When I was a kid, the farmer up the street raised a serious question about cows’ diets.
My daughter—my youngest child—headed off to Argentina this morning. She’s a sophomore in college and will spend what’s left of her Christmas break hiking with friends in Patagonia.
About nine years ago, that same daughter, age 11, was gamely trying to keep her magazine in business. “Business” might be an overstatement.
In May of 2006, my daughter started Phoolish magazine. At first she had some enthusiastic contributors, and she pressed friends and family to participate. I wrote a few articles and was quickly seduced by the overwhelming crush of rabid fans. Letters poured in, and I wrote more and more—some under my own name, and some under a pen name…
Phoolish died when my daughter grew tired of chasing authors. When people promised material but failed to deliver, the hassle completely offset the glamour of editing, doing the layout, and delivering the printed copies. I was sad to see the magazine go, but I understand my daughter’s frustration.
Phoolish encouraged silliness, and I enjoy looking at the things I wrote for it back then. Here’s a piece from Janaury of 2007:
On the farm
I was about 12 years old when my parents bought a weekend farm. We spent nearly every Saturday and Sunday there clearing brush, building fences, and doctoring up the old barn and milk house.
We quickly got to know the man up the road: A farmer who also worked as a janitor to make ends meet. He was a friendly man who generously used his tractor to plow our garden plot so we didn’t need to turn soil with a shovel.
He offered suggestions for improving our pastures. We helped him do jobs that demanded large farming devices. Sometimes we worked with him to harvest hay or oats, or to load a harvest into his loft or ours. With our neighbor, we picked rocks from the pasture, harvested bumblebee honey, bagged oats, and stacked hay bales.
If you’re a cow and there are bugs on your food, what are you going to do about it?
I learned much about so many things during days at the farm. I’m sure the activities I enjoy today and the choices I make are strongly influenced by those experiences. And, while I’ve many stories to tell about those days, one in particular stands apart from the others:
We had just completed a job—putting up oats, perhaps—and were strolling casually near our barn when our farmer neighbor asked thoughtfully: “Do you ever wonder how many bugs a cow eats?” Admittedly, I never had. However, many times in the thirty three or more years since, I have found myself musing on exactly that.
Small Kitchen Garden – Farmer and a Cow