and was in critical condition in an Austin hospital with a shattered arm, a compound fracture to one leg (protruding bone) and a punctured lung. Sarah is an intelligent and pretty young woman, trying to stay in shape by riding her bike. I don’t know exactly how she managed to get run over, but it’s a tragedy, regardless of the circumstance.
My corn crop is past ready to harvest, waiting on the combine, but we’ve had a bumper crop in these parts. Despite a board price of $4.36 a bushel at the moment, local buyers are full and not taking corn. Feedlots might take a load here and there for $3.50 a bushel if you get down and grovel. I was told that all local storage bins are full and some farmers are leaving corn to stand in the fields, to cut and sell to feedlots, as needed.
I grew white corn, non-genetically modified, also non-hybrid, so the seed can be re-planted. It is suitable for human consumption. I made tortillas from it last week and they came out great. Feral hogs are testing my fences daily and have managed to do quite a bit of damage. The corn is dry and fragile and any kind of rough weather could be devastating. Luckily, I found a man that once raised hogs and was forced out of the business with an empty grain storage bin. It needed repairs and a good cleaning, but we’re on the way to getting it fixed up and should start cutting corn Monday, good Lord willing.
The heat continued to hammer on us for the remainder of the week; each day temperatures reached a hundred or more. Pastures are turning brown. I don’t know if we’ve reached the end of this year’s wet spell, but it wouldn’t be a surprise if that turns out to be the case. At least we have plenty of hay stored and possibly feed and food as well. I don’t call a job done until it’s done.
Meanwhile I’m irrigating once again. Preparing a fall garden. Doesn’t seem to make a lot of sense at the moment, but I’ve learned a man better do all he can while he can for the day will come when you can’t.
I think people are beginning to realize that this downturn in the economy has just begun. We are about 3 years into what will turn out to be a 20 year crisis, with no guarantee what survives. But something will survive, and a new day will dawn on this planet.
Of that, I remain relatively certain.
In the meantime, there’s no need to go looking for hell. We’re living in it.
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