The Pine Dream

Inevitably, whether it is a friend asking or a potential employer running down a list of interview questions, people want to know if I’m going to start my own farm. The answer I give is always the same, though I hope it doesn’t sound rehearsed. Starting a farm from scratch requires a lot of work, a lot of start up capital and, while I have no doubt that I could do the animal raising, I would need a partner to do the meat selling (I like pigs way more than I like 99% of the population.) That being said, I have a lot of time to think while I’m doing the animal raising, and I’ve put together a pretty detailed image of the farm I’m not going to start.

The land: Fifty or more acres in the North-Eastern U.S. I have family ties to the area, love the landscape, adore four distinct seasons, and find that some of the better venues to sell high-quality meat and eggs are in that part of the world. As for the size of the property, to move animals regularly, allowing them fresh, clean stomping grounds, you need a lot of acres. I haven’t worked out a square footage per animal number, and don’t intend to. Animals use up land at different rates, depending on a multitude of factors, but I don’t think I would be comfortable working on less land. As to the character of the landscape, a healthy mix of open pasture and tree cover, with some form of groundwater available on site. Wells are fine for supplying the lions share of a farms needs, but some springs or a stream allow the animals to self-water and make it easier to create wallows (of course I’m going to raise pigs, in case that was in question.) To get into even more detail (this is my ideal after all,) I would prefer the tree cover to be mostly pine stands. Pine needles make an excellent bedding material and, if dense enough, block out most precipitation. Trunks and needles provide cover from wind or cold and before you know it, you have a year round shelter for some very happy oinkers. Of course, farrowing is a different story, but I’ll get to that in a little bit. Finally, I’ve read that pine needles have a (very mild) antiseptic quality to them, helping keep pigs clean and free from discomfort. I have no idea if they deter pests or not, but I’m not done with my research.

The barns: Agri-tourism is a passion of mine. Bringing people onto a farm to enjoy the animals makes sense. Charging them money to stay in a scenic location that is also being used to raise animals, well, that makes even more sense. While I haven’t done all the research on feasibility, I feel it would be possible to build a two story structure, such that the lower floor would open out into the fields and shelter the animals (farrowing mothers, pregnant mothers and piglets that were too young to be on open pasture.) Built into a gentle slope or a hillside, the second story would appear as ground level on the opposite side, allowing road access and a welcoming, cleaner approach for the visitors/clients. A two-bedroom apartment, water piped in from below, natural heating from the animals below, and a broad porch on the field side, allowing the occupants to sip coffee and stare down at frolicking piglets, while masking the comings and goings of the farmer. One barn-partment would be built at first, allowing a farmer to stay on site when occupants weren’t scheduled, and, hopefully, providing a way for money to be generated long before the first hog went to slaughter. Pending success, and the growth of the herd, additional barn-partments could go up as needed.

The hogs: I enjoy working with rare heritage breeds (though my new job is just heritage breeds, so maybe I will be less of a snob in the future,) and found my personal favorite to be a cross between a Gloucestershire Old Spot and a Tamworth. The Old Spot is a fatter, slower pig, the Tamworth a leaner, sneakier pig. The combination yields several desirable (in my eyes, and again, they are the only eyes that matter to this plan) qualities. The body is long like a Tam, but puts on fat better, giving a better yield and reaching a kill weight a little faster. The devious side of the Tamworth is tempered by the Old Spot, making for a pig that is easier to work with, and friendlier, without going all the way to they lazy stubbornness that characterizes most true Old Spots. The look is, well, perfect: a golden haired pig, with dark spots, semi-lop ears that perk up when they are startled or interested. Never satisfied with partial planning, I have found that I like Tamworth mom’s more than Old Spot mothers. They tend to be more attentive, put on weight more slowly (at least in pigs, a fat mom is a bad mom,) and are much more likely to be defensive of their young (I don’t mind a challenge.) That means the father would be an Old Spot, and from personal experience, I can say that a big, friendly lop-eared boar is much better than a high-strung poppa that doesn’t like to get scratched between the ears.

The name: Porcupine 4 Acres. Phonetically that becomes Pork – You – Pine – For. I know. I’m the best. (Also, the pine trees, layers of awesome is what I bring.)

I’ll let you know when I post the Kickstarter for the farm. Until then, it will be building in the back of my mind.

A Career Lateral

While I am no sports guru, I believe (and if I’m wrong, feel free to not correct me,) that a lateral refers to a football maneuver, in which the ball is moved from one player to another, who are on the same plane. While no yards are gained immediately, it happens in the hopes that the receiver has a better chance at forward movement than the passer did. This is the context in which I like to view my new job. When I left farming, I was a manager, with the pay, authority and, yes, headaches that went with that position. At my new job, I am going back to an entry level position of Livestock Apprentice (the new position is with Autumn’s Harvest Farm, a livestock oriented wholesale/retail operation,) but this sideways or backwards move on the career scale actually opens me up to a lot of new opportunities for personal and professional growth.

Let’s start with the professional. I got a lot of first hand experience with laying hens and pigs at my last job. My new job also entails working with laying hens and pigs, but under new conditions. The pigs are pastured, but the breeds are different, and the farrowing facilities are entirely outdoors, with little to no infrastructure in place to minimize piglet mortality. This is compensated for by the huge litters the farm is used to (16 or more, where my old farm’s average was closer to 10.) The survival rate puts the overall yield in the same ballpark as the farm I was with, but I have that much more room to try and squeeze out a higher percentage, using the methods I employed at my last position. The laying hens move with a laying wagon, much like my last position, but at this job, they won’t move into a hoop barn for the winter months. Light isn’t forced onto them, to maintain the levels of egg production, and the wagon itself conveys the eggs to boxes that are accessed from the outside. No more lifting angry hens to remove the ovoid gold they are sitting on. No more stepping into a hot, musty enclosed space to harvest eggs in the summer months. A walk along each side, checking trap doors, a glance at the ground, and I’m on to the next task. So, obviously I’m very excited about that.

Then there are the opportunities to learn about animals that I’ve had little to no contact with. Autumn’s Harvest finishes upwards of ten thousand broilers (meat birds) in a season, five times what I was working with at my old position. They also employ the ‘chicken tractor’ method, where the chickens are in a smaller, covered pen, that is moved every day. As if that weren’t enough, they also raise turkeys to fill a seasonal demand (guess which season.) I have to assume the basics are the same, but I can’t imagine it’s going to be as easy to catch and crate a turkey as it was to catch a broiler. I will definitely be wearing gloves.

Finally, there are the cows. Yeah, they raise beef. Grass fed (the breed escapes me, though they are a lovely smoke grey in color,) and born on site, these cows will constitute my first experience with large ruminants, and I’m going to have to learn how to work with an animal that is A) much bigger than me and B) a lot less devious/quick than the pigs I’m used to. As I start in March, I should be coming on right before the calving season begins in full. I have no doubt that I will, by necessity, have to ‘aid’ in the birth of at least one calf and, while I’ve read plenty of Herriott, no amount of book learning can prepare you for being up to your shoulder in a cow’s nether parts, trying to rearrange her obstinate offspring.

On a personal level, I will still enjoy access to clean meat and eggs, for my own use and to share among my family and friends. Additionally, I have all of the knowledge of what I am capable of, and what I need to be an effective worker. I know that I bring a lot to the table, and I have learned that it’s unfair to assume I will be rewarded for doing a good job, I have to make it clear up front and keep an open dialogue with my employers. I read somewhere that the only reward for doing good work is more work, and while I have no problem with that, I expect to be given time away from work, as an additional reward for doing good work. Also, I will be living on the farm, within spitting distance of the calving barn and farrowing sheds. This was one of my bigger gripes with my last job, as I was responsible for any problems that arose, but the commute in meant that just checking fences when someone thought they saw a pig out could mean an hour or more of my evening wasted. It may come back to bite me on the ass, but I’m very excited to be as close to the action as possible. A nice evening stroll to make sure everything is squared away while my dinner is cooking is much  more agreeable to me than shelving dinner until I get back from an emergency run to the farm. Dinner could still be shelved, if the situation arises, but my response time will be cut drastically.

A few pleasant possibles/probables that go along with the new position are the occasional day in the cutting room (there is a butchering facility on site and the owner was happy to hear I had some rudimentary skills with a cutting knife,) farmer’s markets at least once a month, and a potential livestock guardian breeding program the owner is working on (puppies, and not any of those god-forsaken toy dogs or yappy little shits, these are Akbash, legitimate livestock dogs, just like the ones I was raised with.) All in all, I think it’s going to be a great 2013. Stand by for arm in cow stories…

The Farm Interview

As a young Landscape Architect, I had the distinct pleasure of going to a lot of interviews. I started interviewing for positions before I graduated. I stopped interviewing for positions about a year later, when I landed my first job. After I was laid off from that job, I got to do some more interviews. Lucky fuckin’ me. I always had to dress up for these interviews, as I was trying to demonstrate my professional bearing and my ability to look ‘office like.’ In the days before I could tie a half-windsor, I had one tie, and it was pre-tied by whomever I had seen recently that knew their way around a necktie. After my first office job, I could do the tying, and I had way too many ties.

All of these interviews followed a simple format. I showed up early, briefcase or portfolio in hand, suit on (jacket pending weather,) and waited to meet with the person whose job it was to decide if I was ‘company material.’ There was mindless chit chat, discussion of what I had done in college (cue the portfolio,) discussion of what I wanted to do, talk of what the firm did, and then the ridiculous questions. Once, I was asked what animal I saw myself as. No joke. They hired me, although I forget what my answer was. I’ve looked back over it, and it was probably in some list of questions you should ask potential employees, with a breakdown on popular answers and what it said about the interviewee. When it was all over, maybe a tour of the office and a ‘we’ll call you.’ I hated interviewing.

Thankfully, my new direction has opened up a lot of new doors. One of said doors is the farm interview. It follows no standardized format. There is no dress code. There will be time outdoors. I always carry a pair of Muckboots to a farm interview. I always dress in jeans and a t-shirt (preferably one of the Pig Farmer t-shirts my friend made for me.) There is chit chat, there are questions about the future, and there is a solid pitch from me about why I want to come farm for whomever I’m meeting with. The key difference is, I’m sincere in every way. It is much easier to convince someone that you want to come raise their pigs, collect their eggs, and mend their fences, than it is to convince someone that you really want to layout subdivisions and Walgreens parking lots for the rest of your days (both of which I was subjected to as a young Landscape Architect.)

During one office interview, we went out in the parking lot and the dick who was interviewing me conducted an informal plant ID quiz. During one farm interview, the owner and I had to run to the back of the property, because we could hear a pig squealing in a non-playful way (yeah, I can tell the difference.) The pig was feeling a little off, so the pen was opened up onto the back field, allowing him a little space. Guess which incident stuck with me, making me appreciate what I was hoping to do, and who I was thinking of doing it for?

Furthermore, when a grizzly in a suit shows up to interview for an office job, I’m just a big guy in a suit. When a Kodiak in jeans and boots, sporting a leatherman shows up to chat about farming, it’s immediately obvious that I can lift 50 or more pounds, that I’m not scared of getting dirty, and that I know I’m going to have to improvise, whenever the need arises. I like being a little dirty. I love the reactions you can garner when straw or dirt comes out of your pocket before your wallet does. I relish the look on the faces of insecure men who try and ‘strong-shake’ me. I’m a farmer, and I’ve been to your casual Friday’s, worked in your temperature controlled cubicles, and attended your ‘Lunch and Learns.’ That’s why I’m a farmer.

Hands, Fingers, Knees and Toes

So, after talking with the employer about my need to get back outdoors, I was called back for a half day and a more in depth conversation about my future with the meat-cutting business. My employer, very understandably, said that he couldn’t invest a lot more time and money in someone who wasn’t going to further his goals as a small-business owner. The short of this was that our time together would conclude at the end of November, about a month before I had planned to be out in the cold and severely truncating my time to find new, gainful employment. He wasn’t cold about it, and we went over a solid list of potential leads for me to pursue, both as part time labor and, hopefully, for full time employment, in the great outdoors. That was on a Monday, so the following day, I picked up the list and started working my way down. I’m sure there are people who like cold-calling, maybe people who are good at it (none of them are telemarketers,) but I’m not one of them. When it comes to approaching someone I don’t know, be it for social or financial reasons, I’m awkward. The level of awkward may be slightly dulled by the phone, but not much (at least in my mind, it seems to have gone well.)

One of the farms I called, Jericho Settlers Farm, was very happy to hear from someone looking to get their hands dirty, and invited me out for a ‘working interview,’ the very next day. I was instructed where to go and told I would be harvesting carrots or beets, as the farm owner wasn’t sure what the crew would need to do when I arrived. I was told to come around ten, since the ground would need a little time to thaw, and to bring a lunch, as I would be working from 10 to 4, roughly. I wrote down the directions and a phone number, in case I got lost, and that was that.

The next morning, I got geared up in some beat up pants, an ill-fitting but serviceable hoody, and almost walked out the door in my hiking boots. At the last minute, I re-thought that move and threw on my mid-calf Muckboots. In hindsight, this was a great idea. The drive up was lovely, a frosty Vermont morning as I looped along Route 2, towards a small town I’d driven through, but never had cause to pause in. I made the left turn, a right turn, and then the town gave way to a nice little plot of farm land. A grain silo, no longer in use but still dominating the skyline, drew me down a very rough road, and a rugged looking farm-hand spotted me and gave the international hand-signal for ‘slow the fuck down,’ placing both hands in front of him, palm down, then raising and lowering them, like he was working a bellows. I did, slow down that is, and after a few parks and starts, got my car in a location that it was in no danger from the tractor traffic that would be a part of the day.

I hopped out and introduced myself to Tim, the aforementioned farm-hand. He pointed me towards a young-woman on a tractor (as seductive a descriptor as I know how to write,) and told me she would put me to work. I followed her out into the field, where two heavily bundled forms turned out to be two more young women, escorting a box truck stuffed with produce bags. They introduced themselves (Keading, who holds a masters in Biology and has a love of insects, and Nichole, a French-Canadian, who was kind of quiet, so I have no further information to relate,) and then we piled into the truck and drove to the end of a bed. The woman on the tractor, who I later found was named Jennica and is the Produce Manager in training, lowered an attachment into the earth and went ahead of us, breaking up the soil and raising the carrots (as I had been forewarned,) so that we could easily grab them and stack them, tops toward the row. I warm up quickly and my hoody was soon tied around my waist. The muckboots were caked with mud, as were my knees and hands. My gearing up for the day had one hole in it, as I didn’t own a good pair of work gloves, and I neglected to ask if there was a pair kicking around that I could borrow. I would quickly regret all of this. The ground was still very cold, and the tops of the carrots were often brittle, snapping off in my hands. This necessitated shoving my hands down into the soil and tearing the carrot out by grabbing it under the surface. The cold soil quickly numbed my hands, a bit of a boon in the short term, as I didn’t feel much past a certain point, but a bitch in the long run, as rocks and dirt quickly worked to peel my finger nails back from the flesh underneath.

We worked our way down what was left of the row, as it had been half done the day before, two of us gathering and stacking and the other two, as Jennica was quickly freed up from the tractor work, topping the carrots and putting them into the large burlap bags they would be stored in for the rest of the season. Once Keading and I had finished stacking (it was during this time, as we were opposite each other working down the bed, that I found out about her college background, as well as family and other history, since our hands were busy but we had plenty of time to chat otherwise,) we went back down the row and leap-frogged the other two, until all of the carrots were topped and bagged. Then, we pulled the truck alongside the row and retraced our steps, loading bags into the back of the box truck. That marked a good stopping point, and it was already past noon, so we grabbed a quick lunch on the tailgate of the truck. After that, it was back into the trenches, to harvest beets.

Work was harder after lunch, as it always seems to be. My hands had thawed, and I was aware of the damage I had done to my fingers the (nails on both of my middle fingers were separated from the flesh underneath a good eighth of an inch back from where they would normally diverge from the nail, and the newly exposed flesh was packed with dirt and small rocks,) and my knees were a little upset about the amount of time I had been kneeling, with very little between them and the cold, lumpy ground. Still, I’m not one to complain overmuch, especially when there are three young women who are, seemingly, none the worse for wear, so I ignored the small shouts for relief that my joints and fingers sent up and we went to work in the beet fields. Thankfully, beets are basically on the surface when it is time for them to be harvested, so further damage wasn’t likely, though my knees were still very upset with their part in the whole charade. A few hours later saw us more than half done with the row of beets (it was a long row, though it may seem like very little,) and the day was quickly drawing to a close. The truck was pulled back alongside us and we loaded the sacks of beets into the back. I was given a lift back to my car, as the ladies would drive the truck back to the processing center, where they had parked, so that they could unload and go about their evening. One of the owners of the farm, Christa, met me at my car, payed me for my day’s labor, and offered me a tour of the farm. I wanted nothing more than a hot shower, hot food, and a chance to clean my hands, but I wasn’t about to relinquish a chance to spend some face-time with a potential employer, so I graciously accepted the offer and we took a stroll around the area we had been working at all day. On that site (the owners lease and farm four different parcels, as I found out during our tour,) there was a paddock with some feeder pigs (mostly Berkshire and Tamworth crosses, all of whom I was thrilled to see, as I had begun to miss my pigs, as I think I’ve mentioned,) a pen with the breeding stock (a lovely Berkshire boar, another Berkshire boar who was slated to be added to the crew later, and some sows, one a Berkshire, a few were Tamworth, and one that looked like a Large Black, but I could be mistaken,) and a large pen, in the barn, with the yearling lambs, whose fate had yet to be decided. Christa offered me a tour of the other properties and, in the rapidly fading light and plummeting temperatures, I accepted.

We hopped in our respective cars and I followed her to another property where the pregnant ewes resided. The pastures were enclosed, and the ewes had been rotated over several acres during the year. They would be trucked back to the property I had been at earlier in the day once they finished grazing the bit of pasture they had left, and the next year would see cattle and/or sheep on the open pasture. This property had some areas devoted to vegetable production, though those parts had been put to bed for the season already. Another car ride brought us to the area used for the wintering of cattle. Jericho raises Devin’s, which I had not met before, but they are a lovely, fluffy cow. Four bulls were in one large field, and all four were near the fence, staring intently at the year and a half old heifers who occupied the field adjacent to them. Across the road were the mothers and their calves from this year, along with the man who runs the herd, and a few goats he had picked up on a whim (I love farmers whims, as opposed to suburban whims, which seem to involve things you don’t need and storage units to, well, store them in.) Then, as we hadn’t seen the real meat of the operation yet, we drove to the processing center, and I was given a tour of the coolers, the egg-washing facility, the chicken house (where the lights were off, ensuring that the egg yield for the following day would be off,) and the farm-stand, where a small, but necessary, part of the produce and meat are available to the general public.

That was, finally, the conclusion of my day. Christa and I shook hands and I promised to send her a time-table of my availability for the rest of the season, along with my resume and references. Then, I hopped in my car, turned the heat up, and drove back to Montpelier. Of course, things weren’t done yet. I had to secure food for myself before I showered and lost whatever ability to move about I had left. I grabbed a burrito from a local joint (The Mad Taco, best taco bar in town,) where the clerk made mention of my dirt-caked, beet stained hands. I laughed it off and went around the corner to the grocery store, needing something for breakfast and milk for my coffee. Again, the checkout lady made mention of the condition my hands were in and again, I said that farming takes a toll, smiled and walked out. Upon arriving home, a shower was the first necessity. It always fascinates me to see the dark, dark water sloughing off of me after a good day of labor. My skin is odd in that it often holds detritus long after it should, despite any amount of scrubbing (Sharpie too, fuck you to all the people who have elfed me over the years,) so it was no surprise to me when I saw the dark lines of dirt where the natural creases of my hands refused to surrender their prize. I gingerly trimmed and scrubbed under my finger nails, but knew a thorough cleaning would have to wait for when the wounds had become a little less tender. Dinner was quick, as all meals should be after a day of real work, and, though I tried to fight it, I crawled in bed at around nine p.m. and slept straight through to my seven a.m. alarm.

I woke with bruised, swollen knees, fingers that wouldn’t fully heal for several days, and hands that still looked like I had just come out of the fields (my feet and toes were the best protected, thanks to thick Smartwool and the Muckboots.) My legs were a little stiff from all the bending, the jeans I had worn were completely caked with dirt and, though I have since decided to junk them due to an unfortunate tear over the crotch, would have required a double wash to be truly deemed clean. All in all, it was the best I had felt in a long time, and I can’t wait to go back for a full week of harvest next week. I don’t fool myself into thinking I can farm for the rest of my life, but I love farming, and while my body gripes a little, I know it loves farming too. It’s going to be a good Spring for whoever decides to hire me.

The Saga Continues

Well, it hasn’t been that long since I began my meat-cutting internship, not even two months by the calendar, but a lot has happened. I can cut a chine bone cleanly, without damaging the meat next to it (which eventually gets broken into rib chops.) My hands are healing and I have realized that I was not meant to be a meat-cutter. I’m not bad at it (in some ways I’m rather good,) but the long days spent in a small, white, sterile room with fluorescent bulbs shining down mercilessly do not sit well with me. The days haven’t been particularly gorgeous (from a conventional standpoint, I myself love cool, crisp Autumn days for working outside,) but the brief time I spend outdoors, on my way into and out of the cutting room, have left me longing to be outside. The cold doesn’t deter me, I know how to dress for the frigid Northeastern winters. And, last but not least, I miss my pigs.

Not that it hasn’t been very rewarding learning the interior of the pig, and how to turn a carcass into the cuts that would occupy the pork section of a butchers display case. It has granted me new insight into how pigs grow and a better understanding of all the lovely pieces I used to sell. Still, at some point, it became clear to me that working with live animals was a great part of the enjoyment I drew from my last job (along with the aforementioned time outside.) Additionally, the day to day physical part of farming had left me feeling very good, both physically and mentally. My time in the cutting room has not provided me the day-to-day workout I relied upon for that sense of well-being, and I’ve had to join a gym just to stop putting on weight and to keep conditioning the muscle groups that developed naturally on the farm. I’ve been a gym rat before, in my past life as an office drone, and I don’t like it. I understand that it has a place in the physical well being of the majority of Americans, but I find it taxing to walk from machine to machine, heavily working various muscle groups on different days, balancing cardio with anaerobic lifting. Again, it’s a sterile white room, fluorescent lights, and a hollow sense of accomplishment when I climb into my car to go home. I don’t regret my decision to try meat-cutting, in the same way I don’t regret having spent six years in college securing a degree in Landscape Architecture. It has further contributed to my understanding of myself and grants me more perspective on why I think I’m meant to farm. Still, I know it’s not going to work out for me in the long-term, and I don’t see any reason to cause myself, or my employer, any difficulties by ignoring my internal rumblings.

So, what do you do when you realize you’re in the wrong line of work? Well, you leave it, of course. There are a few ways to leave work that doesn’t satisfy all of your needs. You do it quickly, walking away as soon as you can to minimize further harm or, you do it more slowly, alerting the parties who need to know ahead of time, allowing them time to secure a replacement, and giving yourself a little wiggle room within which you can cast around for fresh opportunities, while still getting paid for the work you’re looking to walk away from. I’m not a fan of the former, preferring to leave as many bridges intact as I can. In this case, I have no problems with my employer or the other employees and would hate to cause them undue distress. I let my employer know a few weeks ago that I didn’t see it working out, but that I would honor the 3 month internship we had originally agreed upon so that we would both have some time to get things in order for 2013. He’s an intelligent young business owner, so he’ll be fine. That leaves us with the question of what I’m going to do now, and trust me, it’s a good question.

I’ve begun looking at opportunities for the start of next season, and it’s an interesting process. I can only improve my station, as far as enjoying my work goes, and I’m still a low-paid intern, so it won’t be hard to increase my income. Still, I won’t be making the ‘management’ money I was making for the past two years, and there is no guarantee I can find a position that affords me the autonomy that I enjoyed at my last station. I do look forward to potentially expanding my knowledge base (learning some basic vegetable growing and perhaps adding a few more animals to my husbandry skillset,) and I have no problem working from the farmhand station again, seeing where it could potentially lead me. It boils down to a fear of the unknown that haunts so many of us, and me in particular, especially after the sun sets and there are few distractions from my internal dialogue. I know I’ve been making good decisions for myself, and would not have thrived had I stayed at my last position, but there are times when my doubts win out and I regret not taking the ‘easy money’ that went with raising my piggies, and the ‘safety’ that the routine I had built afforded. Neither were helping me progress further as a person or a farmer, but both made for a comfortable little pile of sand that I could bury my head in, forgetting the rest.

And that’s where it lies. I have a few on-site interviews scheduled with farms in the area, I have time to schedule more, and the dark precipice of 2013 and what I’ll be doing in said year looms, less than 2 months (and 3 major holidays,) separating me from the great unknown. I’ll keep you posted.

The Kill and the Cut

So, I may or may not have mentioned this, but I have left my position as farm manager in upstate New York, and I’m now an Apprentice Meat Cutter in Montpelier Vermont. Let’s not get bogged down in the how’s and the why’s, as both are good fodder for another one-sided conversation. I would, instead, like to focus on the work I am now doing. Also, I intend to leave the blog as is, since my renovation of self centered on my becoming a farmer, I see no reason to say I am no longer a farmer (at least at heart and mind.) Additionally, as I’m exclusively working with pigs, the Oinking Observations, and man vs. hog blog, seem as appropriate, if not more-so, than ever before.

So, to the work. Monday, my first day on the job, saw my employer, his cousin (visiting from Italy,) and myself, headed to a rural Vermont home, to slaughter and butcher two pigs. While this work isn’t going to be part of the normal work week, it was an opportunity to get some meat into the walk-in, that would then be broken down and provide a first canvas on which to practice my meat-cutting skills. I was, naturally, very nervous about how this operation could go. I have, as we all know, had occasion to put pigs down before, and have never enjoyed the act. However, I did not want to remove myself from a potential opportunity and, after having spent two years raising them, I thought it fair that I take the time to learn, first-hand, how to kill and break them down. I also hoped that, since these wouldn’t be pigs that I had spent the past six odd months raising, I wouldn’t be as emotionally tied to them, allowing me to take part in whatever way was necessary.

The kills both went cleanly, with my employer taking the wheel (or pistol) in hand, and quickly dispatching the oinkers. Both were rather small, but it was the time of year when they would start to burn calories more quickly, making it less likely that they would reach a heavier finishing weight before the Spring. One was obviously a Tamworth, one was a pink pig of unknown origin. As soon as they death throes had subsided, and the carcass was just steaming in the cool Fall morning air, I was able to stop seeing them as a living entity, capable of all the great things I know pigs to be capable of, and just see them as meat. Meat that needed to be quickly skinned, split, and cleaned so that we could transport it back to the walk-in freezer, where it would hang overnight.

Moving them wasn’t too taxing, as they were maybe 200 pounds intact. The skinning process was very interesting to me, as I’d never skinned an animal before. We lay the pigs on their back and braced their sides with lengths of pipe, so their feet were pointing up, allowing us a clear shot at their underside. My employer sent clean cuts down the insides of the legs, and along the belly, giving us a good jumping off point. From there, it was a (not-so-simple) task to slowly pull the skin back, cutting it from the layer of fat underneath. The intent was to minimize the amount of fat that was removed along with the skin, while also keeping a fairly smooth, clean line to the fat left on the carcass. Neither of these goals were realized on the sides I took a knife too, but I did find that by the second pig, I was more adept at shearing against the skin, and leaving a nice cover of fat on the carcass itself.

Once the skin had been removed as far as it could be taken on both sides, with the pig still presenting one whole hemisphere of itself to the ground, one of the pipes was removed, the pig was rolled back onto it’s (now detached) skin on that side, and we were free to work our knives down to the skin over the spine. We halted just at the back of the pig, rolled it over again, and finished the job, leaving a full skin, with just an inch or so of actual connection all along the back. After that, we lashed the back legs to a ladder, propped the ladder against a tree (the ladder acted as a gurney, bracing the pig from behind,) and my employer gutted the carcass, quickly and efficiently. The liver, heart and kidneys were put aside for the pigs owner, the rest were bagged up and set aside to be disposed of later.

When the body was a nice hollow shell of meat and bone, my employer grabbed a Sawzall, and finished the job by separating the pig into two, shoulderable, halves. We untied the halves from the ladder, carried them to the truck, and laid them in a swaddling of black plastic trash bags, for the trip back to the meat locker. Some gathering of gear, and a quick conversation between my employer and the owner as to how he wished to receive his processed pork, and we were on our way. Back at the processing facility, we sent hooks through the hamstrings of the halves and hung them to cool overnight.

This morning, upon arrival, I met with my employer and his girlfriend, an accomplished meat cutter in her own right. We prepped the work area and then brought out a half pig to begin breaking down into primal cuts. Primals are the basic building blocks of the pig, and the source of all the wonderful roasts, cuts, and sausage we enjoy as a finished product. Working back, from the head to the tail, primals are as follows. The head: in this case, the owner only wanted jowl bacon, so the rest of the head had been scrapped with the skin and organs. The shoulder: this includes the boston butt (spine to deltoid, if we were looking at how we could be broken into meat,) the picnic (deltoid to elbow,) and the shank (elbow to just above the wrist.) The loin: this includes everything from behind the shoulder, to roughly where the ribs end (I’m a little shaky on the exact dividing line between the loin and the sirloin, as this is where some of the pricier cuts are, and I was working more with the front and back of the pig.) The sirloin: this runs from the end of the loin (see past explanation as to why this is so vague) to the front of the rear leg, and holds two of the more sought after cuts from the pig (those being the belly and the tenderloin.) The ham: this is the back leg of the pig, from the spine, down to the ankle.

After those broad strokes were made, it was into the detail work. The jowls were cleaned and set aside to be smoked. The shoulder was broken into the three potential roasts, and then further broken down if the owner wanted some of the roasts to be broken down for sausages. The loin was broken down into spare ribs and trim (excess meat with no real form or function, beyond grinding up for sausages.) The leaf lard and tenderloin were removed from the sirloin, and then the sirloin was broken down into chops. The sirloin also contains the shorter, back ribs, that are the baby-back ribs, made infamous by a chain restaurant that I choose to forget the name of. The ham itself is cleaned up and set aside for smoking. And that’s it. Two pigs, four halves, 320 pounds of bone, meat and fat to be cryo-vacced and returned to the customer. The whole process was fascinating to me and, while I’m sure routine will breed boredom as it does in so many other situations, I have no doubt that I will enjoy the ongoing learning experience of processing pigs for quite some time.

Also, the knives are really fucking sharp, so that should help to keep me focused on the work at hand.

Reflecting

At this point in my life I have, technically, celebrated several major milestones. I graduated High School, College and didn’t have a child along the way (call those my big three,) but, to reflect on those accomplishments, I’m not left with more than a cursory sense of satisfaction. High School didn’t offer any major challenges, college involved more application, but I still managed to graduate with honors while minoring in recreational marijuana use, and, well, I’ve always had higher standards than a balding grizzly should, so it wasn’t really a challenge to stay child free. So, as I now reflect on my time with the pig farm, I’m happy to see that I can focus on several big accomplishments, both on the farm and in my personal life.

First and foremost, I did it. I spent over two years of my life throwing my shoulder into a flawed system and managed to turn it into a venture that hadn’t produced at such a level before. I wanted to quit, again and again, but there was never any larger reason than I was fucking tired, so I never did. My body changed, my perception of myself was rejuvenated, and I got to pee outdoors, every day.

Secondly, I rubbed off on my coworker. Edgar, the best farm hand anyone could ask for, took after the previous manager when I came on. Given to minimal effort and maximum agitation, I didn’t berate him and degrade his work. I stepped into any opening and did the work myself, for no other reason than it had to be done. Within a six month period, Edgar was taking pride in his work and coming to me when he felt any of the temporary laborers weren’t pulling their weight, creating more work for us. He began to enjoy his time with the animals, would come up with time saving measures that I had overlooked, and became the manager that the farm will, hopefully, continue to thrive under now that I’m moving on.

Finally, I left marks on the farm that will endure for years. Loading chutes are easier to back the trailer into, the freezer is organized and easily accessible, a tagging system ensures we can track pigs throughout their growth, and there is the farrowing program. I’m proud of everything I’ve done on the farm, from performing daily chores well, to helping our pig numbers and weights improve, but if I had to choose one thing that I’m most proud of, it would be the farrowing program.

When I came on the farm, there were five sows and two boars. They spent their time in a nice outdoor pen and when they had piglets, we were pleasantly surprised. A lot of time and energy would be spent in rounding them up, getting them into an enclosure with heat for the piglets, and then ensuring the enclosure moved (if it was summer and they could be outdoors) or was cleaned regularly (if it was Winter.) I didn’t track things then, so I have no idea what our mortality rate was. It wasn’t high, by any means, but there were losses to the elements, and to piglets not having a safe, warm place to retreat to when mom rolled over.

A little over a year into my tenure, one of our breeders shut his doors and the boss bought on the breeding stock that he felt would generate good piglets for our pens. Suddenly, I had over 20 sows. All of the new ones were, supposedly, pregnant, with a two month window during which they might farrow. One went almost a month before said window was supposed to begin, several never farrowed at all, and the rest did so at their own pace. They were in a large, open barn, with a fence running out the back. When they farrowed, we hurried to build hog panel enclosures and separate the new moms from the other sows. Some piglets were lost to crushing or curious full grown mommas, and there was no real way to keep them assigned to their mother, as the hog panels allowed for a lot of slipping back and forth. Again, no tracking was going on at that point, so I have no idea what our loss was, or who ended up yielding the most successful, healthiest piglets, but we got through the cycle and put the ladies back out with the boar. At this point, one of our boars had been deemed too big for further use, so it was just our Gloucestershire Old Spot, Spottacus.

This Spring, as I prepared to head home for a week to visit my ailing mother, the biggest weight hanging over my shoulders was that there were a whole bunch of pregnant sows, a very wet Spring, and no real improvement to our old farrowing practices. Not relishing the idea of what could happen while I was away during peak farrowing time, I discussed the possibility of retro-fitting one of our barns into a farrowing barn. He gave me some good insight, and the equipment to work with, and it became my pet project, in between the projects that still had to get done on a regular basis.

One of our girls went earlier than expected, so the first part to come together was a 10′ x 10′ pen, with a creep (a plywood enclosure, allowing the piglets to come into a lit, heated area, but keeping the mother from being able to roll completely in.) Mia (because she was the first to Farrow) seemed to like the setup, the piglets did well, and as it was in the barn, it was relatively clean and protected from the elements. Plywood walls ensured the piglets stayed put, and a tractor could be pulled up to the gate to allow for cleaning on a regular basis.

The next part to come together was what I call the ‘Pregnancy Pen.’ This is a 20′ x 30′ section of the barn, covering the whole width and the first 20′ of the back of the barn. The garage door, at first, was meant to be an ingress/egress point, but it became clear that it would be easier to load the girls into the front of the barn, and walk them back to the Pregnancy Pen. After that, a cattle panel was placed over the back garage door, so that maximum airflow could be achieved (good year round, but essential during the hot Summer we had,) but the girls were otherwise restricted from walking out the back door (sows have, in the past, managed to unseat the bottom panel or two of a garage door, bending it completely out of its track and allowing them to go for a nice walk.)

After about a week, it became clear that this was a good start, but when we had ten or more sows, it could get a little sticky in there. One of the side trap doors was wedged open, and a section of the swamp that sits next to the barn was fenced off, allowing the ladies to go out and wallow, and allowing us to keep the water outside, minimizing the mess inside. Again, a tractor could be pulled directly up to the pen, via the back gate blocking the garage door, and the whole thing could be mucked without allowing the girls any means to sneak past.

After that, it was a simple matter to run 10′ x 10′ pens from the front of the barn, back to the pregnancy pen, so they shared one common wall. This covered the left third of the barn’s floor plan. The middle third was left open, so that vehicles and animals could be routed through as needed. The right third was, originally, to be turned into additional 10 ‘ x 10′ pens, but a lack of panels meant it was just one, long open pen. This turned out to be a best case scenario because, as the piglets got older and friskier, they could be moved, with their mothers, into this ‘common area.’ Mothers could share the burden of nursing growing piglets, the piglets who would eventually be in a growing pen outside got a chance to socialize outside of their litter mates, and the smaller pens were opened up for a thorough cleaning, and then available for a new mother to come inside.

This farrowing barn, along with a vigilant check of those mothers in the pregnancy pen for signs of imminent piglets (squeezing the teats of a sow who is within 48 hours of farrowing will yield milk, the rest of the pregnancy there will be no milk secreted,) has led to a single digit mortality rate among our piglets born on the farm. Additionally, they can easily be caught for shots and tagging, allowing us to track who is the progeny of who, and who is where in the battery of vaccinations that all of our pigs go through.

Yeah, that’s the best thing I did for the farm.