Joe G., long time farm member, has a tendency to reappear in my Spring letters. He returns to our valley just after the redwing black birds arrive to inspect and clear the bluebird boxes. His bluebird boxes to be exact, for Joe Giunta is the Johnny Appleseed of this avian species on the eastern end of Paumanock. Perhaps he should be known as Bluebird Joe -- he is almost singly responsible for the resurgence of this iridescent creature throughout our airways and fieldways.

 

He asks: "Have you seen or heard a phoebe in the valley? They are the new harbingers of Spring you know."

Of course this role long belonged to the robin, perhaps the most familiar visitor to our lawns and fields. But now the robin has chosen to stay, not to fly away when winter comes. A harbinger is required to depart, and thus to return. And such is the habit of the phoebe, a rather plain bird in color, but the characteristic flick of the tail to accompany the call -- "phoebe, phoebe" -- is unmistakable.

"What is the line from Frost?" Joe asks (part of our amiable Spring ritual). And I recite, delighting in the poet's measured cadence and his intimate knowledge of the natural world:

            "...Yet for them the lilac renewed its leaf,

            And the aged elm, though touched with fire;

            And the dry pump flung up an awkward arm;

            And the fence post carried a strand of wire.

 

            For them there was really nothing sad.

            But though they rejoiced in the nest they kept,

            One had to be versed in country things

            Not to believe the phoebes wept."

 

            "To what may the world be likened?

            Moonlight in a dewdrop

            Falling from a duck's beak."

 

When you return to the farm we hope that you will find the magic that infuses the dewdrop (and the moon!) and that inspires the rhythmic flick of a phoebe's tail to accompany song. We are here to rediscover it daily as we go about the business and ritual of caring for the earth.

Where I come from the country is expansive and sparsely populated. The landscapes are old, and they show their age - there are those who say that some rock escarpments are upwards of 2 billion years old. When the desert sun rises and showers its morning light upon the canyon walls that litter the land it tends to not only imbue all that surrounds with a tinge of the divine, but also one's soul. Yes, Utah is a special place.

I left Utah some 6 weeks ago. I did so because my heart not only belongs to the glorious beauty that it is the Utah deserts, but also to cultivating wholesome and healing foods.

A number of years back I was lucky enough to attend the University of Santa Cruz's Farm and Garden Apprenticeship. My season there was filled with satiating friendships, illuminating education, and gratifying work. A friendship that I gained while I was at the Santa Cruz farm was one with Quail Hill's farm manager, Layton Guenther. We bonded over our love for farming, and frequent bouts to swim in the ocean (Layton is a 'human-seal' for those who don't know).

Leaping forward a few years, I ended up farming on a small-scale organic farm for the 2016 season, where we grew vegetables and flowers for a petite CSA and a couple of farmers' markets. Although my season last year was helpful in getting me closer to my goal of obtaining knowledge to start my own farm, I still want to gain experience working on what I consider to be a larger scale organic farm (10 or more acres). Plus, the draw of working with Scott Chaskey, a person who's literature I have found great contentment from, was too much to pass up.

So, after being lucky enough to be accepted to farm as a Quail Hill Advanced Apprentice, I hopped in my truck with my right-hand-companion, Winston, my 7- year old Wire Haired Fox Terrier, who I hope to introduce you to, and drove the roughly 2,600 miles to the far east end of Long Island. The two of us have settled in nicely at the farm and at our cozy home on Three Mile Harbor Hog Creek Road.

Although the Utah desert is in Winston's and my blood, we have found ourselves enjoying the maritime farm life. Just earlier today, while applying mulch to the raspberry bushes that inhabit the valley, I could hear the waves of the ocean crash into the beach, smell the brininess of the sea, and feel the oceanic mist. It was a one of those moments that I won't forget for a long time, and one that I am thankful for the opportunity to have.

The seedlings are growing!