Barnheart

  Praise for

  Made from Scratch

  “This fine, simple book is the real deal — and it will come as a great relief to people feeling some silent dread in a time of rising gas prices, food shortages, and the like. Much can be done — in your home!”

  — Bill McKibben, author of Deep Economy

  “This is an outstanding book for anyone yearning for the satisfactions that come with a simpler, more self-reliant, and sustainable life. I highly recommend it, for both country and city homesteaders.”

  — Cheryl Long, Editor in Chief, Mother Earth News

  “If you’re tired of being just another consumer, and want to take charge of creating your own life, this book is for you. It has both the how-to and the why-to. It reads like fiction but delivers a wealth of useful, down-to-earth information.”

  — David Wann, author of Simple Prosperity and coauthor of Affluenza

  “Woginrich writes with an infectious enthusiasm and a dry wit that may have you ordering hens before you reach the last page. A delightful introduction to the simple (and not-so-simple) life.”

  — William Alexander, author of The $64 Tomato

  “I can’t get enough of Woginrich’s life on her Vermont farm … this book left me wanting much, much more.”

  — Debbie Stoller, Bust

  “It’s a how-to as well as a what-not-to-do.”

  — Boston Sunday Globe, “Shelf Life”

  “This book isn’t about having a farmhouse on acres of land, or a barn full of livestock, but about being more open to learning the simple skills most of us have forgotten.”

  — Deseret News

  “Made from Scratch is about being more open to learning the simple skills most of us have forgotten, and finding joy in the process.”

  — Homegrown.org

  “The book is chockablock full of ‘simple life’ advice on everything from creating storage from scratch to gardening, with loads of 21st-century homespun philosophy to boot.”

  — Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

  “Her essays, supplemented with how-tos, are philosophical, humorous, and remarkably poised for a newbie writer.”

  — Seattle Post-Intelligencer

  “Woginrich’s comfy writing style and gentle humor make this book a must-read for anyone who dreams of a simpler, handmade life.”

  — ForeWord, November 2010

  The mission of Storey Publishing is to serve our customers by

  publishing practical information that encourages

  personal independence in harmony with the environment.

  Edited by Carleen Madigan

  Art direction and text design by Mary Winkelman Velgos

  Cover design by Dan O. Williams

  Text production by Liseann Karandisecky

  Front cover illustration by © Meg Hunt/Scott Hull Associates

  Author photograph by © Tim Bronson

  © 2011 by Jenna Woginrich

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages or reproduce illustrations in a review with appropriate credits; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other — without written permission from the publisher.

  The information in this book is true and complete to the best of our knowledge. All recommendations are made without guarantee on the part of the author or Storey Publishing. The author and publisher disclaim any liability in connection with the use of this information.

  Storey books are available for special premium and promotional uses and for customized editions. For further information, please call 1-800-793-9396.

  Storey Publishing

  210 MASS MoCA Way

  North Adams, MA 01247

  www.storey.com

  Printed in the United States by Versa Press

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Woginrich, Jenna.

  Barnheart / by Jenna Woginrich.

  p. cm.

  Includes index.

  ISBN 978-1-60342-795-1 (pbk. : alk. paper)

  1. Country life—Vermont. I. Title.

  S521.5.V5W64 2012

  630.9743—dc23

  2011024846

  BARNHEART

  THE INCURABLE LONGING

  FOR A FARM OF ONE’S OWN

  a memoir

  Jenna Woginrich

  Thanks So Very Much

  How to Tell If You’re Infected

  A CABIN IN THE WOODS

  A VERY LONG WINTER

  SHEEP 101

  THE ARRIVAL OF RUFUS WAINWRIGHT AND BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

  INTO THE GARDEN

  MEET THE LOCALS

  THE SOCIETY OF LAMB AND WOOL

  THE HOOVES HAVE LANDED

  GETTING MY GOAT

  YOU NEED A TRUCK, GIRL

  BUILDING PARADISE BROKE AND ALONE

  SAVING SARAH

  TURKEY DRAMA

  A NOTE ON THE DOOR

  THE SEARCH BEGINS

  GOING HOME

  Thanks So Very Much

  Thank you to my parents, Pat and Jack, who have watched with grace and support (even when it confused the hell out of them) as their daughter evolved from an urban designer to a rural shepherd. My parents are the only reason I ever believed I could achieve whatever I wanted in this world, even if what I wanted was to be sitting with a flock of sheep on a hill.

  Thank you to my brother and sister, John and Kate, who relentlessly support me, nod in approval, and make me laugh at my own antics. Thanks to Kevin Boyle, who has been my best friend for over a decade and has always loved me, even when I let him down (which I do from time to time). Thank you to Erin Griffiths, Raven Pray, Leif Fairfield, Phil Monahan, Steve Hemkens, Sara and Tim Mack, and Nisaa Askia — all of you are part of this story. It’s the folks who stay in touch, visit, call, and heckle that make a life that makes a book.

  And of course, big thanks to everyone at Storey, most of all to my grand editor, Carleen Madigan, whose own work and writing fuel my dreams and constantly make me want to learn new skills and take on new adventures. Thank you to everyone at Orvis — coworkers and friends who are wonderfully tolerant of me (possibly the most unorganized person in New England to hold down a day job) and make that place a dream career. Not a lot of offices let you bring your kid to work (when it’s a bottle-fed Toggenberg).

  Thank you to James Daley and Phil Bibens, who have helped me build sheep sheds and amazing friendships. You guys made Vermont feel like home first. Thanks to everyone at Wayside, especially Doug and Nancy Tschorn, who are my unofficial grandparents and run the best country store in the state of Vermont. This fact can be argued, but the argument is pointless. Thank you to Tim Bronson, who helped me get this book started and earnestly supported me at a point when the book you’re holding in your hands was just a shot in the dark in a conference room. Thank you, Paul Fersen, fellow Civil War buff, farmer, and friend who keeps me laughing and lends me old calf hutches he’s not using to house my bum goats. Thank you to Eric and Erica Weisledder, Suzanne and Allan Tschorn, Jo and Bob Wise, Nancy and Dean Bishop, the Daughton family and Roy next door — neighbors like you made this farm (and the future of this farm) possible. Thank you, members of NEBCA, especially Barb and Denise, important members in the great club of shepherds who are just beginning to show me the ropes of this new life. Thank you all, over and over.

  And thanks, of course, to Jazz and Annie, still the best roommates a girl could ever have, and Gibson, the finest farmhand and business partner I’ve ever known.

  For Mom and Dad

  The only rea
son everything happened

  How to Tell If You’re Infected

  Certain people, myself included, are afflicted by a condition that’s difficult to describe. It’s not recognized by physicians or psychoanalysts (yet), but it’s really only a matter of time before it’s a household diagnosis. It’s a sharp, targeted depression, a sudden overcast feeling that hits you while you’re at work or standing in the grocery-store checkout line. It’s a dreamer’s disease, a mix of hope, determination, and grit. It attacks those of us who wish to God we were outside with our flocks, feed bags, or harnesses instead of sitting in front of a computer screen. When a severe attack hits, it’s all you can do to sit still. The room gets smaller, your mind wanders, and you are overcome with the desire to be tagging cattle ears or feeding pigs. (People at the office water cooler will stare and slowly back away if you say this out loud. If this happens to you, just segue into sports banter and you’ll be fine.)

  The symptoms are mild at first. You start reading online homesteading forums and shopping at cheese-making supply sites on your lunch break. You go home after work and instead of turning on the television, you bake a pie and study chicken-coop building plans. Then somehow, somewhere along the way you realize that you’re happiest when you’re weeding the garden or collecting eggs from the henhouse. It’s all downhill from there. When you accept that a fulfilling life requires tractor attachments and a septic system, it’s too late. You’ve already been infected with the disease.

  This condition is roughly defined as the state of knowing unequivocally that you want to be a farmer but, due to personal circumstances, cannot be one just yet. So there you are, heartsick and confused in the passing lane, wondering why you can’t stop thinking about heritage-breed livestock and electric fences. Do not be afraid. You are not alone. You have what I have. You are suffering from Barnheart.

  But do not panic, my dear friends; there is a remedy! The condition must be fought with direct, intentional actions that yield tangible, farm-related results. If you find yourself overcome with the longings of Barnheart, simply step outside, get some fresh air, and breathe. Go back to your desk and finish your office work, knowing that tonight you’ll be taking notes on spring garden plans and perusing seed catalogs. Usually, those small, simple actions that lead you in the direction of your own farm can help ease the longing.

  At times, though, you might find yourself resorting to extreme measures — calling in “sick” to work in the garden, muck out chicken coops, collect eggs, and bake bread. After all, this is a disease of inaction, and it hits us hardest when we are furthest from our dreams. If you find yourself suffering, make plans to visit an orchard, a dairy farm, or a livestock auction. Go pick berries at a local U-pick farm. Busy hands will get you on the mend.

  And when you find yourself sitting in your office, classroom, or café and your mind wanders to dreams of the farming life, know that you are not alone. There are those of us who also long for the bitter scent of manure and sweet odor of hay in the air, to feel the sun on our bare arms. (I can just about feel it, too, even in January, in a cubicle on the third floor of an office building.) Even though we straighten up in our ergonomic desk chairs, we’d rather be stretched out in the bed of a pickup truck, drinking in the stars on a crisp fall night.

  When your mind wanders like this and your heart feels heavy, do not lose the faith, and do not fret about your current circumstances. Everything changes. If you need to stand in the slanting light of an old barn to lift your spirits, go for it. Perhaps someday you’ll do this every day. For some, this is surely the only cure. I may be such a case.

  We’ll get there. In the meantime, let us just take comfort in knowing we’re not alone. And maybe take turns standing up and admitting we have a problem.

  Hello. My name is Jenna. And I have Barnheart.

  A CABIN IN THE WOODS

  I HAVE A BAD HABIT OF RENTING HOUSES from the other side of the country. When I was moving to Idaho, I found an old farmhouse online and made arrangements to live there from an apartment in Knoxville, Tennessee. There was no reconnaissance trip out West to find a home, kick floorboards, and inspect chimneys. This had to be quick and dirty: a lease, a check, a handshake over telephone wires.

  When I accepted my current job in Vermont, I needed to do that dance again. Most people with a bit of cash and some luck can find a small apartment and waltz right into their new town. I, however, was developing this agricultural habit and needed a rental that could handle my desire to turn someone else’s backyard into a farm. The hunt was on.

  I called a half-dozen places before I started losing heart. Landlords are thrilled to hear you’re a young, responsible professional, imported to work at a big-name company, but when you start asking if they’ve ever had their soil tested and what their stance on roosters is, they suddenly have a cousin who really needs the place. Getting a rental house isn’t an easy thing to do when you want to rip up sod, install a coop of chickens, and share your living quarters with two large, shedding dogs. Yet I asked, and searched, and begged. A girl’s got to try.

  I was on the prowl for a new home somewhere in Bennington County, which was close to work and seemed to have a lot of farms around it. I scoured the Internet and local Craigslist ads. I looked up local papers and pennysavers online. My sanctuary had to be out there somewhere.

  I had been able to get a taste of the place when I was flown in for an interview a few weeks before my search got into the teeth-grinding stage. I drove around back roads and land outside Manchester and was unsettled at the price of rentals I came across. Some places cost more to rent for a week than I’d be making in a month. Then I remembered the newspaper I’d folded up and stashed in my suitcase during my interview the week before.

  I knew nothing specific about the geography of the place — only the address of the office — and I was hoping to stake my claim somewhere within a twenty-minute drive. An ad in my crumpled cross-continental Manchester Journal had a listing that caught my attention. I read it with raised eyebrows, my dogs curled at my feet under the kitchen counter. A cabin was available in a town called Sandgate. It came with six acres of pasture and woods, two streams, running water, electricity, a fireplace, and an oil furnace. It had a bedroom, kitchen, living room, and half bath. I did a little homework and discovered it was only eleven miles from my new desk. This was too good to be true.

  I called the landlord right away. Either out of desperation to fill the rental or apathy about her property’s lawn, she agreed to rent me the six-hundred-square-foot cabin and surrounding land. She approved the dogs, seemed fine with the idea of a garden (there was even a gated garden on site), and didn’t scream at the notion of chickens. I sent her a check and made arrangements to meet a neighbor to hand me the key on move-in day. My whole body relaxed when that lease was signed. I had no fears about driving cross-country or starting a new job, but the idea of moving to a brand-new place without my own bedroom waiting for me was terrifying. Now, not only did I have a destination, I had a home as well. I was off to find a cabin in the woods twenty-eight hundred miles away.

  The drive east was surreal and miserable. I made my way through a blizzard on a Montana mountain pass, stayed in the worst hotel in recorded history, and fought a serious case of the flu, which caused me to pull over and heave an impolite offering along the battlefield trail at Little Big Horn. Jazz and Annie watched me from the back windows of the car. It was a cold, clear day in Montana, and the view was stunning. I panted from the flu. My dogs panted inside the wagon from wanting to chase down the wild ponies foraging among the dead trees. I was suspicious of my condition. The nerves about moving to a new place were likely responsible for my stomach. Spending a year in a small town, making close friends, discovering a whole new way of life — these things don’t make for an easy transition, especially when I’d never intended any transition in the first place.

  I hadn’t left Sandpoint by choice; I’d been forced out by fate and circumstance. I lost my job in a
company-wide fire-storm of layoffs, and with the way the economy was taking a nosedive, I was just grateful to have found new work. But gratitude is not the remedy for anxiety. I shrugged off whatever doubt I had left and got back in the car. I had days of travel ahead of me, and I wanted to go home. The sad part was that I had no idea what “home” meant anymore.

  I would be building a whole new life in Vermont. I wanted it to somehow resemble my previous one in Idaho. Out there I had dedicated myself to learning basic country skills and starting a small homestead. My rented farm was home not only to me, but also to my first-ever organic vegetable garden, hive of honeybees, flock of prize-winning chickens, and much more. It was in Idaho that I learned to sew, knit my own wool hats, and bake my first loaf of homemade bread. I’d fallen in love with homesteading and wanted to continue falling in Vermont. Hell, maybe even do more than I did out West? I now had six acres to work with. A secret part of me dreamed of adding to my guest list. I desperately wanted sheep, goats, a border collie, and a pickup truck. I wanted to double my gardens, sew my own cowboy shirt, and wear my beat-up old hat into a Vermont feed store and have people know me by my first name. Gary Snyder, one of my heroes, famously said, “Find your place in the world and dig in.” I thought, “I’m ready, Gary. Just hand me a friggin’ shovel.”

  It’s good to want things. Or at least that was my optimistic motto. I had no concrete idea what the property would be like or what opportunities the new address would grant me. I knew about the garden, but in photos it was covered in snow; who knew what lay under the crust of ice? I could make do with gardening in containers, but the idea of renting six acres and not putting a hoe to them felt horribly wrong. I also wanted to get chickens in the spring and was secretly terrified my landlord would limit the livestock to my two dogs, which she graciously allowed in a house smaller than my parents’ living room. Of course, I dared not raise the idea of bees or rabbits. I was focused on just getting there and starting a new job in a new state, a state I knew nothing about, except for Burton snowboards and Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. I knew it was a farm-friendly, green-leaning, open-minded place, so that was working in my favor. The idea of an absentee landlord who would allow me to grow heirloom tomatoes and raise a few chickens seemed totally plausible. With that hope in mind, I kept driving east.