100 cuttings. Damn good thing the student volunteers were around the next day.

So almost 100 pussy willow cuttings are now in the ground (I saved a few back as sheep treats), with an estimated fifty that might survive. Planting willow cuttings really is just stabbing two-thirds of a small, green branch into wet soil and wishing them the best. (Providing a small sacrifice is likely supportive.) The students and I strategically placed the cuttings along fencelines, where ruminants will eventually be able to nibble the tips, or where I can easily prune them and toss the branches to the animals.

The operative word there, though, is ‘eventually’. I’m not naive - there won’t be a sudden explosion of new Salix discolor, and the ones that do root and grow will need at least three years before I feel comfortable letting sheep graze them. That’s three years that I’m still navigating a parasitic crisis using a vast blend of methods I'm not yet confident with.

But perennials are constant reminders of life lasting past the growing season, of someone's ability to see a future of promise. When selecting where to plant, a gardener must choose an environment that fits the needs of said plant, but also be aware that that plant will change the environment. Nettles excel at breaking down wood, making the nutrients more accessible to those around them. Dock sends a strong taproot down, aerating compacted, clay soil. And pussy willows will suck up floodwaters, turning a wet, open space into a snug collection of cold-hardy shrubbery.

By definition, then, not a single action I take on the farm is ever strictly for myself. Gardening can be an embodiment of care for those who come after you.

All this leads me back to a little comic I mentioned in the November 2024 newsletter. It hangs in the Solarium here, and in it, two characters are talking:

“Aren’t you terrified of what next year could be like? Everything is so messed up.”

“I think it will bring flowers.”

“Yes? Why?”

“Because I’m planting flowers.”

We live in a time when stability is a distant dream for many, when concerns over future impacts are ignored in favor of daily survival. But I also think that long-term planning has been educated out of us. Look at the hype, the terms, the philosophies-turned-influencer-handles: ‘YOLO’. ‘Live every day like it’s your last’. Songs and memes abound encouraging people to live in the moment, to not worry about consequences or next week’s plans - to not make plans at all.

I can’t live like that. No, I mean, I really, really can’t. Just the thought makes me feel like I’m shaking, like I need to scratch my way out of my skin. But I also, literally, can’t, because if every day is my last, there’s no reason stock up on firewood, right? No reason to put by pickles that I won’t eat. No reason to plant pussy willows for sheep I won’t see tomorrow.

No reason…unless it’s not about me. Unless it’s about that bigger picture, about my actions being, so often, in service to someone else. Unless, even if it is my last day, I want to leave those I love in better shape, and I want them to have a chance at thriving when I’m gone.

My mother, arguably, did not have the healthiest relationship with food. She lived in constant fear that we’d run out, and that legacy still makes it very difficult for me to finish off the last jar of salsa, or the final pork chop of the season. Nevertheless, such a legacy also meant that she left a shit-ton of food behind. She died in 2024, and I’m still going through the fruit she froze; I ate a smoothie a day for almost two weeks this winter, blowing through 14 quarts of strawberries. And she gardened. Twenty or so years ago, she planted garlic in what is now the farm’s small food forest, perhaps choosing the location for its accessibility, or its fertility. Three weeks ago, I once again began harvesting green garlic from that same patch, gathering for pizza the descendants of the cloves she once tucked into the ground.

“Aren’t you terrified of what this year could be like? Everything is so messed up.”

“I think it will bring garlic.”

“Yes? Why?”

“Because someone planted garlic here, twenty years ago.”

Maybe it’s a little more clunky on the tongue, but it’s true. I wander the farm and I see the ripples of actions taken ten, twenty, fifty and one hundred years ago. I see how maintaining - or ignoring - those changes have improved or worsened the ecosystems, the communities. In the shade of a 70-year-old silver maple sprout teeny, native geraniums. The blossoms of a crabapple planted 80 years ago are feeding the pollinators of today. The streams that farmers tended a century ago, having been neglected, are now filling in and need care. The forests felled the same century are growing back as aspen, oak and hickory, the undergrowth filled with secretive, tiny warblers and even smaller, early flowers. The gardens started when I was six nourish me still, at 32.

Seed farmers in particular seem to understand this - that their work’s legacy may not see light until after they’ve passed, or that it will only last if others learn to follow in their footsteps. They nurture plants for multiple seasons, embracing their full maturity, then harvest a life that no one will eat - a life stored in paper envelopes, mason jars, freezers, and clay pots, waiting for the future. There might not be an immediate dispersal option for those splotchy Skunk beans or fuzzy Brandywine tomato seeds; they may wait several generations for the right people to care and the right conditions to germinate.

Where am I going with all this? I suppose I’m rambling a little, in the way that my thoughts ramble through my brain, or I ramble along the cattle paths when checking for new calves. I think I’ve been moving through feelings of, “Why bother doing X?” and “Well, why not?” and “I mean, it sure seems to make someone happy, myself included. The meadowlarks are appreciative.” Bearing direct witness to the changes wrought by a decision made before I was born gives perspective. It’s not “some far away, political scandal that has no impact on my individual life”, it’s “my neighbors unknowingly altered my life, and I will unknowingly alter theirs, and we both unknowingly alter those around us, and maybe we should know a bit more about what that all means.” Maybe we should step back and be okay with thinking six months, six years, six decades ahead. Maybe I should picture a flock of healthy, happy sheep four years from now, because I was brave enough to plant pussy willows today.

Much Love,

Kia-Beth

This farm I love is situated in the Y of Fish Creek, a state-protected wetland home to black-crowned night herons, jewelweed, muskrats, crawdads, joe pye weed, beavers, cerulean warblers, and more. A significant portion of the farm’s ‘forest’ is actually federally-protected ephemeral wetland, and seasonal flooding is essential. In an average year, there’s a healthy balance of moisture, and animals and plants can thrive.

As the climate crisis thunders on, however, those seasonal floods increase, easily creating sodden row crops and parasite-laden puddles. Most of the farm is low enough that there are pastures I avoid until June, because a small flock of sheep can compact wet ground in just a few days and impact the entire year’s soil health. It makes me wonder whether there should even be any livestock here.

McKay has visited often enough to be familiar with the general slope of the fields, placement of gardens and hedgerow patterns here. And what we discussed was that it’s not that this area isn’t to be farmed, it’s that farming often shouldn’t look like the picture books and TV ads we’re exposed to - weed-free vegetable gardens, blemish-free fruits, Holstein cattle whose calves are taken from them within a day, so that humans can collect all the milk. There are hundreds of ways to form reciprocal relationships that result in food collection or growth, and a lot of practices are inappropriate for a lot of landscapes, especially those that are rapidly changing as the planet is lit (literally and metaphorically) on fire (this is not an argument against prescribed burns). My grazing fields, for instance, are turning into makeshift wetlands as sedges and rushes replace grasses and wildflowers. Swamp-loving red-wing blackbirds are surviving better than pasture-loving bobolinks. And on the flip side, temperatures are swinging from 40°F to 90°F, and I’m left watching our clay soil crack, the dry, gaping, canyon-like slits a foot deep. Sixty years ago, I’m told, we could not reliably grow peppers in the Oswegatchie watershed. The growing season was so short that even under cover, plants would die of frostbite before producing mature fruit. Now, Aji Confusion and Albino Bullnose seeds sprout in the warm Solarium, even as I’m in the garden sacrificing chocolate and eggs, anything to appease whomever decides where the rains go this dry Spring.

I wrote the last newsletter about the dynamics of releasing our position as a public-facing market farm, describing how a personal need to heal and develop is inherently at odds with capitalism and the societal expectations thereof. The healing of an ecosystem is no different.

Agroecology (what I practice) centers relationships between humans and non-humans, requiring we learn how to rejuvenate one another as we seek to nourish. Growing potatoes is not a bottom-line venture where I use my diesel tractor to plow and plant an acre of commercially-popular spuds. It’s instead an unplowed quarter-acre experiment with Galadryal the ox, a hundred-year-old planter named Penny, six varieties of rare or endemic potatoes, and the killdeer nest we flag and monitor. In corporate capitalism, this environmentally-friendly, small-scale, attention-to-detail technique is deliberately devalued. Agricultural industry - despite public trends in the opposite direction - still demands farmers “get big or get out”, still pushes the narrative that bulldozing hedgerows and destroying habitat is worth it, (falsely) claiming that’s how “America feeds the world.” The market is intentionally neither climate-resilient nor climate-aware. How easily could I, someone in a USDA Zone 4, walk into Price Chopper today and pick up a clamshell of blueberries, despite the frost in my own gardens? I could grab oranges or lemons, despite the Northern latitude. If immediate consumer demands are met, society will ignore the long-term costs and choose to be convinced that everything is alright.

There is, of course, nuance. Many, many farms are market-facing and still regenerative, or striving to be. I am in no way looking to discredit or disregard their efforts; rather, I’m exploring what this unique farm, with our unique experiences and specific microclimates can do to create and maintain environmental resiliency, to understand what a future on harmed but beloved land means. Because splitting myself in two by attempting to prioritize both hummingbirds and a mortgage payment is exhausting, demoralizing, and damaging.

My takeaway is that as a farm committed to climate awareness, endangered species, and ecological restoration, we will not be serving immediate market demands. We’re pushing ourselves to build humus, not capital, to balance crab spider populations, not check books. It can absolutely put us in a financially precarious position, so we continue to lean more and more heavily on neighboring and neighborly connections. I’m able to exchange beef - from a bull whose grazing patterns helped increase yellow warbler habitats - for firewood that my next-door neighbor harvests each year, cutting down on the expense and destruction of a fossil-fuel reliance. I gift friends transplants, and years down the line, when they start they own soap business, I’m fortunate to receive some of the first bars. I begin removing Tatarian honeysuckle from a hedgerow, only to discover tiny golden raspberry canes who can now flourish and fruit in the sunlight. I offer eggs to the ravens, and they sit on the barn fence, alerting me to problematic events. A focus on long-term stability and adaptability creates a mental and physical landscape spiderwebbed with strong relationships, micro-ecosystems, and multi-generational projects.

Okay, so flowery prose aside, how exactly are we creating climate resiliency on 113.5 acres in 2026? Because an ecological mindset is nothing new here (and not actually new to the world, either, but that’s another story), so what makes this year different?

Quite plainly, we’re locking in. Or buckling down. Or hyper-focusing. Or whatever it’s called these days; the point is, if you choose to say hi to me in the local library, you should decide beforehand whether or not you’re interested the shifting bloom times of trout lilies, because I will tell you about them.

It starts with the long, long view. I’m watching the fields with 10, 20, 50 and 100-year perspectives, researching techniques that’ve stood the test of time, weather and colonialism, and learning how to incorporate them into my daily life. This year, fluctuating moisture levels are my primary concern. Farms around us are industrializing, so they’re drawing more water from shared underground reserves, and historical rain patterns are disappearing. I’m terrified of drought, and my animals are just as bothered by floods.

• To balance our wet and dry needs, we’re deepening, widening and reinforcing the streams that run through the grazing pastures. This will ensure habitat stability for amphibians, reptiles, birds and invertebrates, and the water will slowly seep into the soil, locking in moisture for plants. Each stream that we add curves, boulders and pockets to will also flow more, rather than sit as a mosquito pool, providing potential backup water sources to the ruminants.

• I’ve set the goal of installing at least one rainwater collection system under each peaked roof. Strategic positioning means I can easily utilize the collected water throughout the day, rather than drawing from those rapidly-depleting groundwaters.

• Last year I was unable to prioritize mulching, which increases soil organic matter and nutrition, reduces erosion and waterlogging, increases long-term water retention and carbon sequestration, and significantly reduces weeding. This year, I’m doubling mulching and composting, drawing on years’ worth of barn cleanout to boost my efforts.

• Even as more humans reside here, we’re reducing household water use and water waste. Both houses now have composting toilets, and this Summer we’ll be installing a greywater system in the farm kitchen.

• We’re shrinking the sheep paddocks. Flooded fields negatively impact the sheep more, as they easily pick up parasites and their hooves can struggle with constant moisture. We’ll be better able to keep them off wet ground, and over the next couple years, we can enhance the stream that runs east to west through their pastures, reducing squishy ground without reducing water retention.

Those are this year’s priorities! Not because more doesn’t need to be done, but because it’s important to me that I do a quality job on each project, preventing myself from having to fix or finish things in six months. That sort of short-term carelessness got the world where it is.

I do think it’s still easy for folks to overlook the climate crisis - Americans live day to day. We struggle to access healthcare, food, a decent night’s sleep. Many, many people still don’t believe that the entirety of our landbase is collapsing, that the lives we hold dear will wash away in the next unseasonal storm. And in the midst of fascist insanity, of strait-blocking wars and manufactured famine, how can we do anything but respond to the immediate stressors? Does it not make sense to just grow more tomatoes? More onions? Why would I take a field out of “food production” when I could, hypothetically, grow that food for more humans? But if we take the short vision here, there will be no tomatoes in ten years. Without nurturing a dynamic relationship with the land, without respecting the land’s need to heal and adapt, this farm will cease to exist. The floodwaters will rise with nowhere to go, the droughts will spark a small dust bowl and wildfires. Within that question of, “Should this land be farmed?” lies the inquiry, “Should we move?”. Moving, however, would just be a repeat: having to navigate and develop a relationship with someone who’s been harmed, relentlessly, for 250 years, and is facing further pain.

The next part of that question is, of course, “Is it enough?” I ask McKay if I’m missing something. “I’m writing about 35-gallon rain barrels in the face of hundred-year droughts. It feels so tiny. But this is what I know. Collect water, build soil, restore ecosystems.”

I alone will not stop the carbon release from Trump’s bombings. I will not piece together the ice sheets, nor single-handedly halt the California fires. But I can tell you with absolute certainty that I - we, the farm and I - are responsible for the tenfold increase in woodcocks and snipes in our neighborhood. We’re helping Blanding’s turtles safely migrate during nesting season. We’re growing in popularity as a stopover point for tree swallow flocks during their Autumnal travels. In the midst of environmental warfare, we’re recording rising numbers and diversity of amphibians, reptiles, birds, invertebrates, plants, mammals, bacteria and fungi here within these 113.5 acres. We ‘farm’ in a way most Americans wouldn’t recognize, but everyone seems to admire when they visit. Potatoes grow alongside dock, syrphid flies pollinate giant ragweed, cattle graze out the European buckthorn and make room for red dogwood.

The key is that we repeat our practices - daily, weekly, monthly, annually - we repeat, and repeat, and repeat our acts of care. We return to the same field each Spring, offering nourishment the best way we know how. We don’t turn away when ‘something’ isn’t quite working - we pause the chaotic busy-ness of our brains, step back, examine why, say, the toads didn’t hatch, or how we can better work with that gift of walnuts. And with love, we fix it. We research and talk and listen and repeat. Caring like this is the world’s history - not the history you read in textbooks, but the everyday, toes-in-the-soil, multispecies history that takes place outside the spotlight. And isn’t it beautiful, to watch it become our legacy?

With Love,

Kia-Beth

zi/zir, she/her, they/them

Thank you, thank you again to everyone who has supported us during this transformative, nightmarish Winter. See you at the barbecue this Summer (more details to come).

(And thank you again for your patience when these monthly newsletters don’t arrive, well, monthly.)

The self-care industry boasts a revenue of over $30 billion a year in the United States alone. I myself don’t follow trends or pay much attention to advertisements, but what I seem to notice is that a huge selling point within said industry is its “one-and-done” feature. Buy this ONE PERFECT cream, this ONE PERFECT supplement, go on this ONE PERFECT cruise, and everything will be alright. Your whole life, boiled down to one flaw that can be mended or vanquished for the low, low price of $48.99 (installments accepted). Such a message, I find, implies that all our wounds and metamorphoses are simplistic, linear challenges perfectly overcome by our loyalty to market-based solutions. Any evidence demonstrating this is not one’s experience seems to draw ire and confusion from the general public and suggestions that the next best step is to simply “suck it up and soldier on”. These suggestions intensify and increase in frequency when whatever is affecting the wounded impacts the previously unaltered, daily routine of the person telling them to get over it.

This was my train of thought when I received an unexpected bit of local gossip in early February. Apparently, unbeknownst to me…the farm - this farm - is…going down the drain? There seemed to be serious belief that the farm was scaling down…with the intention of ceasing to exist. People were watching us experience multiple years of tragedy and (I think) assuming the weight was too much, and that we’d eventually shutter our operations.

Well.

Okay, so for context, I’m going to include a brief retelling of the past half-decade. Forgive me if you’ve already read this bit of history.

I, having grown up farming and with a passion for restoration ecology, graduated from college in 2016 and launched my potato operation, Milkweed Tussock Tubers, seven months later. I purchased a house shortly thereafter and was working both with the spuds and my parents on their 17-year-old farm, Bittersweet Farm. Financially, Bittersweet was struggling. Sales at the local farmer’s market, which had held the farm afloat for almost fifteen years by then, were plummeting. We would spend months growing crops and transplants, twelve hours preparing for market day, six hours at market, and go home with $120 gross.

We began making hard decisions, decisions that altered the general culture of both farms. I sold seed potatoes online, and my parents started reducing their days at market. We sought other, community-based ways of supporting our endeavors, and I prioritized grant writing and infrastructure repairs. We were okay until 2021.

Between 2021 and 2026, five human family members and an uncounted number of non-human family members died. There were a lot of reasons for their deaths, and I’m not going into them, but it was devastating. It changed everything, and it made farming - holding up an entire operation of 113.5 acres with four types of livestock, six gardens, three greenhouses and two households - both the only thing that made sense anymore, and an enormous, uncarryable load. Brian and I, as the last Bennetts in New York, entirely stopped going to markets. We attended fewer social events. At that point, I was managing both MTT and Bittersweet, combining the operations and figuring out what was and was not doable. One key result was that we weren’t publicly representing the farm(s), and eventually people stopped asking about ‘what we had for sale’.

It wasn’t an announced decision, this pulling back. I mean, yes, I mentioned several times over the course of two years of newsletters that I’m emphasizing appropriate scale and shifting priorities. But there was no official schedule and no plan for our “return” to the standard market setup the farm was previously part of. Locals knew that Brian’s health was suffering and I was largely alone. From an outsider’s perspective, we just…faded.

I don’t think anyone gossiping about this meant poorly. I think people were concerned for us, and communication about our evolution was not as explicit as I’d thought. People take comfort in the perceived immutability of community pillars, like libraries, art galleries, farms, and small businesses. And that’s…just not how life works. That’s certainly not how biology, grief, resilience or self-care work. There’s no one-and-done, no perfect fix, no exact plan. There is nothing we could buy or sell that would have renewed our spirits and our status as a consistent market farm with educational opportunities. We were undergoing five years of trauma, depression, internal screaming and the dogged companionship of loss. We needed to shelter in place, if you will, to rest and ignore the incessant demands of the off-farm world. I need(ed) space to rearrange and understand who I am, having experienced not just the deaths of multiple loved ones, but also now the twelve-second stopping of my own heart, post-December 2025’s car crash. Such events change a person in ways not always visible to egg customers.

Here is where I need to emphasize very clearly:

The farm is not going down the drain.

I’ll say it louder for the people in the back:

The farm is not going down the drain.

I don’t state this defensively. The farm is transforming. The farm and the farm manager (me, in case that wasn’t clear to new readers) have, to quote my favorite one-woman skit series, “…been rearranged and revolutionized. Historically, those are never easy things, but they almost always lead to growth. All that’s left is to clean up the rubble and rebuild.”

We are still in that rubble-cleaning stage, which seems to be making people question whether or not we’re going to keep farming.

But in the midst of this Winter’s emergencies, while latching onto the advise fellow farmers were providing, I read this quote by the astounding Ursula K Le Guin:

“What goes on too long unchanged destroys itself. The forest is forever because it dies and dies and so lives.”

As an ecologist, I particularly love this. It’s metaphorically and literally true. When the rabbit is torn to shreds by the coyote pup, the carrion beetle larvae find food and a nest in bits of intestine. When fire rips through the undergrowth, charring every plant but the sequoias, seeds are stratified and finally able to germinate. When humans release ideals they’ve been fearfully clinging to, truer opportunities arise.

And this process takes time. There are cycles and setbacks and partial beginnings and forked roads and uncertainty and brilliant moments of understanding and grace. But none of that matches the expectations set by the cutthroat world of industry, capitalism and the underlying pressure to ‘bounce back.’ Society’s standards of personal well-being are tightly woven into our beliefs of what professional success looks like, and how that should be displayed to consumers. It’s an unspoken terms and conditions contract: “I agree to only let the deaths of my family members keep me from selling you kale for six months. I will do everything in my power to meet or exceed your commercially-oriented expectations. I know that my failure to do so will result in a loss of your loyalty and provided income stream, ending with my bankruptcy and potential homelessness.”

It’s that final sentence that lives in our chests - the fear that if we take a step back, breathe and reorient our lives and desires, we will be left behind and suffer (more so than we already do.) So we push ourselves. We ignore the pain in our shoulder and the ache in our hearts, hypervigilant that we must anticipate and meet “someone else’s” needs.

I’m changing that.

In February, I started exploring questions I hoped would direct me towards greater honesty with myself and those around me.

• What or whom is trying to die?

• What parts of the farm can hibernate this year?

• What does healing and/or recovery really look like?

• How can I be at peace with making decisions that best serve myself and the whole of the farm, knowing many will not recognize the wisdom in those choices?

• Who is sick or hurting?

• What does memory and the honoring of the past look like here?

• Which relationships nourish, and how can I nourish those whom with I share deep, loving connections?

• How can I nourish myself?

For the first time in my adult life, I get to make every decision with confidence and joy. Digging deep and letting go has opened space for me to spend more time doing work that I love, with people I love, with the farm at the core. This is what self-care looks like for me. Nothing is immediately ‘fixed,’ but I feel satisfied at the end of each day, and comfortable in the belief that such positivity has the chance to continue.

I’m probably making it sound easy, like I flipped a switch and was enlightened. And yeah, okay, maybe getting hit in the head by 106,000 pounds of milk truck did trigger a cheat code in my brain. But what is happening now is the accumulation of those years of hibernation and stress, and I am finally getting to shake off some of the load and compost the dust.

There will still be concern from others, and many, many dreams will be going into that compost pile. There will be death, which will make way for life. And life will make way for death. I’m still going to have months where I really don’t leave the farm, and days when hibernating takes precedence. If I may toss in a food-related analogy at the end, though, I’m not hibernating so much anymore, I’m fermenting. The farm is fermenting. We’re a big crock of bubbles and sugars and bitters and yeasts and carbon dioxide, and we don’t look like much on the surface. But someday, the lid will come off, and we will be able to share our rich, complex, hard-won flavours with the world.

Much Love,

Kia-Beth

Thank you all for your infinite patience. Every month, I intend to be more consistent with these newsletters, making sure they arrive in your inbox by some specific, set date. Every month, that doesn’t happen. Every month, I feel guilty about it. I am trying to release that guilt; life here is forever chaotic, and I simply need to trust that you, readers, are comfortable with my writing schedule and my shifting style. So thank you, both for your interest and for the lesson.

In 2015, poet, gardener, and author Ross Gay published Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude, a book that includes the eponymous poem thanking, over the course of 253 lines, everyone and everything from johnny jump-ups to a neighbor who saved a local peach tree from frost to a friend who’d died and left love behind. I was lucky enough to hear Gay read in person (highly recommend!), and he mentioned that he practiced daily, for a full year, writing down something to be grateful for. He said it became easy, that things such as the buttons on his shirts became inspirational in their simple, well-served purpose.

Such is a kind of gratitude, joy and generosity I aspire to, but it’s certainly not a cultural practice I grew up with. Case in point: about a month ago, someone suggested I “talk to my therapist about why I was willing to give to those who give me nothing in return”. And though I could discourse all day on Kropotkin, mutual aid, the survival of a species through nothing less than giving and cooperation, and freakin’ Minneapolis, a friend pointed out it’s difficult to be grateful for that which one doesn’t actively see. We’re not really taught to notice how someone else adjusts for us in their lives, what seemingly minor things they do that improve our existence. I took that to heart, in my own way - I started writing down both irritations I noticed in my relationships, and things I am grateful for. And, well…now the farm needs to figure out how to host the biggest barbeque our county has ever seen, because as it turns out, there’s a lot to be grateful for, and a lot of people to whom we’d like to show our gratitude.

So although the farm’s New Year doesn’t begin until potato-planting in May, let’s start 2026 off with some updates, some reflections, and a lot of gratitude.

Many months ago, I mentioned a huge change on the horizon: the farm was welcoming my two friends, Jude and Murph, to move 1,165 miles from their home and become farming partners alongside myself. A little anxious, neither Jude nor I truly believed it would happen until 5:43 am on December 3, when Brian opened the farmhouse door to a set of bedraggled, exhausted travelers, for whom he began making breakfast. I didn’t even know they’d arrived until two hours later; the news had me scrambling out of bed, stuffing Winter gear into canvas bags and rushing down the road to attempt any necessary damage control. I burst into Brian’s house with my dogs, shoving people aside and avoiding eye contact as I attempted to get my bearings. I think twenty minutes passed before hugs were given, with me informing Jude that I was a little pissed Brian got to see them first.

Since that day, things have been so very, very rocky. Not in our friendship or our work relationship, but in life in general and things beyond our control. On December 14, I was in an horrific car crash, totaling Blueberry, my Corolla, and sending me to two different hospitals. Turning into my driveway, I did not see the 106,000-pound milk truck coming over the hill. I was immediately struck, spun around several times, and landed in Joe and Emma’s ditch while the truck, driver, and his wife careened into Enos’s fence and field. I stumbled out the passenger door, yelling for help, and landed in a snow bank on a broken ankle. Fortunately, it being a Sunday, all of my neighbors were around, and the road soon filled with people assessing the damage, calling 911 and getting me a blanket and water.

Everyone involved in the crash walked away incredibly, incredibly blessed. I should, by the laws of basic physics, be dead - and it’s true that my heart stopped for twelve seconds in the ER. But I left with a tiny break in my ankle, a concussion, and no noticeable lasting cardiac damage. The truck driver had a gash in his forehead. His wife - the only one of us smart enough to be wearing a seatbelt - was completely unharmed. The vehicles bore the brunt of the damage, and it could have been so, so much worse.

Amazingly enough, however, the rest of life did get worse. Five days or so after I came home, the lights in my - and now Jude and Murph’s - house began flickering. I really wish it were ghosts, but on December 27, we had to shut the entire building down. The electricity, at 60-plus years old, had finally degraded to the point where it was no longer safe. My supplier removed our meter, and in a whirlwind of stress, flying blankets and car rides, three humans, four dogs and three cats moved in with Brian. Needless to say, tensions rose quickly. My recovery from the crash has included short-term memory loss, brain fog and total exhaustion, and suddenly I needed to coordinate an entirely new living situation, call electricians, and figure out how to buy groceries and get to my doctors’ appointments without reliable transportation. I burst into tears as I gathered up my rarest seed potatoes to bring them to safety.

Here’s the point in this story where I might usually feel I’m about to force cheeriness. No matter my newfound gratitude practices, it can seem awkward to me to attempt to inject optimism into my writing, given my cynicism and sarcasm in life. But I think, this time, it’s not really going to be forced. I think, this time, I don’t have much of a choice.

I know I’ve mentioned before my friend Adam, whose work at Sand River Community Farm inspires, informs and nourishes much of my own. I emailed him shortly after the crash, mentioning a mythical figure with whom those of us in his circle are familiar. Her name is Old Sally, and the tale, as recited by Adam, goes something like this:

“In order to learn about farming in community, I went around to all the old timers in the area. I wanted to listen to what they used to do, how they used to build culture. And I heard, repeatedly, stories with a shared theme: ‘Old Sally broke her leg one year, and for six weeks, all of her neighbors rotated schedules so that they could milk her cows every day, twice a day.’ Imagine how much Old Sally had to believe in her own self-worth, that she was worthy of receiving such gifts from those around her. Imagine a culture where you help someone because they need it, not because you’re anticipating payment.”

I think about Old Sally a lot. Sometimes, stories like that carry a glittery quality to them that makes them harder to recognize when they happen to you. Believe me, my parents have a story in which they were Old Sally - someday, I’ll tell it here. But learning self-worth and how to receive gifts is something you often have to experience directly, not through observation. This was the case with me.

The last direction I remember giving to my neighbor Joe before I was loaded into ambulance was to “take care of [Brian]”. I didn’t really specify what that meant - make sure he doesn’t have a nervous breakdown? Make sure he doesn’t try to drive himself to the ER? Make sure someone checks on him while I’m gone?

Well, Joe took my instructions to mean, “Make sure Brian isn’t alone on the farm. Make sure I send my sons Eli and David down every morning and every afternoon, for an entire month, to help feed and water all the animals.” And he did. That’s exactly what he did. For a full month, Eli and David did chores. Marilynn gave Jude and Murph rides to the grocery store. Brian kept me fed. Rick gave me rides to and from my house to pick up supplies. When Jude and Murph had to stay a few nights in a local motel, when they had to make an unexpected trip to the hospital, people stepped up. I acquiesced enough to let Jude create a GoFundMe, so we can accept assistance with the cost of replacing our electricity. Folks have been bringing food and checking in and overall making me wonder if, just maybe, I might actually be worthy of these folks’ gifts. And so I said in my email to Adam, “I feel like Old Sally. I don’t know what to do with those feelings.” And he suggested, perhaps in jest, “Maybe we should make a new holiday, Old Sally’s Day. When was it you got hit?”

I’m not sure December 14 is the easiest time for people in a northern climate to gather, but I like the idea. I like the idea of recording my gratitude, and then being able to express it in a grand, fun way. So here’s a thank you to the extraordinary people supporting myself, Brian, Jude, Murph, and the entire farm as we recover. Thank you to the Farm Committee, the neighbors with cars, the local punk scene, the area queer community, our friends, our family, the land, and those gifting money, food, suggestions and a listening ear. Thank you to Eli and David. Thank you to my (deceased) maternal grandmother, whose car is now totally trashed but whom I’m certain kept me alive. Thank you to my other loved ones who’ve long since passed on, but whose presence I’ve felt regularly since that life-altering day. Thank you to the very kind insurance agents who’ve been guiding me through the chaos of paperwork. Thank you to Margaret Killjoy and Leeja Miller, whose podcasts, Cool People Who Did Cool Stuff and Why, America? keep me focused and informed. And thank you to me, for not giving up. To Jude, for cooking dinner. To Murph, for loving the animals. To Brian, for housing us. Thank you to you, readers, for appreciating my writing and hearing my voice. I am completely serious about that gratitude barbeque. Maybe we will call it Old Sally’s Day. It will certainly be in warm weather this Summer, not December, and you will all be invited. This farm will still be standing then, because of all of you, because of all of us.

I hope that gives you something to look forward to. I hope that, after the dust has settled, we can help ensure you’re still standing then, too.

Best, Kia-Beth

they/she/zi

Well, it seems that the season ran away from me. I had plans for the November newsletter, but now I’m adjusting to new housemates, recovering from a car accident and continuing to learn what this farm really is and what we will become. I’m certain I’ll send out another piece before the end of December; for now, I thought folks might appreciate a visual of our Autumnal activities.

For the third semester running, we were graced with the presence of St Lawrence University’s student-led chapter of Habitat for Humanity. Spearheaded by Renate, an enthusiastic carpenter from Norway, this group spent their every available weekend here, becoming an integral part of farm life. Their original mission was to assist with construction of the Summer Dacha, a small, two-room barn built for pigs, cattle and sheep. With that quickly accomplished, they moved on to the Snuggle Tunnel, where the sows and gilts farrow. As drought and frost hit the gardens, activities diversified. Elizabeth harvested scads of potatoes, Lauren learned how to rotate the sheep, Gretchen moved hundreds of gallons of rainwater, and Owen stacked several month’s worth of firewood. We spent one nerve-wracking but satisfying morning installing roofing and a weathervane, with Ellie, Renate and I balancing on ladders and rafters while I tried not to panic. Liz and I had great fun discussing ornithology and mammalogy, comparing which cool birds we’d seen lately. And everyone cheered the day that Lemon Balm, our gilt with spina bifida, got up and walked for the first time in months.

Habitat’s visits brought cheer, enthusiasm, exuberance and contentment to each week, and the farm would most certainly not be where it is without them. I hope you enjoy these photos as much as I do; all image credits go to the students.

Best,

Kia

Kia wanted to let you know that they are home safely and while they will need some follow-ups with the doctor, there are no permanent medical concerns. Kia has been able to rest, thanks to the gracious help of neighbors who have been taking care of the animals each day.

We appreciate all the texts, calls, visits, and outreach to Brian and the farm.

Sending you good wishes for a happy holiday,

Heidi

We will share more updates after the dust settles.

warmly,

Heidi

(heidi.a.bennett@gmail.com)

Today (Sunday, Dec 14), Kia-Beth was injured in a serious car accident near their home. Kia was taken to the hospital in Ogdensburg and will be transferred to Upstate Medical in Syracuse tonight for further monitoring. I know Brian is extremely worried and Kia must be feeling scared. If anyone local is able to check in with Brian, we would be most grateful. Brian’s vision is still not back to 100%, he is unable to drive, and of course, we are all very worried about Kia.

I will try to share updates as I hear them, but for now, if anyone local is able to check in on Brian to assist with farm chores or provide a ready-to-eat meal, the house phone at the farm is the best way to reach him: 315-344-0443.

Thank you for your support and care.

Sincerely,

Heidi Bennett (Kia’s cousin from Michigan)

heidi.a.bennett@gmail.com

For years, I’ve struggled to answer that question. When I inevitably succumb to my reality and answer honestly about whatever cataclysmic weather I’ve witnessed, I hear some version of, “Well, I can see how it’s hard for you farmers (not my emphasis).” Two weeks ago, when faced with said question, I replied that though I was grateful I could work comfortably outside, I was (am) incredibly concerned about the drought. The man initiating the conversation - a Canadian from Brockville - asked, without a trace of irony, “Now, why do you think that [the drought] is [happening]?”

Sir. In the past five years your nation’s forest fires have brought life-threatening levels of ash on the local airways. You tell me what the fuck the problem is.

The answer, of course, is human-caused, industry-fueled climate change. That it’s not on everyone’s minds every second of every day completely and utterly floors me. I understand that that is a privileged view, but I truly did not know it was possible to live without a constant stream of climate anxiety and micro-ecosystem solutions swimming in one’s blood. But here we are. North Country farms are parched, farms in Texas have washed away, and more people don’t get it than do, so this is how I'm articulating my experiences:

So much of this month has been visually stunning - the golden glow of the leaves and enormous, bright sky is amazing. I take pictures and dream of painting the hues I’m in awe of. While convalescing in bed with COVID last week, one of my favorite activities was admiring and listening to the maples, apples and walnuts outside my window, watching nuthatches, chickadees and squirrels scramble through the branches. I’m making friends with the chipmunk who lives amongst the young box-elders, and today’s rains find me desperately thanking every deity and spirit around.

And:

Trying to appreciate and live in the moment of this year’s Autumnal beauty is a lot like spending time with a loved one undergoing chemotherapy for Stage Four cancer. There are moments of beauty, laughter, warm breezes and good memories. There are times to cherish and exist in joy. Simultaneously, with the same weight, there is the menacing, powerful shadow that is both the disease and the treatment. The laughter does not stop the vomiting, the wasting away, the inability of your loved one to eat, or sleep, or walk without pain. The beauty stands alongside the omnipresent knowledge that today may be the last time they can see, or speak, or go to your house for a visit. Everywhere you look, you glimpse a future without them, and know that you must learn to navigate that, even as it’s occurring. You did not cause the problem, but it is now your responsibility, fear, and life. There is no other way but forward and through, and someone will die along the way.

That’s what it’s like. I can admire those golden leaves until they disintegrate, but my every moment is filled with thoughts of drought, soil compaction, overgrazing, insufficient snowload, late frosts, plant-based nutrient density, disease overload, insect incursions, seed production and release, breeding schedules, predator needs, cold and heat tolerance, and parasites - and that is a short list of just the Autumn and Winter concerns. So honestly? No, it’s not a beautiful day. The sky is beautiful, the plants are beautiful, the animals are beautiful, and it is a day. But I’m always going to see the bigger picture, which is that, in the middle of a hundred-year drought, we are metaphorically drowning.

Well. That was, compared to every other newsletter, pretty short, and I’m not going to leave you all there. But, like I mentioned, I have COVID and brain fog and so don’t really give a crap about anything right now. You'll have to wait until November for descriptions of how we're surviving the climate crisis. You will instead, this month, be treated to an extremely rare, much-sought-after, difficult-to-find description of pure positivity regarding the BMC, by yours truly. Congratulations!

But Kia! You may exclaim. But Kia! Wherever will I get my tales of hypothermic piglets, selenium-deficient rams and infuriating classism? Who else writes with such candor about destroyed gardens, empty bank accounts and dying cows??

I know, I know. There are actually very few people willing to discuss the nuances of stomach worms in ewes and their subsequent health crises. You’re just gonna have to put up with it, I suppose. I completely understand if two-thirds of a newsletter being filled with cheer is too much for you. You are welcome to leave, stock up on genocides and fascism elsewhere, and come back next month. I understand, I really do.

However, for those of you seeking, or attempting to swallow, something you can smile about, there’s a lot on the farm to be proud of this year. In no particular order, here is an incomplete list:

The last batch of chicks was raised in the open-air processing shed, rather than the farm office. This reduced dust in the office, and gave the chicks the opportunity to verbally interact with the free-roaming adults, improving their mental well-being, education and growth. They were far better equipped to move outside, and they formed bonds with certain roosters and hens in ways I’d never before seen.

We successfully raised six bottle-baby piglets to weaning, despite having never raised even one bottle pig to weaning. I learned a lot about colostrum, E.coli and garlic while I was at it.

Our carrion beetle population skyrocketed again, demonstrated by the astounding number of adults and larvae feeding on Elmer the bull’s skull this Spring.

Our young apple trees produced full-size apples!! They’re still hanging on the trees, as they are late-season and hard as rocks right now. Despite the wet Spring, we also harvested a good number of pears.

The first killing frost hit before the late blight, saving the potatoes and tomatoes from said disease. Thank goodness.

My fig tree is now too big to comfortably fit in the bathroom. They need a bigger pot and a better window, and I need to learn to prune them before they hit seven feet tall. Our houseplant population is collectively reaching the triple digits and includes trees, vines, geraniums, spider plants, succulents and fuchsias.

I’ve now traded beef with our neighbor for two truckloads of premium firewood - never done that before!

I made two large batches of salsa again: classic mild and green tomato. I particularly love the green tomato.

We’re still enjoying last year’s relish, which Brian raved about last week as I reminded him it was, in fact, made with unripe pumpkins instead of cucumbers, as we didn’t have a cucumber harvest. We also still have plenty of catsup, tornado sauce, and dried tomatoes.

We formed the Farm Committee, a group of advisors who meet with me via video-call once a month. They provide encouragement, suggestions, ideas and listen as I walk through what the next steps here are.

I butchered my first sheep, eviscerating them between animal care and skinning them in the Solarium. Emily came North again and taught me about how to cut them up.

I butchered my first pig. She weighed way more than I anticipated, and by ‘butchered’ I mean ‘skinned, quartered and stuffed in a freezer’, but hey! She’s dead, she’s eviscerated, and someday she’ll be bacon. That was an interesting birthday night.

Speaking of birthdays, I managed to, for the second year in a row, travel to Sand River Community Farm for mine. I stopped and visited Ravenwood Herbals, spent time planting potatoes (not what I’d planned, but Adam asked…) ate great food and met great people. The farm here was graced with seven volunteers who helped Brian while I was absent.

Student-led groups have volunteered at the farm every available weekend this and last semester, participating in tasks that range from cement work to light carpentry to potato harvesting.

The sheep are now well-trained and eager to follow a bucket, move to new pasture, and take appropriate shelter at the end of the day. They wait patiently for me at the gate and are extremely communicative about their needs. This has been years in the making; previously, the sheep very much existed on their own in Spring and Summer, only interacting with humans during lambing season. Nowadays, though they are still reasonably skittish, the level of trust we have in each other is mind-blowing, and it creates a better farm environment for everyone.

Carly and I were able to rescue the peppermint and orangemint from being choked out by weeds in the garden, and they are growing nicely in Greenhouse #2. The parsley, chives and tarragon are also doing splendidly, and the sage and wormwood are recovering from a rough time last year.

The katydid population at my house was just incredible. Katydids kept me awake at night, crawled into the house, stuck to the porch screen and more. I was thrilled and can’t wait for the next boom cycle.

I met my second ever rove beetle this month, having met my first last Summer. The rove beetles around here are long, gray creatures with gold, sparkly tails who live in the piles of cow manure.

We now have 381 subscribers to this blog, with 12 of them paid, and we’re grossing $582 annually from those amazing folks. I mentioned last month that that covers two months’ mortgage payments each year.

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Despite the drought, the phlox at my house clung to life, and their prolific blossoms provided the many, many, many sphinx moths and many hummingbirds nectar late into the season, nourishing those tiny flyers before migration.

I saw my first snowberry clearwing sphinx moth. I’m not making that name up, click the link. It was so cool. I also assisted two newly-metamorphosed white-lined sphinxes, and found two luna moth chrysalides. I’m a fan of moths.

The American toads from last year survived the Winter, and have been traveling around the farm a lot in the past month or so.

Our blue-spotted salamander population has grown enough that I watched them migrate across the road in Spring.

Our red-bellied and milk snake populations both increased.

Looks like we’re a serious stopover for migrating tree swallows. Last year I counted three separate flocks coming through; this year there were five. We’re also now a stopover for white-crowned sparrows and spotted sandpipers.

A Blandings turtle momma tried to nest in Greenhouse #2. Unfortunately, I walked in as she was digging and she left, but that was actually probably good, as it got too hot in there for her eggs. I hope she found a safe location elsewhere on the farm and that the kids are alright.

After over a decade of uncertainty, we recorded new proof of black-billed cuckoo birds living in the farm forests. I think we can hesitantly say we’re hearing grouse again, too, and we once more recorded savannah sparrows, rusty blackbirds and golden-winged warblers.

We expanded the third Little Farm Library, tripling the number of books we’re able to offer to neighbors. Traffic has increased and I’ve been sorting through what we have left to ensure we’re stocked with our patrons’ favorites. If anyone has books in need of a home, we’d be happy to add them to our shelves. Children, young adult, Amish fiction, and farming books are the most popular.

It was a mast year for the black walnuts, and several bushels of them are drying in Greenhouse #1 for Winter use. They’ll be eaten, shared with the pigs, and the husks used as a vermifuge.

The garlic harvest was wonderful, and we successfully added a new variety, Georgian Fire, to the mix. Many thanks to Campus Kitchens, who performed the bulk of the digging.

The Snuggle Tunnel and Summer Dacha - buildings where pigs, sheep, cows and chickens live at various times - both saw a continuation of their construction. They remain unfinished, but anyone with a little carpentry experience is welcome to assist in nailing on the siding and screwing on the roof.

I was again able to attend the littleGrasse Community Farm Annual Swap. Folks from around the area spend a wonderful afternoon visiting, sharing and trading what each of us have made or grown throughout the year. It was something my mother and I made sure to always attend, and I’m glad I didn’t miss it.

We had a lovely visit with our relatives John and Kathy, who traveled East from Indiana. I’d not seen them since I was...eight? and we were able to wander the farm, take pictures and catch up. Thank you to them both for the wonderful gifts they left with us.

For the first time since the start of Bittersweet Farm, the pig sounder was able to harvest and eat acorns from our five-tree oak “forest”. They adored them, and I am ecstatic to see that very long-term project really begin to blossom.

Someone pulled up to the farm last week and asked if we needed any rain barrels. We managed to purchase over a dozen secondhand, food-grade, plastic barrels to put under every roofline, and we’re collecting rainwater as I type.

If even half the chickens continue to lay sporadically this Winter, we will have enough eggs. The birds are so healthy and even the pullets are laying quite prolifically.

For two months this Summer, the Dexter cattle, the ewes and four sows all grazed, relaxed and lived together in the Oak Pasture, an example of multi-species existence I’ve been working towards for years.

I was forced into scaling back, recognizing my limitations and generally establishing new guidelines for farm ‘production’. It’s been an excruciating process, and there is still a laundry list of things to do to create positive change around here, but it was a much-needed push into a more sustainable way of life for myself, Brian and the farm.

We had a white heifer calf. A white heifer, y’all - we have no white adults; she took us completely by surprise. Her name is Senna, she’s growing at an unprecedented rate, and she shows clear signs of becoming the matriarch of the herd once Galadryal steps down. She’s great with the younger calves and incredibly attentive to safety and family.

All of this year’s calves are great, really. There’s Senna, Peanut Butter (I call him Hayweather), Estrella and Chicory. Estrella and Chicory were each born to mothers who’ve miscarried in the past, so they were a real gift. In their honor, I will finish with a fun bovine tale.

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Humans are dumb, way dumber than mother cows. Case in point: whenever I can’t find a calf, I insist on searching for them. After years of literally standing next to calves and not seeing them, you’d think I’d learn that if Momma isn’t concerned, I shouldn’t be. Nope. I panic. I have nightmares. I spend hours looking for babies while the adults make fun of me. But I accept my fate! I know I won’t change, and that’s okay.

However, when Estrella was born, I felt I had reason to fear. This was, of four pregnancies, only the second Galadryal, my ox, had carried to term. But the day of Estrella’s birth, I wasn’t even sure that had happened. I was somehow under the impression that the contractions rippling through Galadryal’s body the night before were actually just back pains, and I was certain she wasn’t due for at least two more weeks. When I saw she’d given birth but still had a small (potentially underfilled) udder, I assumed the worst. (Our cows give birth in the field or shrubland on their own, unless there are indications they need assistance. I recognize there are criticisms of that practice, but I care deeply for my animals and do everything I can while still giving them space to be cows, not fancy pets or machines.) When I couldn’t find said calf, but Galadryal seemed content, my mind jumped to her health. Galadryal’s mother passed of what we think was milk fever (plummeting calcium, happened at night), so I started to worry that Galadryal had birthed a healthy calf, but was going to die of milk fever, too, and I still couldn’t find the baby. For two hours on Estrella’s first full night, I wandered the Highland territory, completely convinced my favorite cow and her calf had perished. After exhausting myself, I collapsed at the top of the cow hill.

I’m sure you can guess what happened next - lo and behold, Galadryal walked up to me from down in the South pasture, leading a fluffy, sturdy, bright-eyed baby. While I burst into tears at the sight of them both, Galadryal motioned the calf to meet me (“Here is the human. We like this human. They’re safe to approach.”) and motioned to me (“Here is my calf. Isn’t she wonderful? Now will you stop freaking out, I’m proving she’s alive.”). After several long, gut-wrenching moments of introduction, connection and peace, Galadryal said to me, “We’re going to go now,” and led Estrella, named after the shining stars, back down the hill.

And that is the story of how my cow reminded me I’m an idiot. Okay, okay, I know it was actually a really heartwarming recollection, and is one of my most treasured memories, but it was also proof of my stupidity. Ah well. Everyone’s still fine. No, I don’t have any decent photos. But Estrella is growing like a weed, and Galadryal is as healthy as can be. That’s all I can hope for right now.

Good luck to everyone, and may you, too, gather some goodness before Winter arrives.

Kia-Beth

zi/zir and they/them

Farm Website

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I’ve thought long and hard about what I’ll write here, how I’ll direct my thoughts and what I want to express to you all. A conversation with my friend and fellow writer, Adam, has had me questioning how much to report about September’s events. Not that any of it is sensitive information or requires a trigger warning - just that, as my therapist says, sometimes we must show ourselves and others a little grace. In this case, that means a lack of details, and that is what I will attempt.

What you need to know is this: critical infrastructure that supports basic Winter living here is breaking down. Recently, some folks decided they wanted to financially help with that. I should have been, in so many ways, thrilled. And when it’s all said and done, I will be enormously grateful, and life will, hopefully, be a little easier. That dream of ease, however, has involved unnecessary anxiety, nausea and stress, causing me to reexamine and hone in on my beliefs about capitalism, class, gifting, communication, mutual aid and what it means to support one another.

I’ve discussed our finances in this newsletter before. We’re a gift-economy farm, we care for and rejuvenate the ecosystems we belong to, we eat the lavishly delicious foods we grow, we share and borrow and barter with the neighbors, and I have an outside income that, at the end of each month, leaves my bank account with around $300.00 left in it. Before I hit 15, I genuinely didn’t realize my family was considered ‘poor,’ because I was measuring wealth in the number of cows I hugged each day, the sizes of the trees I climbed, the incalculable number of art supplies around (left over from my parents’ college days and their encouragement of our creativity), and the homemade pasta sauce bubbling on the stove at night. My vision of poverty involved concrete, city lights, and the inability to play outside, because there were no open spaces, fields, forests, or swamps to explore. (I suspect this gives you an idea of my favorite childhood activities. Not much has changed on that front.)

Not much has changed in how I view wealth, either. I see money as nothing more than a tool used in this specific socio-economic setup that is capitalism. I value jam, fresh air, muddy muskrat tracks, a hyper-fluffy secondhand bathrobe, the whistle of a yellow warbler, the warm space between two friends as they process rose petals in a small kitchen. In my heart, actions and connections cannot be replaced by a lump sum of cash.

I recognize my words sound either heartwarming or harsh, or perhaps both, depending on your own relationship with wealth. I’m not unaware of my mortgage, and the donations we receive through this Substack account actually cover two months of payments a year. I am astounded on a regular basis by the gratitude expressed via regular contributions from readers, by the unspoken but inherent encouragement to carry on. I mean no insult to those who contribute how they can. What I do mean is to explain why the offer we received to assist with Winter infrastructure started out poorly for me and got worse from there.

Large monetary donations make me apprehensive. Having applied for - and received - a half-dozen grants over the years, as well as worked with several non-profits, I’ve noticed some basic, disturbing similarities between high-dollar donors, be they individuals, governmental organizations, or the aforementioned non-profits.

One: As the amount of money rises, so do the number of expectations for the recipient by the donors. Two: The expectations do not account for the fact that the recipient’s plate is already full. Three: The donor considers the donation to be their only responsibility, meaning money is supposed to make up for a lack of communication or efforts at understanding the on-the-ground situation. Conversely, they often still want to feel involved or acknowledged in other ways. Four: The recipient is responsible for explaining, educating and ‘proving’ to the donor that the work they are doing with said donation not only meets the donors’ approval, but demonstrates to the world the Good Job done by the donor.

So let’s note four things (yes, this seems to be a newsletter of lists):

One: This is considered the norm under capitalism, and exists in large part as a result of capitalism. Most wouldn’t question the ways in which it supposedly ensures fraud prevention, effective direction of funds, the continuation of grant programs, and appropriate actions regarding taxes and write-offs. Two: This is unsustainable. Three: This is not how to support small farms, next-door neighbors, or your cousin who, after getting their hours cut at work, can no longer pay the rent. Four: You might have noticed I’ve been using the terms ‘donor’ and ‘donation’, rather than ‘gifter’ and ‘gift’. Each of the similarities listed turn what could be a gift into a donation, straddling that socially invisible gap between mutual support and a business transaction.

Okay, having now absorbed my past experiences and understandings of these complicated relations, we can return to the meat of the tale.

The farm needed replacements for vital infrastructure; a few people offered the funds to do that. Communications were sketchy from the start, relying primarily on Brian’s understanding and discussion of the situation and continuing in a lopsided, frustrating game of Telephone between him, myself, the contractors and the donors. And I let that happen for a while. I let my anxiety and apprehension overrule the need for articulation. The Telephone game resulted in a distressing level of misunderstandings, inaccuracies and assumptions. Expectations for me seemed to grow - I was to obtain estimates for approval, take pictures, describe in detail the infrastructure needed and its future installation, and teach the donors about “life in the North Country,” and “what is needed for a North Country Winter”. There was a subconscious, then vocal, distrust on the donors’ part of any contractors or materials suppliers I wanted to hire who did not have a “professional website” or use email. There was an undercurrent within that bias that suggested I was not trusted to choose contractors or know my own needs. More than three weeks in, it emerged that the donors wanted, or had wanted to be considered, or had thought of themselves as ‘equal partners’ to the farm in this project. They attempted to provide input to the decision-making process regarding subjects with which they had no familiarity. They also wanted this project to be a method by which we would “get to know each other; they wanted to get to know [me].” All of the unspoken, and then spoken, notions on their part threw me for a complete and utter loop. I had absolutely no clue the donors felt the way they did.

I wholeheartedly acknowledge that the donors and I come from very, very different worlds, and no harm was ever intended on either side. The farm had a problem, and they wanted to fix it. Our understandings of what that meant and how it should manifest were unintentionally at odds with each other. Intentional or not, however, that divide, coupled with an extreme lack of communication, meant that what I thought was a generous, no-strings gift became a reward I had no choice but to jump through hoops to pursue, because it’s not like the money was going to manifest itself some other way. After initially holding my tongue to avoid upsetting anyone, I snapped. I explained in loud and explicit terms that I was a hairsbreadth away from dropping the project and walking, that the stress caused by expectations, miscommunications and distrust made the benefits pale in comparison. I spoke of how this felt like saviorism, because the decisions and proposals the donors were making were severely uninformed and inappropriate for the farm. I said that if the conditions of receiving assistance were I educate someone who was using this project to ‘feel like one of the gang,’ then it was not a gift. I shook as I talked. My adrenaline skyrocketed for 24 hours. I was absolutely infuriated by the narrative that the donors seemed to have been telling themselves; namely, that this was an enjoyable, mutually-beneficial opportunity in which a monetary donation could be the language we used to connect. It was even stated to me that the donor’s money was something they had as a result of hard labor - I don’t deny that, but given my lack of funds, this statement directly suggests an inexplicable belief that my labor is less valuable, or that my career choice is below theirs, because farming has no worth in capitalism.

In the end, the donors have decided to give $10,900.00 total. This is huge, I do know that. Some of the money is already spent. I will be grateful for the finished project, and it will, undoubtedly and irrevocably, make a positive difference for the farm and those living here for at least the next decade, bare minimum. It’s also been a hard lesson for me. Never again will I keep quiet when a ‘gift’ includes terms and conditions, nor will I ignore poor communications or accept being questioned and patronized by someone offering support to myself or the farm. I need to know all parties are coming in with faith in each other. I need to feel trusted and be able to trust. It’s a lot to learn.

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So why am I telling you all this? Catharsis, for one. But also my incessant ability to connect specific moments to the greater whole. Things are getting excruciatingly more challenging, in many cases downright catastrophic, for almost everyone, everywhere. We need each other, and the hyper-independence of this capitalistic nation means most people don’t really know how, or feel comfortable with, assisting others. When was the last time you asked your neighbor for a ride to the mechanic, or offered one? And what on earth does support even mean? I’ve mentioned the phrase “reckless generosity” a few times, and no, it’s not one I came up with. But the idea is that when we seek to give, we give wholeheartedly, understanding that the recipient will use the gift however they see fit. Their choice of use might not be something we approve of, understand, or deem necessary. But to recklessly give is to serve, to acknowledge that someone’s subsequent choices are not your business, and that efforts to exert control or maintain a power structure via a gift not only diminish the atmosphere of goodwill, they continue a legacy of haves and “only haves if one grovels and proves oneself worthy.” To apply worthiness to someone’s basic needs is to perpetuate the demands of a hierarchical economy in which the majority of us are first oppressed, then turned against one another.

We are each going to need more and more help from now on, and we are each going to need to offer more help. It doesn’t really matter how - whether the assistance is financial, physical, emotional or other - the key is that it’s actually helpful. The key is that we listen, we learn, we give, and we apologize when we screw up. The key is (and I know this is hard) to not be so damn afraid. This latest experience for the farm involved palpable fear on the part of the donors - fear that I’d be burned by contractors they’d not vetted, or that the money wouldn’t be used ‘effectively.’ That fear manifested itself as controlling and manipulative, somehow setting up a trial that I felt, if I didn’t pass, would mean an end to the necessary project. So all those times when you instinctively want to hold the door for someone, but you question yourself? Or you want to pay for the coffee of the person behind you in line? Or you really want to serve your community but don’t know where to start? Chuck that fear out the window. It’s not serving you; it’s not serving anybody. Listen closely to what people need. And give, recklessly and with abandon. At worst, it’s a social experiment and you stop after a few days. At best, it’s an integral part of a developing network of mutual aid, and it forever alters the entire world. I mean, why not try? I’ve heard unshackling ourselves and creating mass, positive social change is, in fact, a lot of fun.

Godspeed,

Kia-Beth (they/them and zi/zir)

P.S. Jude and Murph are coming to New York. There’s still a lot of paperwork and some irritating logistics to wade through, but they’re coming. I’ll have a lot more details in the next newsletter.

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When I sit down each month to pen these entries, however, the fork at which I find myself is undoubtedly black and white. Do I relay to you the positive aspects of the farm? The learning opportunities, growth and enjoyment? Or do I prioritize the most difficult, heart-wrenching events, the parts that bring tears and anxiety? I'll be honest: I despise persistent positivity. I find it an unreliable narrator, hiding the depths of reality. But then, such is the case with only viewing the negative and hardships. It is by divulging all details - frightening or fulfilling - that the whole story is revealed.

Perhaps, if this newsletter has a message, rather than merely being a report, then that is it. That the whole picture matters, and we must view every angle of the past and present to understand and create the future. And so within the limited pages Substack provides, I will report as much of our summer story here as possible.

As many of you know, in early July, my father Brian temporarily lost his vision. A detached retina and the resultant surgery meant he could see nothing and was on mandatory bed rest, then simply rest, for six weeks. Many, many community members jumped into action to assist where they could, providing food, performing secretarial, transportation and household tasks, and dropping in or calling to keep Brian from complete boredom. They donated $1,500.00 - enough to pay for an entire month of bills. They helped him sign up to receive regular audiobook deliveries from the Library of Congress. My old professor brought over dahl and rice, reminding me that that’s a food combination I could easily consume for every meal. Two of my cousins visited for three days. We felt very supported in a myriad of ways. As of now, Brian’s vision, if not his energy levels, are slowly returning. He can see, read certain fonts, draw, cook some foods, and has just begun to distinguish red, yellow and green again.

What this sudden change meant for the farm, however, was that an operation demanding six full-time workers was suddenly down from two people to one. I was performing morning and afternoon animal care alone while attempting to maintain the gardens, the farmstand, my own needs, and whatever Brian required assistance with. Suddenly, a lot of priorities were dropped. Beans and potatoes didn't get mulched, the chickens weren’t butchered, transplants were left in their pots, onions and peas weren't harvested, the farmstand closed and the holes in the fence were ignored. I've done almost no food preservation for the Winter, so I don't yet know what we're going to eat. A lot of meats, I suppose, because we do at least have them. The primary saving grace was that Carly stepped in to help three days a week. She tended the peppers, tomatoes, and herbs, did morning chores on my worst days, built a new paddock, rotated livestock and kept me socializing and mentally present. It's to her credit we're still standing.

In the midst of all this came the drought. The worst drought in Northern New York that I’ve ever seen, it lasted through all of July and August, causing the unmulched (mulch holds moisture) potatoes to die back two months early, the pastures to simply stop growing, and the coyotes to start prowling for meatier, more accessible prey. We lost four ewes before Carly and I found the tell-tale bite marks on the side of Nala’s neck; I lost one more by not getting the flock to safety in a timely fashion one night. I puked my way through three boughts of wretched heat stroke before purchasing a headlamp and committing to nocturnal activities. The pond went dry; little muskrat pawprints hardened in the mud. Through a miraculous blessing, we have not once lost any of the three wells the farm relies on, and we’ve rain barrels established under every roof. The dry weather meant we could purchase quickly-seasoned hay from the neighbors, and as of right now, all three barns are full for the Winter. And even as the gardens struggled - even with a dry pond - the whole-farm ecosystem is diverse enough, with high enough soil organic matter and pockets of shade that the insect, birds and mammal populations have been sustained. My yard was filled with the deafening, brilliant songs of dozens of katydids for three weeks. I distinctly recall admiring the amazing black cherries as they ripened, only to then discover the trees entirely stripped by our resident cedar waxwings. The coyote-killed ewes fed the local eagles and vultures alongside the pack. The barn swallows fledged two sets of chicks. The garter snakes turned an astonishing rust color (though I still don’t know what that was about). The sphinx moths had an astounding population boom and moved right into my phlox patch.

But the overarching strain of handling an entire farm with only a half-woven safety net has manifested itself in strange ways for me. I’ve had to land my anxious thoughts firmly in my body, releasing mental control and moving with the waves. I’ve been quite isolated, learning to re-orient the farm schedule, priorities, and activities to suit my instinctual needs, desires, and the effort to simplify and restore the farm structure. There are a lot of presumptions and lessons I’ve been letting go of and unlearning, asking, ‘how flexible can the animal feeding schedule be?"‘ Or ‘how much rest can be incorporated into daily farm life?’ I’m strategizing what really works for me, not my parents, past customers, or general societal expectations. Trusting my body and trusting the land are now synonymous, resulting in climate resilient actions for and better relationships between farm and farmer. For instance, that headlamp? It allows me to relinquish the idea that my work must be done during the day (putting me at risk of a medical crisis), while also granting me the opportunity to respect the needs of the plants. They certainly don’t like it any more than I do when I weed, water, harvest or mulch in the heat and sun.

I write as if this transition has been a smooth process. It’s true that I, within a few days of working without Brian, felt a freedom of expression I rarely experience. I was finally able to say, “I like cucumbers, but you what I like more? Not being overburdened”, and then apply that concept to most of the things Brian had prioritized and I had, therefore, previously worked on. But transitions, even good ones, often demand more than we anticipate. There were weeks at a time that I desperately wanted to stay in bed, to be hand-fed nourishing meals while somebody else - anybody else - took on the responsibilities of my life. I’m in therapy twice a week, and my mental health wasn’t helped by the fact that Brian’s medical emergency overwhelmed my ability to remember my daily SSRI intake. I’ve fought tooth and nail to ensure I’m eating twice a day, drinking enough water, taking my meds, and keeping in touch with friends while still, still, bearing the load of farmcare and household duties. I’ve become far less tolerant of bullshit, of being disrespected, misgendered or having to endure circuitous, unfruitful conversations. I’ve discovered that if I’m not actively creating a better world, I have no motivation. I’ve found satisfaction in mending and repair. I’ve learned a lot about what I will and will not be doing next year.

If you’re not in the farming field, it may sound funny to already be planning May of 2026 whilst in September of 2025. I’m still working on this year, trust me. My aunt and uncle have generously offered to bankroll the much-needed heating system in my house, so Autumn will see a new furnace and two woodstoves installed, hopefully sooner, rather than later. We’ve got several animals to butcher once the weather turns cold, and we just had two beautiful heifer calves (their names are Chicory and Estrella). Most of the potatoes need to be harvested still, the gardens must be winterized, and at some point I’m going to have to buckle down and put by food so that we can actually eat in a few months.

But I learned a lot this Summer about my truths. It was one of those lessons I would’ve continued to kick down the road for the next few years, had I not been forced to face it head-on. I’ve written before about appropriately scaling the farm - sometimes I feel I’m repeating myself. But altering twenty-five years’ worth of practices and goals takes time, energy and resources, and I don’t have much extra of those. I also don’t have a lot of examples of farms that prioritize scaling down the way I want to, or those that include relaxation. Reducing the labor force down to, essentially, the total efforts of one person means I’ve really had to come to terms with my own limitations. But the landscape I’m moving towards is becoming clearer. I want a farm whose infrastructure is set up so that one person on their worst day can still do the basics…but that there’s never an extended time when one person must. I want a farm that is highly diverse and provides sanctuary and nourishment for those in need for any reason. A farm that is stable, well-established and therefore ready for any and all emergencies, be they climate, socially or economically induced. A farm that shares, but most especially that asks for and receives help.

I was raised to find particular pride and enthusiasm over producing “every last bit of food on the dinner table ourselves”. A meal where you can celebrate that, sans the salt and pepper, is an incredible experience in flavor, connections, color and more. But pushing oneself to produce ‘everything’ one needs, to create a farm from which you need never leave to find physical sustenance, can create a scarcity mindset as easily as relying on strategically-emptied grocery store shelves. Hyper-independence makes one forget to borrow the sugar, to ask for help moving a couch, or to touch base when a neighbor is struggling. For myself, it means tremendous shame if I don’t get the tomatoes canned or the broccoli in the ground, or if I purchase mayonnaise instead of whipping some up with our eggs and homebrewed vinegars. (I’ll admit, I have some problems.) My family has always been so capable, to imply I’m incapable of something has felt for so long like a betrayal of the legacy I’ve inherited. Making the decision this year to purchase or trade for food was excrutiating. Every time I step up to a farm stand, I’m calculating how much I can afford versus how much less stressful it is to rely on my neighbors than grow my own right now. It feels like a cop-out - I like growing my own, I encourage everyone to try. I don’t even really have the money to buy food. But despite my misgivings, it’s the right choice this year. I’m getting to know the neighbors from whom I receive jams, milk, pies and peppers. I’ve borrowed weed-whackers, saws and gotten rides to the mechanic. I have three little libraries set up for everyone on this road, and I make copies for folks, too. We don’t each need to do it all. I can rely on others. They can rely on me.

This is the long game. The farm is still evolving, I am constantly learning, and there is so much we need. I’m putting an enormous amount of faith in the ability of the animals and plants to tend to themselves, but if things don’t improve as Autumn moves through, there will be deaths. There won’t be enough pumpkins and other veggies for the livestock, there won’t be enough money in the bank. There won’t be enough socializations to keep my sanity from tipping over the edge.

But it’s raining as I finish writing this. I have a pig living under an apple tree. The sheep are safe. I’ll take my meds tonight. I purchased salad greens from another farm. I’m asking the neighbors to help install my woodstove. The Ure pears are ripening. The orangemint is safe. Can I say with certainty that we’ll be okay? Well, I guess that’s what the neighbors are for. Maybe if I can ask for help, we will be.

Much Love,

Kia-Beth

zi/zir and they/them

P.S. I’ve received several questions about my friends in Mississippi, the ones with plans to move here as soon as possible. There’s been a major wrench thrown in the spanner - Jude’s mother has cancer and is undergoing treatment. Right now, Jude is acting as primary caretaker and despite our best efforts, the situation is not yet improving. The move is currently on hold, but absolutely still in the plans. The fact that my relatives are funding the improvement of my house’s heat means that when my friends do arrive, we’ll be better equipped to live together. For now, though, they’re dealing with things one day and crisis at a time. For more information and to support them, check out Amy’s Cancer Fund.

Thank you for continuing to read and engage with our newsletters! This is Heidi, again, with brief updates and reflections from the past month. As you may know, founding farmer, Brian Bennett had emergency surgery last month for a detached retina. He is healing, but recovery of his vision is taking time, and has been challenging.

We are so grateful for the support throughout the past month. Whether people have donated time, money, or food, called or visited Brian, or have stepped in to help with animal care, harvesting, or replacing broken well pumps, the community response has kept Kia and Brian going. Thank you.

I’ve been reading Prentis Hemphill, who talks about healing and community care in their recent book, What It Takes to Heal: How Transforming Ourselves Can Change the World. In it, they note, “There is a difference between visions that come out of the most individualistic tendencies and those that arise when we are able to admit that we need other people.” When I think about all the problems facing the world, especially right now, I can feel overwhelmed. This book has me reflecting on the promise of connection, mutuality, and empathy.

Admitting that we need other people is hard. We live in a culture that values independence, individualism, and “pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps.” But those frameworks simply aren’t sustainable or realistic. We need each other. I personally struggle with asking for help. I think it’s hard for most of us. It has been heartening to have experiences lately where sharing challenges or asking for help has been met with care and compassion. When we shake off the limiting mindsets of individualism, we can go farther together than we can go alone.

Thank you again for all your support. We still have a ways to go, and are still accepting help, visits, phone calls, at the farm.

With gratitude on behalf of Kia-Beth, Brian, and all the humans and non-humans that are part of the Bittersweet-Milkweed Collaborative.

-Heidi (she/her)

Meal Train Sign Up

Brian Bennett, founding farmer of Bittersweet Farm (and Kia’s father) is having emergency eye surgery today (July 10). We expect he’ll be out for about 2 weeks to recover. While he’s recovering, it would be a huge help if any local folks are able to drop off a meal. Kia-Beth will be the sole caregiver for Brian and the entire farm during this time, so any help is much appreciated!

We’ve set up a Meal Train if you’d like to sign up for a date. There’s also an option to donate money for those of us who want to support from long distance. (Thanks to William and Izzy for your contributions already!)

Kia will also need a hand with farm tasks, specifically animal care, so if you’re local and have experience on the farm, please reach out.

Thanks for all your care and support.

With love,

Heidi

Meal Train

“The trees act not as individuals, but somehow as a collective. Exactly how they do this, we don’t yet know. But what we see is the power of unity. What happens to one happens to us all. We can starve together or feast together.”
― Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants

So this is the conversation we had, with images included in an accurate timeline:

ZOE: “This is sooooooo cute!”

KIA: “Oh hey, can you take some pictures and post them on your Facebook?”

ZOE: “Oh hey, yeah!”

ZOE, TAKING PICTURES: “Wait no, stay in there!”

KIA: “Not wearing this!”

KIA: “Okay, that’s better, but I don’t know how to do this…”

ZOE: “Just lean up against something!”

KIA: “Lean up against something? Just…lean up against something? Like, what?”

ZOE: “I dunno, the doorframe!”

KIA: “Oohhhkaaaayyyy, just…” *casually leans up against the doorframe…*

ZOE: “Yup, just like that.”

ZOE: “That’s the one!”

KIA: “That was sooo awkward, okay, let’s go.”

Hoping you find some silly moments this month,

Kia-Beth

they/them and zi/zir

The Bittersweet-Milkweed Collaborative

Hello All,

I’m writing this at 1:10 am, hoping that putting words to paper will sort my thoughts. I’ve been constantly mentally bouncing between on-farm happenings, such as pepper planting and chicken butchering, and off-farm happenings, such as I.C.E. raids in my community and protests in Los Angeles. Individual snapshots crystalize in sharp contrast to my internal fog - sparkly, purple irises dripping with rainwater; the crackling of LAPD walkie-talkies; fuzzy, silver sunflower leaves unfolding. The shattered, bloody limbs of Palestinian toddlers; the milky scent of a new calf’s breath; the explosive chants of my neighbors. It’s all there, all the time.

I haven’t been sleeping much.

On top of that, I’m not someone who easily feels my own victories. Celebration does not come without effort, and even this year's enormous successes - working with Penny, the antique potato planter; the Blanding’s turtle nesting in Greenhouse #2 - seep slowly into my system and are stored in my brain as learning opportunities. Celebrating anything must be conscious and purposeful.

It was these thoughts that circled my brain as I bathed, selected three pairs of earrings, donned a newly crafted shirt and drove to Pride on June 14th. It was a gloriously sunny day, and I was ignoring all the weeding, planting, and mulching. It was also No Kings Day, and had I not attended Pride, I’d have shared the crowded sidewalk and acted as a street-medic-in-training. But it’s critical that even as we protest, we recognize what we’ve won. And so I drove an hour to Potsdam to do that thing I’m bad at: celebrate

When my parents began this farm, it was not touted as a “queer endeavor,” unless you use the historical definition of the term queer, meaning odd. But just as the land was renewed and altered, so the farm has evolved. These days, in part - but not entirely - because of my management we are a queer farm, meaning a farm (an adventure) that approaches ecology, environmental thought, sociology, food production, sharing, and economics through a lens that rejects societal and colonial categories of gender, sexuality, politics, ownership, and roles.

Life existing under the umbrella of queer philosophy is nothing new to planet Earth. The split-gill fungi unfurling themselves from our rotting logs are said to have 23,000 different sexes. The aphids on my potato plants reproduce parthenogenetically, meaning that 90% of them are females, clones, reproducing asexually. And farmers, ranchers and seed savers the world over have been diverse in gender, sexuality and relationship to one another since time immemorial.

Much of my childhood was laced with tales of fellow agriculturists. I could recite the names and accomplishments of Vandana Shiva, Joel Salatin, Elliot Coleman, Elizabeth Henderson, J.I. Rodale, Suzanne Ashworth, Rudolf Steiner and Lady Eve Balfour before I hit high school. I knew about the Navdanya Institute, Polyface Farm, MOFGA, NOFA, the Rodale Institute, Seed Saver’s Exchange, The Biodynamic Association, and The Soil Association. Even within this arguably unusual education, however, there were gaps. Despite the fact that 75% of the world’s food is grown by peasant women of color, only four of the eight people I listed are women. Only one is a person of color. And Rudolf Steiner quickly associated himself and his Christian, white, Euro-centric philosophies with the rising Nazi party. The idea that famous farmers could be queer, neurodivergent, or disabled was never even discussed. It wasn’t until age 30 that I learned Lady Eve Balfour, co-founder of The Soil Association, author of The Living Soil, and creator of the first recognized, decades-long comparison between organic and industrial agriculture, was also a lesbian. It's not as if she's some ‘relic of ancient history’ that we brush off as ‘being from a different time.’ She died in 1990. A queer farming icon died a mere four years before I was born, and I didn't know her as such until 2024.

That divergence from reality is a common problem in today’s agriculture propaganda. Imagine, if you will, the classic advertisements for “America's farmers.” What do you see? White, straight, cisgender men,* driving enormous trucks or tractors across barren cornfields. Dust flies. They wear a sweaty cotton T-shirt and puff up their chest as they bask in the glow of the rising sun. There's a drumbeat in the background.

The bigger picture is so, so very different.

‘Queer’ doesn’t have to just refer to gender or sexuality. At its most expansive, queerness is about freedom, community, and caring for one another. Sometimes we’re joyful. Sometimes we’re absurd. Sometimes we’re so completely serious we change the world with our existence.

I’ve given a lot of thought to how I can best describe what this philosophy truly means and you know what? I couldn’t articulate it the way I would have liked. But I asked my friend McKay, a queer farmer and Native Plant Technician at the Akwesasne Native Plant Nursery, and this is, word for word, his absolutely brilliant response:

“What is queer farming to me? Ideologically, honoring what our ancestors built as cultivators in the past and creating anew as we abandon the white, supremacist, imperialist, capitalist, heteropatriarchal, domination over the land. This means shifting into a space of care, understanding, and abundance for all living creatures, especially those most marginalized, as our lives are all interconnected on Earth.

Being Queer includes love for the land, community, self and spirit. All these spaces, connections, and identities are intertwined. I admire bell hooks’ (a Black feminist author) definition of Love: “Love is a combination of care, commitment, knowledge, responsibility, respect and trust…the will to extend one’s self to nurture one’s own or another’s spiritual growth.”

When you’re a farmer, the land is your longest lover and one of your most knowledgeable teachers. You must be respectful, have intention and dedication, ask and listen to its responses, or else further heartbreak will ensue! The past year, I’ve been studying rainwater harvesting and working with the natural features of the land. You can’t force an outcome (water won’t flow uphill). I’m learning to start small and simple, and observe how the work affects the site, ready to make adjustments based on feedback to improve the existence within the system. I try to do this in a way that doesn’t frame actions as evil mistakes, but rather learning moments I can carry forward into my farming practice. Sometimes these lessons translate to other parts of my daily life and relationships, too. How special!

And besides, anyone who is actually paying attention to Nature would know it’s Queer as Fuck. Bisexual flowers reproduce by themselves and are considered “perfect”, and animals change sex in order to maintain systems of life. We have been indoctrinated in all aspects of life, so my queerness is here to heal all those parts of me that were harmed, and that includes the land and people around me.”

Ignoring the queerness of this farm, the landscape, the world, is like painting with only 2/3 of the palette. It's dismissive. It holds us back. It's infuriating. It's deadly. And who chooses what society retains as common knowledge? How does the greater whole suffer as a result of those unused colors? How can we honor the past, present and future with such limitations?

Celebrating my queerness this month, and specifically at Potsdam Pride, means making space for renewal of the philosophies and love described by McKay. There, I can truly express myself as a multi-gender, queer regenerative agriculturist and artist, with a spark that sometimes gets ignored during the daily grind. It’s an opportunity to share with myself, my friends, and my community the astounding beauty of all the colors that exist not just within queer networks, but splashed across the entire planet.

This agricultural experiment, made of thousands of loving stewards, will continue to run as a queer farm. We’ll get better at celebrating the wins. And I hope, from the bottom of my heart, that those seeking queer space and the opportunity to renew their own such philosophies will be able to join us. I hope that we’ll all find comfort, strength and rootedness in exploring the true diversity of life.

Much Love,

Kia-Beth (zi/zir and they/them)

* Learn about neopronouns, like zi/zir, here.

* There is nothing inherently wrong with being white, straight, cisgender, male or a combination thereof. What is wrong is enforcing a history, legacy and future that favors those populations, when statistically their accomplishments have been equal to or in lesser abundance than those of the rest of the world.

To support the BMC efforts at creating queer sanctuary, please click this link. We’re still raising money to bring our farmer friends, who are facing discrimination and hate crimes in Mississippi, here to New York. If we’re successful, we’ll dig in and keep painting our area with all those beautiful colors.

To explore more queer farms and ways to support and become involved, check out these links:

24 LGBTQ+ Farms and Organizations Celebrating Community Through Food and Agriculture

Farming with Pride: LGBTQ-Led Farms and Organizations to Support

Queer Farmer Network

I'm happily working on the newsletter, but right now I want to briefly address a rumor that's apparently going around. It's recently come to my attention that friends, acquaintances and community members are under the impression that I “have a large, strong crew assisting on the farm this Summer.”

It's not a rumor meant to do any harm, but misinformation can be problematic. Over the past 25 years, the farm has relied heavily on volunteer labor. Several years ago, we began to hire one or two paid employees during the growing seasons, hoping that would lead to consistency in a trained workforce. With volunteers, work-share folk and employees alike came struggles and successes.

This year, we don't have the funds necessary to pay our part-time employees. Our weekend volunteers all come from St Lawrence University, and therefore are greatly reduced each summer. Our Farm Committee is strictly long-distance; our meetings take place over Zoom.

Our current on-farm workforce schedule looks like this:

Brian, working 6 - 10 hours a day, 7 days a week. Responsibilities include animal care, fencing and garden care.

Kia, working 8 - 15 hours a day, 7 days a week. Responsibilities include animal care, fencing, garden care, greenhouse care, farmstand management, seedkeeping, committee meetings, advertising, record keeping and coordination of farm events.

I in no way mean to discredit or ignore the sporadic assistance we do receive and give throughout the growing season. I recognize I've used the word ‘team’ to refer to those involved in the farm. By ‘team’ I quite literally might mean that I borrowed a saws-all from the neighbor and bought milk for the hoglings from the other neighbor. I've been approached by two different people hoping to coordinate a schedule whereby we each work on a project at the others’ farm every month. I was completely ready for that; it rapidly became apparent they were not, and those Summer plans have fallen through.

Look, this is not meant to invoke pity. I'm simply giving you the facts, because when we don't have all the facts, supporting once another can become way messier and more difficult than it needs to be

I love the farm. I love my work. I am eternally grateful to all humans and non-humans who've supported us, supported me, and continue to do so.

And the human work crew is two. Two humans, both with our own needs and hang-ups, doing the work of what objectively should be six to ten people. There's not a single local community member who attends opens volunteer hours. I don't have the capacity to advertise those hours more effectively, or create some sort of weekly work-party/neighboring/collaboration where we all share a home-cooked meal after three hours of labor. No matter how much I adore this work, there are many days when I don't eat breakfast, because I need to get out the door to catch the cows.

I don't quite know how to end this note. Perhaps with an open invitation to readers to explore what they think a farm should look like. It was never meant to be “one hardworking, red-blooded American male, rising at dawn and driving the tractor out to the field.” Food creation, just like food consumption, is to be done in community. Hands in the soil, hands around the table. If we're open, honest and willing to learn together, maybe we can get back there. I welcome your thoughts.

This short documentary film was created by Connor Shea as part of the course, Film and Media Action, in the Department of Digital Media and Film at St. Lawrence University. Many thanks to Connor for making and sharing the film!

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I’d like to express my heartfelt gratitude to the seven people who helped Brian run the farm the week of my birthday. Without your amazing efforts, enthusiasm for the work, and passion for learning, I would in no way have been able to take that much-needed vacation.

I’d also like to update folks on the status of the hoglings. At week four they began drinking and eating directly from a pan instead of a bottle. They stayed with Grandmother Alice until around week five, when our dear, dear old girl passed away. The kids were next moved into a mobile pastured pen, and after one week of helping to clean the garden, they escaped. They’re now living with Cousin Lemon Balm, who yesterday taught them the finer points of chowing down on pumpkins. They’re being treated for roundworm and will soon go to their new homes.

Lastly, a note on Alice. Several months prior to her death, she and I recognized that her disabled hips (childhood injury and scoliosis) were going to give out long before her heart. I talked to her about it and arranged to kill her “when the pain gets too bad.” On May 7^th, that is exactly what happened – her back end completely collapsed and she began to have trouble breathing. On May 8^th, she was put to rest while in a deep sleep. Her body has already nourished hundreds, and we will continue to enjoy and share her meat. We thank her for her unparalleled generosity in all its forms, and think of her daily.

And now, to the official May 2025 newsletter:

Five days ago, I began this piece wrapped in four layers of warm winter clothing. I could see my breath in the kitchen, and I lit a candle for coziness following afternoon animal care. Today, I am barefoot, having just planted a row of borlotti beans for my aunt. Compared to those in Tornado Alley, or living on the coast, I’ve barely experienced the climate crisis, but what I have experienced sucks. The pastures aren’t growing properly, and we’re leaning heavily on the greenhouses for as many crops as possible.

Despite this, the month of May has felt like a fresh start. Perhaps it’s the crisp blue sky on those rare sunny days, or the fact that I can finally look around in amazement at all the green, green, green. It might be the joy I feel watching our newest calf, a white Highland heifer named Senna (pictured above), barrel around the field at top speed. The latest batch of piglets is just as fast, scampering in and out of their father’s pen when mom needs a break. My new housemate’s propensity for cooking dinner has me actually eating regularly – I’ve had so much beef lately. I’m harvesting more: tossing green onions and garlic in with picanha steaks, steeping fresh lemon balm tea, fermenting lilac honey, dehydrating nettles and gathering bee balm for jelly. And last week, our neighbor stopped by to share sweet potato starts and extra asparagus.

The farmstand is finally open, filled with herbs, transplants, eggs, artwork and the largest “little” library on our road. We’ve spruced up the signage, making it more clear how this unique little stand works. All produce and products are offered on a sliding scale that starts at ‘Gift’, meaning ‘no charge’; we then include a suggested range of prices for each item. I’m satisfied with this system so far. It’s ensuring anyone can take home what they need, regardless of financial stability, while providing folks an opportunity to support the farm in a way which with they are familiar – purchasing power.

I may have mentioned in past newsletters that there is now a Farm Committee. It took a while, but I realized I really needed a group of trusted advisors. Friends who could listen, make suggestions and help me think through decisions without preconceived notions of what the farm is “supposed” to look like. We meet once a month and keep in touch via text, so that I feel less alone in my thoughts. It’s forced me to come to terms with, and often embrace, certain truths about myself and my work. Some of those truths are:

· I will not be scaling down the animals with ease, nor do I feel comfortable doing that. I’ve personally lost so many loved ones in the past few years that to choose to send someone else away feels like pulling myself apart. Sometimes this causes logistical difficulties.

· The whole farm is…healing. Infrastructure and housing are improving, gardens are being mulched, work is being simplified. Even Benny, the petrified feral tomcat I adopted, is far more comfortable and friendly with me these days.

· I don’t really care about selling food – I want to grow food for myself, friends, family and community, but I have no passion for trying to make money from the farm. I also still have a mortgage to pay, so am making an effort with the farmstand and other revenue streams.

· It brings me greater joy to do something in service of others or the bigger picture, rather than myself. I appreciate doing things for myself and my own pleasure, but it gets boring after about a week.

· This work is long-term. So often (especially when I feel isolated), I develop a feeling of “what’s the point?” But I’m leaning into the idea of settling in – not settling, nor settling down, but settling in. Humans are not going extinct tomorrow, and if I can help it, neither are the Blandings turtles or Gold-winged warblers. So even if it means years and years of commitment, someone is benefiting from what I do.

Right now, my mind is focused on simple goals. I want to restore my mother’s gardens and protect her perennials. I want to try new recipes using farm foods. I want to keep supporting my neighbors and enjoying the rewards of that. I want to visit the library, the coffeehouse, and attend our local Pride festival.

There are so many thoughts and feelings floating around in my brain, so many connections I could discuss. But like in April, I want to exist in some of the simplicity right now. Enjoy the blue-eyed grass blossoms and the first fireflies, the teeny-weeny baby grasshoppers and the abundance of currants forming. I want that most especially because very, very soon, things are going to get really busy, in large part because I once said in a phone call, “Well if you ever need, you can just come live with me!”

As many of you know, the farm is committed to acting as a sanctuary. It’s a long-term, evolving project, involving detailed understanding of the many needs of those who arrive here, be they endangered turtles, eager children, disabled gardeners or threatened tree species. Now, even as we delight in our growing crawdad populations, we must turn towards human requirements.

My dear friends in Mississippi have spent years facing increasing discrimination, health issues, malnourishment and financial crises. After careful consideration, they’ve made the difficult decision to leave their farm and head 1,370 miles north. By October, they’ll move in here, where we’ll dig in together and build a new life for us all.

This is our biggest project since the advent of Bittersweet Farm itself. Here in New York, we need to install wood heat in my house, finish insulating the upstairs and the breezeway, and put by extra food for Winter. In Mississippi, my friends need to pay for immediate medical needs, an appropriate vehicle to drive the 1,000-plus miles, and the general costs of travel, such as gas, road food and possible sleeping accommodations.

Over the course of the summer, we’ll host several more work parties, centered around preparing the living space for our new farmers. You’ll receive invitations to help create a welcoming, accessible environment for two people not only fleeing persecution, but seeking to make the North Country their home. We’re partnering with Potsdam Pride, our local LGBTQIA+ organization, to host a farm-based fundraiser – again, you’ll get an invitation as plans solidify. And there’s a GoFundMe site set up for $10,000 to cover the travel costs. As of this writing, we’ve raised $1,336.00 in one week. The link to donate includes a lot more detail.

I know a lot of people are feeling discouraged, angry, and devastated about the state of the world and are looking to do something in response. Mortaring my chimney or donating $35 might not feel like enough. Alone, it’s not. But you’re reading this, and someone else is reading this, and someone else is reading this, and I wrote this….and we can join hands. We can say yes to creating long-distance community ties with people we’ve never met, knowing the ripple effects will change lives both for good and forever. Truthfully? My friends are terrified to even put themselves out there online like this, because the hate speech and in-person attacks they receive are abhorrent. But I’m trusting you – our greater farming network – with their lives, the life of the farm, and the life of a better future, one where no one walks in fear. We’re here to take care of each other. Let’s make sure that keeps happening.

Wishing you all the best,

Kia-Beth (zi/zir)

Farmer Relocation Fund

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As a reminder, we're looking for about 6 volunteers to help us install new electric and page-wire fencing for the cows on Saturday, May 24 from 10am to around 2pm. Fencing improves rotational grazing, soil and ecosystem health, animal health, and keeps the cows from trying to cross the road!

If you can lend a hand for a few hours, it would make a huge difference to the farm! Volunteers with some experience are especially appreciated, but all are welcome.

Bring work gloves if you have them, and dress appropriately for the weather. Please wear close-toed shoes, so that everyone’s feet stay safe. If you would like to bring your own tools, or have any fencing materials or snacks to contribute, that is also welcome.

Snacks will be provided around noon. Please RSVP to 315-777-7245, milkweedtussocktubers@gmail.com, or on the Facebook event to help us plan.

📍 Location: 1249 St Hwy 184, Heuvelton, NY 13654
📅 Date: Saturday, May 24
🕙 Start Time: 10:00 AM
🍎 Snacks: Provided around noon

With gratitude,
Kia-Beth, Brian, Heidi & the cows

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In the April newsletter I mentioned that our next big farm project will be fencing improvements. Over the past five years, we’ve added to and repaired the fences already in place, and we’ve seen vast improvements in rotational grazing, soil, animal and ecosystem health, and our ability as farmers to tend to the whole.

Now, we’re hosting our first-ever fencing party and we would love for you to join us. We’ll be installing new electric and page-wire fencing for the cows and are looking for volunteers—those with some experience are especially appreciated, but all are welcome!

📍 Location: 1249 St Hwy 184, Heuvelton, NY 13654
📅 Date: Saturday, May 24
🕙 Start Time: 10:00 AM
🍎 Snacks: Provided around noon

Bring work gloves if you have them, and dress appropriately for the weather. Please wear close-toed shoes, so that everyone’s feet stay safe. If you would like to bring your own tools, or have any fencing materials or snacks to contribute, that is also welcome.

An RSVP to 315-777-7245 or milkweedtussocktubers@gmail.com is helpful but not necessary.

Many thanks in advance—we truly appreciate your time and energy.

Warmly,
Kia-Beth

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