A New Year at Harrison Farm

On New Year's Eve, it seemed that every little thing that could go wrong did.  Nothing was catastrophic, but nothing went smoothly.  The animals wanted my full attention, and thus endeavored to create every scenario possible to keep me in the barn.  I finally ducked out to get to the post office before it closed at 10:30 . . . And walked in as the counter officially shut down.  This meant a detour to another post office -- but first a trip to the feed mill.  In an effort to be on time to the post office, I had left my feed sacks for filling at home, and therefore had to purchase new ones.  And then it turned out that part of what I needed was not ready, and so a second trip would have to be made back to the feed mill later that day.  The weather was gray & depressing, I was fighting a headache, I got stuck on an hour & a half customer service call, and by 8pm I was in my garage still trying to prepare hides for tanning.  There is only so long a hide is fresh and can be salted, and so I absolutely had to finish that task even though it was New Year's Eve.  It is a whole new level of partying when you find yourself on your knees in a cold garage scraping flesh off hides on New Year's Eve!  I will admit that my attitude was more than a little cross at that point, and then I made the decision that I needed to change my perspective on the day.

My lengthy customer service conversation that afternoon had been with a representative to renew the domain name for Chimeara.com.  It expired on New Year's Eve -- which I had known for three weeks but did not focus on until I realized the date had "suddenly" arrived.  Just my luck: the customer service rep was named Matt.  We spent a LOT of time waiting for computer screens to process information, and thus Customer Service Matt learned a great deal about goats and about the Matt who broke my heart.  On New Year's Eve 2015, my Matt -- the man who I had loved with my whole heart -- had asked to come out to the farm that evening.  Because I am a decided romantic, I bought some very nice filets and cooked quite an outstanding dinner.  After all, if a gentleman asks to see a lady on New Year's Eve, it must be a date.  I adored Matt with all my heart, and happily welcomed him to my home that night, with the unrelenting hope that we could restore our relationship.  He heartily ate the meal, and then it slowly dawned on me that he only wanted access to my home to get the rest of his belongings.  Rather a heartbreaking situation for those meager remnants of my already shattered heart.  I told the story to Customer Service Matt when he asked about my New Year's plans.  I observed that even being on a lengthy call was better than my previous year, and then he got the full story when he inquired why.  I made Customer Service Matt promise he would never behave like Matt who broke my heart.

So there I was in my Carhartt overalls that evening, scraping flesh off a hide, and trying to improve my perspective about my world.  The hide was being prepared to tan and then market as part of my expanding farm business.  This was part of my effort to honor my animals by using every part of their body that I could to support the farm.  That concept is part of my belief that every animal on the farm must contribute: some contribute by being parents, some by being guardians, some by being companions, and some by being meat.  The farm I love can only be a working farm if every creature on it -- including me -- contributes to it.  And that farm is growing because of my long hours working on it, and because of the stubborn attitude that keeps me going even when others would quit.  Slowly that night, I began to adjust my perspective to understand that even a simple messy task at an inconvenient time could be an emblem of success.

2015 was the most painful time of my life.  The second half of that year brought so many unimaginable challenges.  The analogy occurred to me just recently that I had functioned like a shell-shocked soldier for much of 2015.  I just could not fathom the crises that kept raining down on me, as they followed so closely on the heels of the very happiest time of my life.  I had loved Matt completely, I was decidedly happy working at his family's farm, and I could not wait for the future which we were planning.  And then everything fell apart.  Everything.  And I could barely function from being repeatedly worn down.  A broken relationship, deaths, the robbery of my home, unexpected job transitions, my health issues, severe financial struggles, rejection by extended family members . . . I looked onto my own life like a soldier in the trenches of the Great War who could not get a grip on the destruction around him.

My greatest accomplishment in the first quarter of 2016 was that I did not kill myself.  No one intends for "suicidal" to be an adjective that applies to them.  I cannot fault myself for my struggles, as my entire world was crashing down around me.  My job had unexpectedly ended, and so I was home all day in a drafty farmhouse with a furnace that kept malfunctioning.  My grandmother's belongings from her retirement home were in boxes overtaking the dining room and living room.  I was in a chaotic house where my mother had lived, where my grandparents had lived, and where my great-grandparents had lived . . . And like the Last of the Mohicans, I was the only one left.  I viewed myself as a colossal failure to the dreams of my ancestors, as I sat miserably in a house swirling with their memories.  I had no money, I had no job, and I was terrified of having another seizure.  I had gone off of my anti-seizure medication as Matt & I intended to start a family as soon as we married -- and now there would be no marriage, no children, and no Matt.  There I sat in a house that felt like my tomb, and struggled to find any reasons to keep going.

Even if I could not see it then, I had many things that kept me going.  There have been people in my world who teased me about my devotion to my family, but those ancestors handed down to me their toughness, their discipline, and a hearty dose of the notorious Harrison stubborn streak.  So I just kept going.  There have been people in my world who teased me about my love of animals, but those animals gave me a reason to literally get out of bed every morning.  There have been people who teased me about the value I put on relationships, but those friends kept checking on me & loving me even when I was at my worst.  I did lose some people when my world became so difficult, however, I can no longer regret their absence.  After my dark months, I know that the friends who stood by me are the truest friends that a person could ever imagine.  I did not want to let down my family, I did not want to let down my animals, and I did not want to let down my friends.  So I just kept going, and now I am decidedly proud of myself for that.

We are doing things at Harrison Farm that I could never have imagined a year ago.  We tan hides.  We have a successful egg business.  We make delicious lamb sausages.  We have an internship program that includes Friday Fun Day.  We are a real LLC.  We exhibit our Chimeara line of etchings & jewelry inspired by animals at local shows.  We do event planning work for weddings, and non-profits events, and political fundraisers. We have an ad in our church bulletin.  We are building a website.  We were in Edible Columbus.  We host amazing goat yoga classes and Open Farm events.  I use the term "we" because I know keenly that the farm would not be here -- and I would not be here -- if not for the good friends who support me.  This farm is not just about me, it is about every single person who kept me going to get to this day.  And today in particular is the very first day that I awoke in the farmhouse that I now own, on the farm that I now own.  Perhaps the biggest change in my world is that I now legally own the land which my ancestors originally purchased in 1927.  I blissfully own it, but I will never lose sight of the fact that this miracle only happened because of everyone who gave me a reason to get to this day.

On New Year's Eve I changed my perspective.  I finished my work, put on one of my ridiculous miniskirts & mad bomber hats, swung by the feed mill to pick up the rest of my order on their dock (yep, me throwing fifty pound sacks of feed in a miniskirt is impressive), and then went to a friend's house to enjoy the last couple hours of 2016.  Another miracle of my world besides my loyal long-time friends, is the new friends who have enriched my world in the past year.  The rest of New Year's Eve, and then a brunch on New Year's Day, were spent with friends who became a very big part of my heart in 2016.  Any time I start to feel down about my world, I think about my friends -- and I know that I am the luckiest person in the world.

Through those dark days a year ago, I clung to the lessons of my family.  The integrity my mother instilled in me, the honesty which my grandmother emphasized to me, and the loyalty my grandfather displayed.  I thought so much about Monnie Harrison: home alone, with a fire about to destroy her home, using every ounce of her strength to push her piano out of the conflagration.  I tell that story to every young person who works for me, with the admonition that you never know how strong you are until you are required to be.  That piano is now legally mine, and I believe in my own way I finally showed myself tough enough to be its owner.  How remarkable and how foolish in the face of peril to save a beloved piano from a house fire.  How remarkable and how foolish in the face of peril to risk everything to preserve a family farm.  There have been many people who did not believe in me, but somehow my friends did so even at the times that I did not.  For the first time in my life, I truly feel worthy to be the daughter of Rebecca, to be the granddaughter of Virgil, to be the great-granddaughter of Monnie.

Dulcius ex asperis.  Sweeter after difficulty.

Words Matter

On this penultimate day of my thirties, I am reflecting greatly on my grandfather and what he taught me.  He was a giant of a man -- in height, in character, and in intellect.  He was kind and patient, no matter the situation.  I saw him extend to everyone he met the same courtesy, no matter what their race or creed or nationality or orientation might be.  He had a smile as brilliant as the sun, he loved a good story, and he truly cared about each person in his world.  My grandfather did not drink, did not gossip, never smoked, and to the best of my knowledge he only cursed twice (once in re-telling a story to a neighbor which included a curse word and once in the presence of my grandmother when he was angered).  His appreciation for the arts and his love of a witty joke negated any chance of him becoming a prude.  He never failed to offer gentlemanly behavior toward a lady, yet raised his granddaughter to be able to manage any task from driving a tractor to castrating a lamb.  He was a great man.

Of late, I have reflected often on what he would say about the evolution of society and the current political situation.  One of my mother's best friends sent me a note recently which touched my heart with its memories of my grandfather.  He was a hard worker, he was always patient, and he truly loved his farm.  In my youth, I did not realize just how marvelous it was that he worked with his hands all day -- operating equipment, caring for animals, fixing every broken thing on the farm -- and then withdrew to his study at the end of the day to pore over one of the books from his library.  Shakespeare's collected works, the journals of Lewis & Clark, his favorite Lincoln biography "With Malice Toward None".  He encouraged me to read, and he engaged me in debates on both history and current events from the time I was small.  I marvel now that the caliber of his words & actions were a reflection of the quality of the thoughts which his mind entertained.  

My grandfather was a gentleman.  He was a man.  He had no patience for men who cheated on their spouse or failed their families.  My grandfather worked every day.  He was understanding of those who faced challenges that impacted their ability to work, but had no patience for laziness.  He cared about the integrity of a person's soul.  He voted in every election, with the belief that the franchise was a great blessing to all American citizens.  He loved his country, and he tended to support politicians who exhibited a similar love of country and integrity of character.  Just as he had no patience for Roosevelt or Kennedy cheating on their wives, I am sure he would not forgive the adultery of Bill Clinton or Donald Trump.  My grandfather taught me to think before I spoke.  This was not an easy lesson for me, and I am still learning it.  Yet, if even I can make some achievement toward this goal, it seems all the more ridiculous that a presidential candidate of any party would think themselves above this lesson.

Friends, in the last week, I have become quite despondent at the magnitude of unpleasantness in social media.  I have found that if you express outrage at the words of Donald Trump, then you are immediately attacked as a supporter of Hilary Clinton.  I have heard people excuse Trump with the term "locker room" conversation, and say that people should "get over it".  Memes posted by my friends have indicated that if you have read Fifty Shades of Grey, you have no right to be offended by discussion by Mr. Trump of sexual assault behavior.  While I have not read Fifty Shades of Gray, I am rather taken aback that a choice of literature should diminish a woman's right to be offended by unacceptable words.  I am personally offended by both the sexual indiscretions of both Mr. Trump and former President Clinton.  This is not about a political ideology or party, this is about having the integrity to say when words or behavior are unacceptable.  These are not "just words" when they demoralize others.  If an individual posted a terrorist threat on social media with no intent of actually carrying it out, I doubt anyone who is excusing Mr. Trump would say these were "just words".

My grandfather was a man.  Individuals who speak as Donald Trump and Billy Bush did are either children or perverts . . . They are not men.  Real men do not speak in that manner toward any person.  I support my friends who are voting for Mr. Trump or Secretary Clinton who are able to elucidate how they reached those decisions based on policy discussion.  I am the granddaughter of Virgil Harrison, though, and I will not cast a ballot toward an individual whom I view as immoral, no matter their party.  However many memes are posted stating that this view means I am a "fool" or I have no right to be offended or I just need to toughen up, I will continue to stand that treating any person with sexual aggression or utilizing disparaging terminology is unacceptable.  Such things create a culture where women become even more afraid to speak out when they are impositioned.  My grandfather worked to make this world better for me, and I will endeavor to make this world better for those who come after me.  In particular, I never want the strong & beautiful young women who come after me to think it is normal for a man with a certain level of power to make sexually charged advances toward them.  I would ask my friends to recognize that this issue is not about either political party, it is about character & integrity.  I have no problem if my friends support Mr. Trump based on his policy positions, but words matter.  Words matter.  

Tough Times at the Harrison Farm

My friends, this is a post which I do not want to compose, but I know I need to say something.  The signs went up today for the auction of my grandfather's farm.  My heart is so sad, and I can almost physically feel the blood gushing down my back from all the knives that have been shoved into it.  A large sign was hung directly across the road from the farmhouse, so I have the opportunity to have to answer my neighbors when they stop to ask why in the world the farm is being sold.  This does, at least, give me the opportunity to affirm to my neighbors that the land is being auctioned against my wishes.  And then I seem to start crying every single time.  

I do not have much to say at this point except to offer a few items . . .

I am adamantly opposed to the auction of the land.  

I made two offers to my aunts to purchase the farmland.  The first was at the appraised value, which they declined.  I also offered to let them name their price, which they declined.

My grandfather passed when I was 19, and thus could not have envisioned that I would return to the farm after college and spend my life here.  I cannot fault him for not planning his estate in a different way.  

My grandmother had been in deep struggles with dementia at the end of her life, and while I wish she would have planned her estate differently, this is the reality of the situation.  Her trust mandated that the farm was to be sold.  The trust administrator made clear that my aunts could have agreed on a direct sale to me at any value.  They chose not to do so.

I will be at the auction on 11/3/16 to bid on the 44 acres that surround the farmhouse & barns, in an effort to preserve the pastures where my livestock graze -- which are part of the land to be auctioned.  Anyone who bids against me will be risking reciprocals including and not limited to a large army of goats rising up against them.

My heart is very, very sad, yet I am trying to focus on the good things in my world.  My grandmother made it possible that the farmhouse and the barns were not included with the rest of the estate.  I have a home and my animals have a barn.  In fact, I have a really beautiful red barn in which five generations of Harrisons have tended animals.  I have a wonderful ramshackle farmhouse with beautiful memories from my youth of my mother and my grandfather and my grandmother.  I have crazy and amazing animals who make this farm an adventure.  My mother taught me independence and tenacity and stubbornness.  My grandfather encouraged me that I could do whatever I put my mind to doing.  He taught me our family history and he instilled in me a love for farming.  My grandmother nurtured me in my youth, and stressed to me the importance of honesty & loyalty.  No auction, no trust, and no one can ever take from me these things.  

I have spent nearly my whole life working this farm.  During planting & harvest when I was small, I would take my grandfather lunches in the field.  Once I was old enough to be trusted with a tractor, he trained me on his Oliver 1850.  I was eight when I began baling hay with my grandfather in the field across the creek.  I was nine when my grandfather taught me to drive in a 1978 green Suburban when we were working south of the Baird House.  I would help him load lambs and unload coal.  I was his companion on errands to the feed store and the hardware store and Mid States wool growers.  Every spring I was allowed to stay home from school to be his assistant on the day he docked & castrated lambs.  And through all of those adventures, we talked.  He talked about politics and religion and economics and philosophy.  He told me about our family history, and his childhood, and who we were as Harrisons.  Beyond his words, he demonstrated to me every day what it meant to be kind and just and courageous -- in small ways and in difficult situations.  Because I paid attention to those lessons, it hurts keenly to know the land on which he spent his life will be auctioned off to the highest bidder.  I suppose if one had not paid attention to such lessons, it would be easy to sell it off for top dollar.  But I did listen, and I will never forget what he taught me.

Harrison Farm may be much smaller in acreage than it was in previous generations, however, it will continue.  I believe in this land, I believe in farming, and I am not going anywhere.  This place has magical creatures and beautiful spaces, and I know this farm can serve a purpose to connect people with animals and with farming -- whatever size it may be.  I know this is not the situation my mother would have wanted, or my grandfather, or my great-grandfather, or my great-great-grandfather . . . But this is the reality of my situation, and we will carry on.  The sun will come up the day after the auction, and I will figure out a way to make everything work, and the goats will be belligerent, and the chickens will complain, and it will be just another day.  I will carry on, and I will find ways to keep Harrison Farm going.  After all, tomorrow is another day.  (Cue inspiring & uplifting music!)

Finding Meaning on this Anniversary

I have been deeply affected today by the emotions of the anniversary of 9/11 -- much more so than I would have anticipated.  Perhaps it comes from the reflective mood of turning forty this year, and recognizing the changes in my world since 2001.  This summer, at the World Food Prize Hall of Fame, I saw a photographic exhibit called Forty Chances.  These were international images centered around the concept that a farmer has approximately forty seasons farming in their life.  If we start around the age of twenty and have the ability to farm full-time until we are around sixty, we get forty chances.  And thus, I am realistically half-way through those chances.  Based on my grandmother's genetics, I might get a few more.  Based on my mother's experience, I am well beyond halfway.  I can recall my grandfather looking at me as a young person, and saying, "It goes so fast.  It goes SO fast."  Virgil Harrison was -- as always -- correct.

My life was in a state of transition in 2001.  My father had passed away that June of 2001, and was buried in the family plot in Brooklyn.  I could never have conceived of how the city of his birth would change so much so soon.  That summer I was trying to make some decisions on my next steps in life, as I considered returning to school to study education.  After university and a year in Washington, I had moved back to the farm in the hopes of being a help to my grandmother.  My grandmother was aging, but was still in good form.  I suggested to her that we take a road trip that September to visit friends of hers in Wyoming, and see again many of the favorite places we had visited on trips during my childhood.  And so began a three week trip westward.

On the tenth of September, we stayed overnight in Valentine NE.  It was one of the traditions of a Harrison trip out West, that we would visit Young's Western Wear in Valentine.  On the morning of September eleventh, I awoke fairly early, made coffee in the room, and then turned on CNN for the morning news.  The first tower had just been hit, and Grandmother & I watched in shock thinking it was a dreadful accident.  Then the second tower was hit.  I jumped in the shower, and by the time I was out of it, the news was breaking of the plane which hit the Pentagon.  It was profoundly clear that we were under attack as a nation.  I tried to reach my mother on the new cell phone I had gotten that summer, but could not reach her.  How terrible to not be able to reach one's mother and hear her voice!  It is a painful emotion to which I have had to become accustomed in the last decade.

Grandmother wanted to turn back home from our trip, but I encouraged her that the safest place to be was likely in the middle of nowhere . . . and the open roads of Nebraska fit that bill.  We stopped by Young's Western Wear, which had radios playing the news as visitors somberly perused the merchandise.  We continued west, and then cut north to the Pine Ridge Reservation to pay our respects at Wounded Knee.  At the cemetery there, atop a high hill, I finally had cell reception again -- and that was the moment when my mother called.  She had received my panicked message on her answering machine, but had been outside with the sheep all morning.  I ended up being the one to tell her that our country was under attack.  

Grandmother & I travelled onward through Nebraska, and arrived in Torrington WY that evening to visit her friends Marion & Connie.  Throughout the trip, the attacks were pre-eminent in our minds.  Grandmother spent much time reminiscing about the attacks on Pearl Harbor, and how that had impacted her world as a young woman.  We saw CNN's coverage of a rescue from the tower rubble several days later while having lunch at a tiny diner in South Pass City.  We watched the national memorial service from a hotel room in Idaho Falls.  We visited my friends Conny & Don in Idaho, who were still trying to learn if one of Don's friends had survived.  I will always associate that trip and the attacks so closely.

Fifteen years later, what makes a deep impression on me is how my life has changed since those days.  My grandmother -- my travel companion, the woman who helped to raise me -- has passed onward.  My mother, who should have had so many more years, passed long before her.  My mother's husband, who was working with her in the barn on 9/11, has chosen not to be a part of my life.  At the age of 25, life seemed so full of possibilities, even at the most dismal times.  At 40, life seems a frustrating & beautiful struggle to overcome the chaotic nature of this world.  I no longer believe that everything happens for a reason.  Man was given free will, and thus the freedom to make horrific mistakes and commit terrible acts.  Yet, within each of us is deep reserves of strength that we do not even fully know until we are tested.  These reserves of emotional iron allow us to overcome terrible struggles & atrocities.  The human spirit can and will triumph.

This morning at church, we ended the service with prayers for those lost from the attacks of that terrible day.  I found myself crying while reflecting on those lives, in particular those first responders who bravely turned toward the trouble.  I did not lose anyone I knew personally, but as I age I understand better such loss.  Life is so short, and as we mature we know more keenly the stakes and we are gifted with the ability to reflect.  At the age of 25, I would have asserted that by now I would be married with a big family.  I always thought marriage & family were my calling.  Life is unpredictable, though, and that was not the path I was given to walk.  At nearly 40, I can assert that while this was not the life I wanted, it is the life which I have -- and I want it to have value.  None of us know how long we might have, or what day may be our last.  And thus it becomes all the more important that we live each day in a way that makes our life represent something worthwhile, that helps to improve the world around us for those we love.

In reflecting on this anniversary, I do not want those who committed the atrocities or the sense of fear that arose from such acts to be our lasting impression of 9/11.  Rather, I want the memory of those who gave their lives to be our lasting recollection.  Their lives were all cut too short.  Many of them lost their lives protecting others -- from the first responders who ran into the scenes of terror to the brave souls who brought down United 93.  We must honor them by being people of character who strive to make our country a better place.  All of our lives turn out different than we expected, and so many of them end far too soon.  I try to use the opportunities I have with the young people around me to teach them perspective on life, an understanding of history, an appreciation for hard work, and a love of their fellow man.  I want them to be people of character, people who are ready to face the challenges that life will throw their way, people who would be brave enough to sacrifice when called upon.  We must prepare our young people for the reality of the struggles they will face, while equipping them with the courage they will need in this life.  For we need young people who will be like those first responders who saw people in trouble and ran to them to help . . . Not reluctant individuals who merely pull out their cell phones to record such trouble.

Happy Memorial Day from Harrison Farm!

Memorial Day is a just time to honor those brave souls who gave their lives that our way of life might continue.  For each generation of Americans, we must re-define and refine what our way of life means.  My perception of the dream that is America will always be influenced by history.  But history -- for me -- is a collection of stories.  Especially those stories of my youth, shared to me by my grandparents.  As a child listening to my grandfather, it was easy for me to envision him as a child listening to his own grandfather.  And that grandfather did not seem so very distant from me, when I was told of his youthful walk at age twelve to the Ohio Statehouse to pay his respect to the assassinated President Lincoln.  As a child listening to my grandmother, I could imagine her as a child playing with her favorite cousin Ray, just as I played with my beloved cousin Jim.  Thus, I could easily sympathize with her lifelong sorrow that her cousin survived the landing on D-Day, only to give his life at the Battle of the Bulge.  History is a collection of stories, and these stories are much closer to us than we often realize.

I am constantly amazed by the caliber of the friends in my life.  Part of the human experience is self-doubt, which can lead to great melancholy.  Even on my most melancholy days, though, I cannot fail to acknowledge the vast riches I posses in my friends.  I am blessed that many of the people whom I admire most in this world are the individuals who are my friends.  I have likewise been truly fortunate that God has sent such amazing young people to me to work as my student assistants and my interns.  When I meet these young people for an interview, I share with them the mission of our farm to connect people with animals and with farming.  I tell them that I love celebrations, and animals, and teaching.  We discuss their dreams & goals, and how this farm can serve to enrich their life.  Somehow, in all those discussions, the young people with whom I have worked have ended up becoming many of my closest friends.  They are truly my farm family.

The young ladies, with whom I have the pleasure of working this summer, are a dynamic, intelligent, and beautiful group.  While I have the lofty goal of providing internships to help make their lives better, the reality is that they have enriched my life immensely.  I am constantly inspired by their honesty, their desire to learn, and their willingness to share their experiences with me.  I do not worry about the future of the world or our country when I am in the company of such resourceful, amazing young women!  

As part of our summer internship program, we have instituted Friday Fun Day.  Our first Friday Fun Day coincided perfectly with Memorial Day weekend.  We attended the wreath-laying ceremony at the Statehouse in honor of Memorial Day, and got to hear presentations by a truly inspiring woman who lost her husband in Afghanistan, as well as a speech by Lt. Governor Mary Taylor (one of my favorite women in politics).  Afterwards we walked through the Statehouse and I shared with them why it is one of my very favorite places: the paintings, the history, the architectural beauty.  Holly Golighty had Tiffany's, and I have the Statehouse.  We did a pop-in at the office of State Senator Kevin Bacon, and his aide kindly allowed my interns to see his office.  We even took advantage of a fortuitously placed podium to recognize Intern Marissa's two months of work at Harrison Farm, and her promotion to Senior Intern.  After a respite at Starbuck's and a stroll along the riverfront, our group had a remarkable private tour of the Ohio Supreme Court.  We all learned a significant amount about the building, and had a marvelous experience there!

I love teaching because it provides the opportunity to share so many wonderful things about life.  I hope that this experience was an opportunity for my interns to understand why patriotism is vastly important to my life, why I believe in our democratic republic, and how immediate history & politics can be in each of our lives if we embrace them.  In discussion after our adventures, it was clear that the tour of the Supreme Court was a huge hit, and that my random stories about history & politics were appreciated.  That being said, everyone's favorite moment was a brief & beautiful one that we witnessed by chance.  In my eternal quest for shade, we had grouped under a tree at the side of the Statehouse as our vantage point to watch the wreath-laying ceremony.  A grandfather & his grandson stood in front of us, each holding the American flag.  We were also standing behind two members of the Air Force who were helping to coordinate the plane that flew overhead after the wreath-laying.  One of my interns snapped this picture of the young boy talking intently to the patient gentleman representing the Air Force.  I know a couple of my interns had tears in their eyes watching this gentleman give a patch from his uniform as a memento to the boy.  

We live in an amazing country.  It is our duty to share our love of it with those who come after us, so they grow to appreciate the beauty of the dream that is America.  It is likewise our sacred duty to live our lives in a way that honors those who showed the greatest devotion to this dream by giving their own life.  My grandfather was touched by his grandfather's deep respect for the assassinated president who held the Union together.  I grew up knowing keenly what it meant for my grandmother to experience the loss of her beloved cousin in World War II.  I hope my interns will never forget the quiet moment they saw of a member of our military demonstrating dignity and love of country to a child.  May God bless you this Memorial Day, and may God bless our great country.

Double Tough

On my best day, I will never be even half the woman my mother was on her worst day.  This time of year always causes me to be reflective on her life and her loss.  My mother passed onward May 15th --  thus every year I experience her absence on the holiday of Mother's Day, followed just a few days later by the anniversary of her death.  Such a loss never gets easier, however, the passage of time does allow us more perspective.  I am profoundly grateful to have had a smart, strong, funny, talented woman for my parent.

My mother soloed a plane on her 16th birthday, and had her pilot's license before her driver's license.  She could drive a truck, a motor home, a motorcycle, a tractor, and a skid steer.  She baked beautiful wedding cakes -- and only did so as gifts for the people she loved.  She learned to make baskets and to throw pots.  She sewed and crocheted and embroidered.  Her pies and breads were legendary.  She could butcher a goat, deliver a lamb, and repair a haybine.  Babies loved her -- of all species.  She could quiet any fussy human baby and heal any struggling orphan lamb.  She could run a bandsaw and a meat grinder.  She had a beautiful smile, a wicked sense of humor, and the ability to make a sailor blush with her predilection for colorful cursing.

She was a tough parent to have when I was a child.  My mother expected me to be independent and resourceful; she required me to have integrity and endurance.  When I signed up for a 4-H project, I was required to finish it.  When a horse bucked me off, I had to get back on.  Birthday presents & Christmas presents were not to be enjoyed until notes of thanks were written to the giver.  My mother believed that challenges made a person stronger, and children only learned through responsibility.  She never helped with homework; it was my responsibility to succeed or fail based on my own resources.  But she arranged her own schedule day after day to make sure I could take advantage of any opportunity I had in life.  She expected a lot of me, but she was always in my corner.

My relationship with my mother suffered during my teenage years.  She was struggling greatly with life, and had to face those challenges.  This was very hard for me as a young woman grappling to find my own place in the world.  I learned many powerful lessons, however, from my observations of what my mother experienced.  Do not be afraid to fail, but always learn from your mistakes.  If you hurt someone, make it right.  Never give up that things can get better.  Never stop believing in the healing power of love.  Surround yourself with good friends who will support you & love you -- and let them be your role models as you master the journey that is life.

I was very fortunate that as an adult my mother was truly my best friend.  We took wonderful trips together as adults.  (Although, I will always maintain that my childhood "vacations" on the wagon train were some of her worst ideas ever.)  We laughed a lot, we went to church together, we drank margaritas, and we planned all the wonderful adventures we would have together in the future.  My mother loved my friends, willingly accompanied me to ballets and goat shows and bull riding competitions, and supported me completely when I was confirmed in the Catholic Church.  It was hard for my mother to ask for forgiveness, but she spent my adult life making sure that our relationship was everything we both wanted it to be.  It was awesome.

Watching my mother at the end of her life was inspiring.  When she was told she had six months to live, she made it clear to the doctors that was not enough -- that was not even to Christmas.  And she did make it to Christmas, and to her birthday, and to Valentine's Day, and to Easter, and finally to Mother's Day.  As the cancer ravaged her physical self, her spirit seemed to shine without any temporal barriers limiting it.  Some of the most beautiful photographs of my mother were taken right at the end of her life; it was as though the camera somehow physically captured her internal light free of any worries of hair or weight or makeup.  There will never be a tougher woman than my mother facing the end of her days with love and grace and fierce rebellion against the reaper who was stalker her.

When my mother passed onward, my cousin (of the Dominican order) reminded me that death was the conduit by which Jesus was able to always be with His disciples.  By this freedom from the constrictions of the temporal realm, our spirits can also likewise be freed through death -- and thus my mother would always be with me.  I miss her every day.  There are so many times I wish I could tell her something exciting, make her laugh with my misadventures, ask her advice when I have a conundrum on the farm, or receive a hug from her when I simply want to cry.  I am grateful, though, for all the wonderful things I have to remember about her.  Her toughness and her resourcefulness.  Her beautiful smile.  Her pear pie and her lasagna made with goat sausage.  Her fearlessness in the face of a flat tire, or a divorce, or a diagnosis of cancer.  I was uniquely blessed to have this amazing woman for a mother.  I hope I can live up to the standard she set for me.

Mardi Gras Farm Table Dinner

The Mardi Gras season has always been one of my favorites times of the year, with its emphasis on conviving with loved ones & enjoying delicious meals in preparation for the Lenten Season.  This year I hosted a small group of friends for my annual Mardi Gras dinner: the Mistic Krewe of Ro Bo.  A "Krewe" is a social group that celebrates Mardi Gras, and I have been fortunate to host many wonderful friends to the farm for this event over the years!

One of the items I always serve is Robey's Red Beans and Rice.  Red beans & rice is such a simple yet hearty dish, and it can be flavored in many ways.  To make a pot, I start with cooking two cups of rice in four cups of water, following the instructions on the packet.  Once the rice is simmering, I watch it to add the red beans before all the water cooks down.  For this quantity of rice, I use three cans of red beans -- and I pour them in with the juices from the can.  This allows for plenty of liquid to enrich the flavor of the rice . . . And it allows you to simply leave the pot on a low temperature until you are ready to serve your guests!  

I like to flavor the dish with lamb sausage.  I use one pound of delicious Harrison Farm ground lamb, and brown it on the stovetop with onion salt, garlic powder, and black pepper.  I serve the lamb sausage on the side so that my guests have the option of the carnivore version or the vegetarian version of Robey's Red Beans & Rice.  It is such a simple dish to prepare, and I received many compliments on it this year.

As a tradition, I enjoy serving the red beans & rice in a dish that has been in the Harrison Farm Family for generations.  The note that sits inside of the dish when it is on the shelf reads (in the handwriting of Ina Marie Harrison dated January 14, 1970): "Tureen belonged to John Lum Harrison and Phebe Thrapp, his wife, married July 6, 1851, parents of James Virgil Harrison, grandparents of Frank Edwin Harrison, great-grandparents of Virgil Grube Harrison, great-great-grandparents of Janet Susan, Rebecca Jane, and Virgilea Ann Harrison".  In a line at the bottom of this note, dated March 23, 1983, it reads further that they were the great-great-great-grandparents of Katherine Harrison Haley and James Virgil Davidson.  Props to The Grandmother for her labeling abilities!

I shared this story with my friends who attended the Mardi Gras dinner, as well as the information that John Lum Harrison had been fortunate to survive an arsenic poisoning that had killed some of his siblings.  From family legend, David Harrison took his four oldest sons (including John) hunting one day, while the younger children stayed home with their mother Mary.  She baked biscuits for them, using "baking powder" which she had purchased recently from the store -- sadly, she had been given arsenic instead of the baking powder she had requested.  My grandfather Virgil had always told the story that the younger children eventually died of arsenic poisoning because they ate the biscuits while they were hot, but the older children survived because they did not have the biscuits until they were cold.   I can recall my grandfather telling this story whenever we would visit the cemetery at Martinsburg, where these children were buried, but I never knew the veracity of this poisoning situation.

I owe great thanks to my Emma, who investigated the scientific properties of arsenic, and was able to share this information with me after the Mardi Gras party: "So, I looked it up and arsenic poisons you by creating oxygen radicals that interfere with oxidative phosphorylation (how your cells create energy). Thus, your cells cannot create energy and die. It stands to reason that this would happen more when the arsenic was hot because heat is a form of energy. It takes energy for electrons to be displaced from the arsenic atom and create radicals. Thus, if some of your relatives ate the biscuits when they were hot there would, in theory, be more radicals that could lead to a more severe reaction (i.e. more cell necrosis). Then, when the arsenic cooled down it could be less toxic because the arsenic atoms had less energy so there were less free radicals bouncing around and messing with the cell's energy production. Another reason could be that there were antioxidants in the biscuits themselves (e.g. nuts, ground cloves) that "soaked up" some of the free radicals as the biscuits cooled down. Thus, they were less toxic to your great great great grandfather when he came back from hunting."

Family history means a great deal to me -- and my friends mean even more to me -- so bringing all of this together to celebrate one of my favorite holidays was extremely wonderful!  I hope you will have an opportunity to enjoy my recipe for Robey's Red Beans & Rice with Harrison Farm lamb sausage . . . And I encourage you to serve it with crusty French bread, and NOT homemade biscuits!

Christmas 2015

Christmas 2015

Greetings from Harrison Farm!  I sincerely hope that your family has enjoyed a blessed and wonderful year.  As I began reflecting on this past year, it has truly been the most difficult of my life -- and I do not say that lightly.  With the passing of my grandmother this fall, I have been very reflective on the chapter of my life that has closed now that my parents and grandparents have all passed onward.  During the struggles I have encountered, I have found myself often turning to those things that my family instilled in me.

I was fortunate during my childhood that my grandparents were such an active part of raising me.  My grandfather Virgil taught me to drive a tractor, to deliver lambs, to provide medical care for livestock, and to understand the circle of life on a farm.  My grandmother Ina Marie taught me to bake cookies, to sew & mend, to garden, and to understand how to nourish a family.  The happiest times of my childhood were spent with my grandparents: the weekly Friday night that I got to stay at their house, the wonderful road trips that we took in the motor home, the time we spent sitting together in their kitchen talking.  I spent hours at the kitchen table with my grandfather (as my grandmother brought us chocolate chip cookies, sweet tea, and popcorn), where we would discuss history, politics, economics, religion, and culture.  I was fortunate that my grandfather never tried to guide me to simply be the best woman I could be -- but rather instilled in me the desire to be the best individual that I could possibly be.  With a strong-willed wife and three dynamic daughters, I am sure that by the time I arrived there was no doubt in my grandfather's mind that a woman could achieve whatever she put her mind to doing.

I can recall distinctly as a child that my grandfather tried to prepare me that at some point my world would fall apart.  It could be from something dramatic like war or famine or plague -- or it could be something intensely personal like divorce or cancer or job loss.  While this was an unusual lesson for a child, he tried to instill in me the realization that this happened to everyone at some point . . . And it would happen to me.  And when it did, I would only be left with what I had in my head and what I could do with my hands.  Of late, I have often thought on those words.

My grandfather did not have an easy life, but he was a hard worker who loved people and always wore a dynamic smile no matter the situation.  I suspect much of his attitude on life came from watching his own parents.  My great-grandfather Frank was crippled, with one leg approximately six inches shorter than the other.  He wore a specially designed metal lift attached to his shoe.  One of these shoes has survived through the decades, and I still have it at the farm.  It weighs a good ten pounds, and it amazes me to think that my great-grandfather overcame what had to be a profound physical struggle to find success as a farmer & a butcher.  That resilience of spirit was matched by his wife Monnie.  My great-grandmother was an educated woman, who spent the first years of her marriage living in a sheep wagon in Wyoming.  I am continually amazed by the fortitude it took for her to give up what was a civilized life in Columbus to travel to the open country of Wyoming and live in a wagon the size of a truck camper with her husband, their dog, and hundreds of sheep.  After my great-grandparents returned to Ohio, they originally lived at a farm outside of Fredonia.  One day while my great-grandmother was home alone, the house caught on fire.  She saved a pillow that she had hand embroidered (which my grandfather gave to me on my 16th birthday), and she saved her piano.  I cannot imagine the surge of adrenaline that fueled the strength to save that piano from a fire, but I am in endless admiration of a woman that shows that kind of courage in the face of danger. 

I know my mother Rebecca was fascinated by her grandparents, and in my youth she shared with me the stories they had told her.  My mother was tough on me -- very tough at times -- but I doubt I would have survived this long in life if she had not expected discipline and endurance from me.  When I was nine years old, I was riding Abraham the Mule after school one day, when he bucked me off.  As Abe headed for the barn, he managed to step painfully on my ankle.  My mother caught Abe, brought him to me, and told me to get back on.  I recall distinctly crying and telling her I did not want to do so, yet she kept telling me I had to get back on.  And so I did.  My mother got bucked off a lot during her life -- both literally and figuratively -- but she never gave up.  As I have matured, I have come to realize that one of my mother's best traits was that she was not afraid to make mistakes, and she always tried to learn from them.  She baked beautiful wedding cakes, she loved making baskets, she got her pilot's license at age sixteen, and she was extraordinarily gifted at healing the maladies of little lambs.  Watching my mother as she went through her journey with cancer inspired in me proud respect for a woman who could face the end of her time on earth with such courage & graciousness & laughter.

As I have faced the struggles that have arisen in my life this year, I have thought greatly of how my grandfather cautioned me that this time would come.  With age, I have gained more perspective on his life and the challenges he faced, and I recognize that he was demonstrating clearly to me that one could live with dignity no matter the challenge.  Life is not easy.  One of my favorite songs has the line "if you're going through hell, keep on going".  There have been many days that I have pulled myself exhausted from bed this year despite my physical challenges to keep my work commitments.  There have been many times that I have felt nearly broken while nursing an animal late at night in the barn, knowing it was probably going to die any way.  And I have spent a lot of time with my arms around the neck of my dog or my horse as I nursed a melancholy heart.  But the legacy that my family passed to me has strengthened me through this time.

If I am tough at all, it is because my mother demanded it of me.  If I have any wisdom, it is because my grandfather spent his live demonstrating it to me.  As I live my life in the same home where my mother, and my grandmother, and my great-grandmother resided, I am continually reminded of the legacy they left me.  You may recall that line that Ginger Rogers did everything that Fred Astaire did -- but backwards & in high heels.  My great-grandfather's boot is a tangible reminder that he did everything I do today, but with a ten pound metal lift on his left foot.  Every time I see my great-grandmother's piano, I am reminded that we have deep reserves of strength within each of us that we do not even know we have until we must call upon them for survival.  Above & beyond all this, I know I am alive today because my grandmother took the time to make sure I had a good meal, a delicious cookie, and a warm hug whenever I needed them during my childhood.

We all possess the ability to inspire others through determination, dignity, and love.  I am extraordinarily blessed to have such remarkable friends in my world, and I am truly grateful for that support that has been given to me.  I hope that you have received such inspiration & support in your life -- and I hope that you have found ways to offer it to others.  I wish for you a blessed and joyful 2016!  May it be a wonderful year for all of us!

The Circle of Life

I was recently interviewed for a local non-farm magazine, and one of the questions that I was asked is one that I often hear: how do you find peace with the slaughter process when it is obvious you love your animals?  I am very comfortable raising animals for meat, I work hard to raise my livestock well, and I am proud that I have the skills to personally butcher my own meat.  To be able to say that, though, has been a journey for me.

When I was a child, my grandfather was raising hundreds of sheep at Harrison Farm.  I loved to spend time with him on the farm, and he was quite appreciative of a willing helper.  I learned quickly as a child how to drive a tractor, castrate a lamb, stack hay in the barn, and trim hooves on sheep.  I knew that my grandfather's father had earned extra income as a butcher, but my only connection to meat processing as a child was simply the knowledge that the sheep were raised for meat.  It was on my 21st birthday that I actually ate lamb for the first time!  As an adult, however, it became very important to me to better understand the products that I raised.  Thus, I eventually followed in my great-grandfather's footsteps and began processing my own meat.

When I began raising my own herd of goats as an adult, I started with a small group.  There is nothing cuter in the world than a baby goat, and I became attached to all the babies born that first year -- even the three boys.  I initially hated the thought of selling them for meat.  Nature, though, seems to prepare us for every task.  All these years later, I still learn the lesson every season that the adorable baby boys grow into aggressive beasts that head butt me leaving painful bruises, knock over buckets of grain wasting valuable feed for the herd, and relentlessly bother the adult females as soon as testosterone kicks in.  These traits become nature's way of telling me that it is time for the boys to fulfill their destiny.

  

When I began to work at the slaughterhouse, I initially thought I would just do paperwork.  Then I thought I would package the meat, but not cut it.  That evolved into doing basically every task except those on the kill floor.  Eventually, though, I realized that a responsibility of managing a business is understanding every task that you ask of your employees.  Thus, I began working the kill floor and doing everything from bleeding to skinning to eviscerating.  When you work on a kill floor, it forces you to examine your feelings about life & death.  I knew how hard I worked to raise my own animals.  As I began to buy animals from other farmers for the slaughterhouse, I realized that my experience was not unique -- livestock farmers are a remarkably dedicated group that will forego their own personal wishes to ensure that their animals are well.  If it a holiday, animals must be fed.  Whether the farmer is healthy or sick, the animals still need care.  Even if a farmer wants to take a vacation, animals must have attention.  

Along with the recognition that farmers work incredibly hard to raise their animals well, I also gained the understanding that humane slaughter is a quick & respectful end.  I openly use the term "love" when I speak of my sheep & goats.  I care for the mothers on a daily basis and know their individual nuances. I look after the babies from their birth, and spend long days -- and late nights -- ensuring their health.  It is important to me that they receive prudent care during their life and that they are shown respect in death.  The humane standards under which American slaughterhouses operate are dedicated to ensuring that death is quick & respectful for the animals that offer their life to provide nourishment for humans.  Working on a kill floor permitted me to completely understand the role that animals play in the circle of life, it forced me to contemplate my own role, and it allowed me to gain skills to be able process meat -- thus feeding my family & my community.  I work hard to earn money to buy quality feed & hay for my goats, and in my "free time" I labor in my barn to provide good care for my animals.  Eventually I know that I will die, and the worms will eat me, and their efforts will improve the grasses, that will ultimately feed more animals.  It is truly a circle of life.

This week I sold five goats & a lamb.  They were healthy & hearty creatures.  I am extremely proud of the hard work that I put into raising them, and I am grateful that they grew into fine creatures.  I miss how adorable they were as babies -- but I still have a massive bruise on my arm that reminds me of their aggressiveness as adults.  They will nourish people in my community, and their sale allows funds to support the rest of my herds.  I am grateful that my grandfather taught me the importance of investing hard work into raising animals.  I am fortunate to have had opportunities that allowed me to discern my own feelings about the value of life & the experience of death.  My only regret as I sent those boys down the road to the auction this past week was that I did not get to eat them myself.  It is gratifying as a farmer to see successful results from hard work!

Happy The Grandmother's Birthday

Today is my grandmother's 98th birthday, and I am always amazed by the changes which she has seen in the world during her years.  When Ina Marie Rostorfer was born on 31 May 1917, the president was Woodrow Wilson, the United States was engaged in World War I, and most of the world was still ruled by monarchies & colonial powers.  Her father Lawrence Rostorfer farmed with a team of horses, and her mother Mabel Viola Watts carried out the household chores by hand (no dishwasher, no washing machine, no electric iron, no microwave, etc).  

I remember my grandmother telling about her vivid memory of the day this picture was taken.  It was before her younger sister Lucille and her younger brother Grant were born.  Grandmother said that she was frightened of the photographer, as it was an old style camera where the photographer would duck under a cloth that covered the back of the camera.  As a child getting her first picture taken, Grandmother found it scary that the man would be "hiding" behind the camera.  

One of my favorite stories that Grandmother would tell was about her childhood experience of helping her father re-plant corn.  If an area of the field did not show plants growing, she was responsible to plant seeds by hand to replace lost plants.  Grandmother said that one day as a child she was hot and tired, and did not want to finish the task.  So, she dumped the rest of the seeds under a rock.  Her father was very disappointed when several of the seeds sprouted corn plants that grew out from under the stone!

Grandmother was always good at telling stories about her youth.  I learned about her anger when her new baby sister broke many of her toys, I marveled that there was a world without electric and telephones and indoor bathrooms, I heard of her love for her cousin Ray and her sadness when he died during the Battle of the Bulge, and I was enchanted by stories of her courtship with my grandfather.  I am very glad that she shared many of these experiences with me, as it gave me an early appreciation for the changes she saw during her life.

One of my favorite pictures of the two of us is this one taken in 1985.  I was wearing a dress that had belonged to my mother when she was a child, and my grandmother wore a favorite dress of hers from the early 1960s.  My friends may recognize that I still have that particular dress of Grandmother's and love to wear it during summer months.  Items like that are important to me as tangible connections to my family.  I am glad that I was able to spend so much time with my grandparents during my childhood, when Grandmother was in good health and able to share her time & experiences with me.

Appomattox Day

150 years ago today, General Lee met General Grant at the McLean House at Appomattox VA to sign the instrument of surrender.  This was the beginning of the end for Civil War fighting.  Within a few months, the remaining Confederate generals would also surrender.  General Lee's troops were allowed to return home, permitted to keep their horses, given rations, and able to retain their side-arms if they were an officer.  The generosity shown by General Grant toward the defeated was unique for the victor of a civil war.  Winston Churchill later wrote that this magnanimity "stands high in the story of the United States."  

I love history, and I especially adore being able to see the history of the United States in my own family. Harrisons were on both sides of the Civil War.  Taps was actually written while General McClellan's Army of the Potomac was encamped at Berkeley Plantation, the home of the Harrisons in Virginia.  President Lincoln visited the troops there, and used this location as his base to visit Richmond after it was taken by Union forces.  Following the war, the Harrisons did not return to Berkeley.  My own branch of the family had migrated to Ohio after the Revolution, and they were raising sheep in Knox County by the time of the Civil War.  I find it interesting that the pioneer spirit led my ancestor David Harrison to travel to the new state of Ohio to build a life, while his cousins remained in Virginia and eventually lost their home when they fled before the Union troops.

David's son John Lum Harrison was a little too old to go off to battle when the Civil War began, and John Lum's son James Virgil was just a child during the war.  James Virgil was the paternal grandfather of my own grandfather Virgil Grube Harrison.  My grandfather's maternal grandfather, however, saw significant military action during the Civil War.

John Kurtz Grube was my great-great-grandfather.  At age 21, he enlisted in the 17th Regiment of the Ohio Volunteer Infantry.  According to family legend, I had always heard that John Kurtz Grube marched with General Sherman from Atlanta to the sea.  This morning, I got out the picture I have of him, and decided to see if I could verify this family legend.  I was absolutely delighted -- thanks to Wikipedia -- to be able to trace the movements of his regiment and confirm that it did see action throughout the South in the time he served, including marching from Atlanta to the sea.

From genealogical research done by my grandfather, Private Grube was mustered out on 5 June 1865.  In 1868, he married Rebecca Ann Wagner.  They settled first in Carroll, in Fairfield County. They farmed there, and their first two children (Dora & Clarence) were born there.  Later, they moved to a small farm on Maize Road in Columbus.  According to my grandfather's records, John worked for the railroad and then for Columbus Door & Sash to supplement his farm income.  The latter job required John to walk from Maize Road to downtown Columbus to then take the horse drawn public transport car to West Columbus for a job that paid $1.25 per day.  John & Rebecca had two more daughters, Portia Katherine and Monnie Hazel (my amazing great-grandmother).  My grandfather was close to his aunt Portia, and was an advocate for the name Katherine when my father suggested it for me.  Portia Katherine was herself named after John's mother Katherine Kurtz Grube -- who was born in 1801 before Ohio was a state, had her son John at age 42, and passed away in 1889.  My mother Rebecca was named after John's wife Rebecca.  The Civil War feels much more recent when I think about these men & women who are my family.

I share this with you not simply because I am enamored of my own family history, but because I hope it serves as an example to remind us that the men & women who lived through the Civil War are not that distant.  They lived lives with many of the same struggles that we have, just at a different time.  John Kurtz Grube was only 21 when he went off to engage in fighting to protect the Union in a bloody Civil War.  He was just one young man, yet his efforts helped to contribute to preserving our nation and protecting equal rights for all.  I hope that in the present day, we are all willing to pledge our lives & fortunes to the same efforts: protecting our great nation and supporting equality of opportunity for all.