Gimme the Dirt…On Gratitude

It’s that time of year again: that time between Halloween and “The Holidays,” when the eye-watering beauty of autumn yields to the darkening skies of a time change, and gusty winds drive us indoors after nighttime chores, swirling around us as the door slams shut. The cozy lights from inside call to us during that brisk walk from the barn to the house, and even though it’s not far, and the cows keep the barn toasty warm, we’re always grateful to feel the warmth of home envelope us in its embrace. Gratitude: a simple word used most during this time of giving thanks. In the leadup to Thanksgiving, when daylight is in short supply and we are rushing to get everything buttoned up for the approaching winter, it’s convenient to neglect how truly grateful we are for this rural life we lead.

We were both born “country kids,” and while different in many aspects, our childhoods spent outdoors, often in bare feet and definitely not always spotlessly clean, share many commonalities. Our parents and grandparents encouraged us to be outside and to find a certain comfort under the sky, whether it was filled with clouds or stars. We learned skills we value to this day: how to process animals for their meat, to plant and tend a vegetable garden, to make jams and jellies, to read the weather, and so much more. Most importantly, they showed us the value of cherishing natural beauty for its own sake. The outdoors was our classroom, and nature was our teacher, but none of it would be known to us without our parents and grandparents leading the way. Gratitude.

A sense of nostalgia lies heavy in the air in autumn. Leaves changing means they will soon drop to the ground in a carpet more beautiful than any human hand can create. Watching them caught on a stiff breeze, they look like a curtain of color pooling at our feet. The nearby hills and mountains in the distance are enfolded in a blanket of reds, oranges, and yellows. The sun turns the view from our kitchen windows to stained glass, translucent and shimmering in the afternoon light. This is a sight that is a constant through the years for us and one we anticipate with deep happiness and the knowledge that it’s merely temporary. We know each tree like our own faces, which ones will turn first, which will be brightest, and those that will present deep crimson leaves. We feel we are a part of this landscape as it changes seasons. We take walks through the woods, collecting hickory nuts in our pockets as we go, and chattering squirrels scold us for stealing something for which they feel singular ownership. Time slows down in the woods in autumn, and individual leaves drift silently to the forest floor. Our minds become quiet, there under the canopy, as we reminisce about autumns past, our children grown, and friends who’ve stayed near and others who’ve moved far. We talk little, but the conversation is rich. We are simply happy to be together in the fresh, cold air, the aroma of leaves crisp in our noses. Gratitude.

Farming is not simple. We need to be flexible in the face of many shifting variables and be prepared for any eventuality. When many might take a step backward, we must jump right in when things don’t go as planned. Our cows are creatures of habit, but keeping cows is like caring for a group of 2-year-old children. Fifty of them. They are all born here, touched by our hands as they arrive on this earth when they are displayed to us by their proud and protective mothers. We owe these creatures everything, from the health of our soil to the health of our bodies. There’s not a day we don’t appreciate their beauty, their simplicity of spirit, and the gifts they give us. We watch our cows. We know each one. We know which one likes to be scratched lengthwise like a dog, all up and down her body (Brindy). We know which one is slower than the rest, the oldest, but the wisest and the herd leader (Lil’). We know which of the littlest calves is the frisky ringleader who will lead the running races in the evening pasture (Jenny). We know the twins, Lil’s daughters, who are never far apart, licking each other and raising each other’s calves (Aiko and Yoshiko). We know the culprit who lets himself into the dairy barn at night, eating the extra hay in the manger and snuggling up for a good sleep (Jubal). Our cows know us, too: they remind us to get outside in the morning by mooing so loud the noise echoes off the hill and back into the house like a foghorn. They nudge us with their heads if we don’t scratch them quickly enough, and if I turn my back on Bolt, our young dairy heifer, she will grab my hair and yank my head sharply backward to get my attention. She isn’t mean; she’s just young and wants me to rub her cheeks as I feed her hay. Our dairy cows keep our barn cozy and warm during the colder months, and their breath smells like sweet milk and hay as it rises in steam from their giant, wet noses. We move more quickly through our chores in the colder weather, but we still spend time with our cows. They keep us humble, engaged, and observant. They remind us of all the things we are because they are a part of us. We love them for all they give. Gratitude.

With winter edging closer and dormancy taking hold this year, we are grateful for all the people who’ve crossed our path and thoughts of whom will keep us company through the winter. We won’t name them, but we want to share what a few of them have meant to us. Our farm apprentice spent a month living and working with us this summer. She quickly became a part of our household, the farmstead, and our community. We are so proud of her and miss her greatly, but she is a gift we are honored to have received. We have friends who bring their small children to visit on Thursdays. A farm for little children can be a scary place, but these two have learned to roam free here, visiting the cows as they clamber up fencing, snacking on raspberries and cherry tomatoes from our garden, and drinking milk that was in our cows early that morning. They greet us with tight hugs and kisses and snuggle up in our laps to hear songs and stories. We both love children and are honored these parents share theirs (and themselves) so generously with us. Then there’s a couple who moved here not all that long ago. Our connection happened fast, with depth and breadth. It might seem incongruous, a friendship like this between “city mice” and “country mice,” but it makes so much sense to us. What we have in common is greater than geography, and we treasure our time with them. Another incongruous match came because customers-turned-friends purchased a farm: not a “gentleman’s farm,” but a true farm, complete with livestock, land, machinery, and a gigantic old barn, the hayloft of which has grandeur equal only to a cathedral. They grow flowers, and hay for their creatures, and while they say they “need” us for farming advice, the truth is we need their kindness, integrity and love just as much. There are so many people who fill our life with an abundance of friendship (many who’ve been friends since childhood) that we could fill many pages. Every one of these people, so different from and similar to each other, is our community. What drew them into our lives is the cows, the chickens, the land, our pups. It is this beloved farming life. Gratitude.

Our farm sustains us, mind, body, and spirit, except for some of the aches and pains we both feel while under the weight of growing years, most of which are, ironically, due to the physical work of farming. But we are both in relatively good health, and our brains still function well. However, I do need to mention the reading glasses we often tear the house apart for, as they perch in full view atop our heads. The soul-filling beauty that surrounds us every moment keeps us feeling like we could do this forever. We know there’s a time limit for every single soul on this earth, but this farm seems eternal, and we feel like we can grab ahold of it somehow, and ride its coattails into that eternity. There’s a powerful feeling of joy that is especially strong at this time of year when the shelves are filled with all the preserved summertime goodness from the garden, the milk from our cows spills thick and cold into our glasses, and the apple pies pulled from the oven speak of deep satisfaction soon to be. We often say to each other how rich we are, but our wealth isn’t the same color green others might crave. It’s green like the rolling hilltop for which this farm is named, green like the fresh-cut hay from our fields, green like the last, crispiest leaves of lettuce we will gather just as the snow flies. In a world of plenty that’s never enough for some, we’ve got everything we need: bountiful food, beautiful friends and family, blessed shelter. On Thanksgiving, we will say a prayer of thanks for all of it. We are filled to overflowing with gratitude.

Rebecca Collins Brooks is a writer and farmstead cheesemaker on Hilltop Farm in Accord, NY. She is the creator and founder of The Meeting of the Milkmaids, a gathering of women working in the cheese and dairy industry. In addition to a small herd of dairy cows, she and her husband Barton raise Wagyu beef, selling meat to customers directly off the farm. Her best friends are two terriers, Winston and Molly; and Sylvie, a truly brilliant barn cat. You can visit the farm by appointment to see where truly good food is grown.

Connect with Rebecca via Instagram @catskillwagyu , or Facebook CatskillWagyu