It’s been nearly a month since I posted what I thought was my final F-A-R-M blog on Lancaster Farming’s website.  During the past several weeks, I have been left with a feeling that this column was unfinished.

With a sad heart, I decided to finish F-A-R-M today and dedicate this final column to my friend Bonnie Greer who truly helped me find a real meaning for life on our farm.  Bonnie has been my four-legged confidant and partner for nearly thirteen years.  She has taught me everything I know about herding cattle with Border collies, and has hopefully forgiven me for all of my misguided commands.  She has given us three beautiful litters of puppies.  She has tested my patience by dining on cow pies instead of paying attention to moving the herd ahead of her.  She has been a companion to my daughter, Emilie, throughout her childhood, adolescence and early adulthood.  She has been a beloved part of our family.

Signing onto Lancaster Farming’s home page today, I gazed fondly at the photograph of me and Bonnie that was taken by Emilie on our farm when I began the F-A-R-M blog in June 2007.  Intelligent, gentle, beautiful, hard-working, playful, loving, naughty, stubborn, maternal.  These are all adjectives that would describe Bonnie throughout her life.  Several families are lucky enough to have her progeny as pets and working dogs.  On November 24, 2008, just two days short of her 13th birthday, Bonnie’s life came to an end.

I knew Bonnie was facing some geriatric health challenges.  She was slowing down, losing her hearing and sight, but still very playful.  While she could still keep up with her eight and four-year-old “pups,” she would sometime stumble when playing tag or jumping for toys.  Her climb up and down steps became more cautious and I had to remind myself to be patient with her as she moved through this stage of her life.

I dreaded what was inevitably coming.  I had made that sort of call to our veterinary clinic before when my aged horses and Irish Setters had to be put down.  I was hoping that Bonnie would pass from this life in her sleep.  Alas, this was not to be.

In less than twenty-four hours, Bonnie went from a comfortable elder canine to a distressed friend whose vital organs were malfunctioning.  She never whimpered or complained.  I could see in her eyes that her pride was hurt by the accidents she could not control.  I made the call to our veterinarian and friend, Dave Nirschl, and asked him to come to the farm to ease Bonnie into eternal rest.

I was glad Emilie, my daughter, was home to give me strength and moral support.  She spent the day with her trusted friend.  She loaded Bonnie into her pickup truck and drove to our other farm where Bonnie lived as a puppy.  She walked up and down the creek that runs through our yard.  She fetched sticks --- a pastime and obsession for Bonnie throughout her life.

Saying goodbye wasn’t easy.  Even though I knew it was the right decision to make, I hated calling Bonnie to me one last time.  Tears flowed freely as Emilie and I kneeled by her side and held her head, stroking her fur, and wishing there could be a different ending.  The final chapter of Bonnie’s life was an excruciating experience for all of us who loved her.  She took with her pieces of our hearts.  Her life was a blessing to our farm and family.  Our memories will help us continue rejoicing in her life and will help ease the pain that comes in mourning her death.  We buried her next to the pasture gate.  A gentle rain began to fall as we turned to walk away.

On this gray day, life goes on at Deitschland Farm.  Bonnie has helped me write my final blog.  My faithful friend played until her heart finally stopped.  She never tired of her life’s work ---herding cattle, bringing love into our lives, and being a friend forever.

Farewell, one last time. 

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This is the weekend that we must all remember to turn our clocks back an hour.  Daylight savings time shifts to standard time.  It is a function that many of us would like to do more often in life than once a year every fall.  Going back to fix bad decisions, renew our youth, avoid a disagreement, enjoy a special moment --- all of these are reasons to turn back time, if we could.

Fortunately, none of us have the power to actually go back in time, even when we adjust the hands of clocks (or in this digital age, press a button to numerically reverse the time).  We all must live life in the moment, remembering the past and looking forward to the future.  Our lives are a summary of all of our decisions and actions.  Each one of us can make a difference, for good or ill.  We choose our life’s path, and determine whether to embrace or ignore the opportunities that come along the way.

Writing the weekly F-A-R-M blog was an opportunity I agreed to follow during part of my life's journey for the past sixteen months.  In 2006, Lancaster Farming newspaper had leaped into the electronic communication age and created its website.  Editor Dave Lefever pitched the idea of a blog and I said I would consider writing one but first I had to figure out what it meant.  I finally agreed to give it a whirl, and in June 2007, my first blog appeared.

Since then, more than seventy weeks’ worth of Sheila Miller’s comments and opinions have appeared on this site.  I have shared my thoughts and experiences from my perspective as a farmer, parent, former legislator, agricultural coordinator, volunteer, spouse and daughter.  I’ve enjoyed the opportunity to create this column, and hope it has helped to inspire readers to start or stay in farming.

After my first blog was posted, a minister took the time to log in and confide that he always wanted to be a farmer.  He said my blog had helped him find the courage to pursue his dream.  Other readers have told me that some of my stories brought tears, some brought laughter.  And just today I received a call at the farm from a woman who read my blog who asked me to encourage a young student to follow her dream to be part of the beef industry.

At times I have wondered if the time I have spent writing these weekly blogs was worthwhile.  While the electronic feedback has been sparse, the verbal comments let me know that the encouragement people found in F-A-R-M was appreciated and accepted.

In early October, Lancaster Farming notified me that the decision was made to discontinue my blog and conclude this chapter in my life.  As I write this final column, my closing wish is that everyone who dreams of farming gets to experience the overwhelming satisfaction of achieving that goal.  The journey to success is taken with many small steps and measured by miles of hard work.  Turning back time is not an option.  So get moving and find a real meaning for life in the field of agriculture.
 
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Mike and I are blessed to have our daughter, Emilie, interested in carrying on the family heritage of being a beef cattle producer.  She is following in the footsteps of her parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents, and I’m sure even earlier ancestors who provided for their families in the 1800s and late 1700s as they settled in southeastern Pennsylvania by farming and raising livestock for food.

Bringing in the future isn’t always easy.  We have to work at making sure Emilie’s ideas and aspirations are included in our decision-making.  Stepping out of the parental role and into the partner role takes effort that our busy schedules don’t always have time for.  Instead, we fail to communicate or even worse, argue, as we try to blend her energetic ideas into our three decades of set-in-our-ways farming philosophies and experience.

Earlier this year, I signed up for a multi-week Extension education session on succeeding at farm transitions in order to assist in my role as Berks County's agricultural coordinator.  I soon discovered the theme of this seminar in the 21st century had not changed from the numerous meetings I had covered on estate planning when I served as editor for Lancaster Farming back in the 1980s, except for some law changes.  Keeping a farm in the family is not easy, whether the issue is federal and state taxes or fairly turning it over to children who want to farm.  Twenty years ago I was an observer in this dilemma.  Today I am a participant in the process.

Although Mike and I are not ready to retire from farming, we realize that this is a golden opportunity to bring Emilie into the operation.  Like other farm families, we wrestle with how to incorporate her interests and talents into our long-range management plans.  At the same time, we are not ready to turn over all the decision-making duties.  We are proud of her accomplishments and she has benefitted from the lessons we shared with her throughout her youth.  We just aren’t ready to let go and give her free rein.

I keep replaying some of the advice I heard during the Extension course, and we are trying to incorporate some of the suggestions.  For instance, we are giving Emilie the opportunity to renovate the stable area of our 1880s standard Pennsylvania barn to become a more modern layout for raising show cattle.  My only request is that the historic timbers of this special structure be treated with respect and unaltered by her remodeling.

Both her dad and I assisted in tearing out old wooden pens that were added to the barn in the 1960s.  The previous owners had taken out the original stanchions and mangers to raise pigs and steers.  The only visible reminder that the barn had once housed dairy cattle was the manure gutter running the length of the stable area.  Emilie enlisted the help of our talented neighbor who poured and shaped concrete, filling in the gutters and blending the stable floor to the walkway.  So far, so good.

The worst job was removing a dropped ceiling that served as a pigeon and rodent hideaway and had gathered droppings and dust for many decades.  Masks and goggles couldn’t keep the years of accumulated dirt from infiltrating our eyes, ears and noses.  We were thrilled when only one more panel remained for Mike’s nail bar and muscle.

With a deliberate yank, Mike ducked as the panel began to fall and he was showered by debris.  At the same time, I caught sight of a shower of sparks emanating from above the final panel.  Yelling a warning to stop, I shouted to Mike that he must be hitting an electrical wire.  He jumped off the ladder to turn off the power to the line.  When he resumed his attack, sparks flew more furiously than the first time.  I screamed and raced toward the potential fire hazard.

I managed only a single stride and my foot caught on the bottom wooden pen rail remained fastened.  In the excitement, I had forgotten that it stood in my way.  I found myself crashing onto the board I had just torn off its post, nails protruding dangerously toward me.  Pain seared through my knee and ribs as I finally quite falling.  Emilie wasn’t sure who to run to first.  As she helped me push off the board, I focused on the far end of the barn and worried that Mike might electrocute himself or inadvertantly set the entire barn on fire.  Fortunately, he was already out the door and heading for the house to turn off the breaker to the barn.

As we dusted off and cleaned up from the dirty ordeal, we were grateful that the damage to our barn and our bodies was relatively minor.  The nail wounds and bruises I inflicted on myself weren’t serious, and Mike wasn’t shocked by the faulty old wiring.  Our barn was still standing.  The stable’s facelift was proceeding on schedule, being readied for new pen panels, finding a new purpose for a new generation of cattle producers.  It is an exciting time.
  
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The quiet of the summer night was interrupted by an eerie sound.  The Border collies went on high alert and sounded their territorial barks which echoed off the wooded hillsides of our farms.  The high-pitched cry of the nocturnal visitor reverberated up and down the valley, growing closer and closer and louder by the minute.  Intervals of only a minute or two interrupted this unwelcomed nighttime serenade, making it next to impossible for humans or dogs to fall back to sleep.

The next morning, both Mike and I tried to figure out what sort of animal had come calling to Deitschland Farm.  We had never heard a bobcat and weren’t sure what they sounded like.  Some folks told us later they sound like a baby crying.  What we heard was hard to describe in words, but we were sure we had never experienced anything like it before.  Normal summer sounds on our farms include the typical scrapping of wandering raccoons, the twittering of screech owls, and the booming hoots of great horned owls, accompanied by plenty of chirping crickets and bull frogs booming in the darkness.  These noises rarely set off the dogs.  But this intruder was different, and I wasn’t sure that I was thrilled that it had decided to spend time on our farms.

Every evening for several weeks, I could set the clock by this night stalker.  Three o’clock in the morning I would hear its faint cry grow louder and louder as it walked along the stream bank, and soon the dogs would answer back.  I think they were as nervous about this new noisemaker as I was.

One late evening I was waiting for the dogs to finish their “yard work” before turning in for the night.  They began circling our large pine tree and suddenly I was being rushed at by an unseen shadow.  My mind tried to compute what was racing toward me, swiftly past me, and into the night.  I remember screaming at the dogs to stop the chase, at the same time wondering what stray cat or oversized cottontail had just sped past me.  A chill ran down my spine as I kenneled the dogs and welcomed the safe feeling of being back inside of our home.

Could this have been the bobcat, surprised into a madcap sprint toward the only human standing between the dogs and the safety of the woods?  It certainly sounded bigger and faster than anything I could fathom as it rushed by.  While I never saw it, I could feel it and heard it running.  It did sound like a rabbit or raccoon.  It surged past me in a rush of paws and wind.  I decided it was time to ask some of my farm neighbors about the likelihood of a bobcat settling down in Berks County.  A few confirmed that they had heard one, and some said there were probably more in the area.  Some even said there had been a few bobcats seen by local hunters.

I recalled an interview I had conducted with a Pennsylvania Game Commission biologist when I was a member of the House Game and Fisheries Committee.  The topic was bobcats and the surveys that were being conducted to study these feline predators.  I was intrigued by these wild cats that generally inhabit counties far north of the Blue Mountain and the valley where we farm in the southeastern part of our state.  Since they became a protected game species in 1970, however, their numbers and range have increased.

So, having a bobcat move in was not impossible.  Loss of habitat due to development and maturing forest could have driven this bobcat to our agricultural area.  I decided to get more information by going to the Pennsylvania Game Commission’s website and learned that our state’s bobcat is also known as the bay Iynx, wildcat, red lynx and swamp tiger.  It's scientific name is Lynx rufus, and it is closely related to the Canada lynx, which is not found in Pennsylvania.

Like other members of the cat family, bobcats rely on their sharp senses of sight, smell and hearing to survive as hunters.  A mature bobcat averages about a yard in length, from head to a stubby, six-inch tail.  They generally weigh 15 to 20 pounds, but some can get to be 35 pounds.  Their gray-brown fur, with dark spots and bars, gives it natural camouflage in its normal habitat of woodland and brush.  It is a swift runner thanks to strong back legs that are longer than its front legs.  These strong limbs propel the bobcat when chasing down its quarry, climbing trees, or when swimming through creeks.

I was reassured when I learned that bobcats generally dine on mice, wood rats, shrews, squirrels, chipmunks, birds, rabbits and an occasional porcupine, mink, muskrat, skunk, fish, frog, or fox if the opportunity presents itself.  They might even tackle a sick, weak or crippled deer, and are known to feed on carcasses of whitetails that starved during winter or died of other causes.

I look at our hollow tree stumps, rock outcroppings, and stream bottoms and wonder if they now serve as dens and hunting territories for a new farm cat.  Bobcats, like farmers, have been negatively impacted by development.  Both of us have lost land that we need to survive.  Maybe our part of Penn’s woods will be adopted by this elusive wildcat.  Our farms already have one “Wildcat” living here since Emilie returned home as a Kansas State University graduate in 2006.  Could be this cat feels right at home! 

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Farm tours are in full swing.  Fall is a perfect time of year to invite the public to learn more about agriculture by spending a day on different farms and visiting nearby agribusinesses.  It’s an opportunity to teach people the ABCs of agriculture.  Most people have to hear the basics of the food industry's story because they are several generations removed from the farm.  Most have never raised anything edible.  The grocery store shelf is their closest connection to the food system.

My hat goes off to all the farmers who allow their operations to be opened up to the uninformed eyes of visitors.  It can be risky inviting people to view the behind the barn door scenes that go along with raising livestock , cultivating crops, and serving as the first link in the food chain.

This weekend Berks County will be hosting its annual farm tour, with eight different farm enterprises and businesses represented for an afternoon of agritainment and education for the non-farm public who will spend a day getting back to their roots.  A lot of work goes into a successful day, both on and off the farm.  It gives farmers a reason to spruce up their farmstead, and put on their best faces.  It’s amazing how much stuff can accumulate over the years that detract from the picturesque appearance we all want to share with our visitors.  Public tours are a good excuse to trim, trash, and tidy up around the farm.

Our organizing committee has been planning this weekend since the new year began.  The pace picked up during the past few weeks as our deadline loomed ahead.  With less than 24 hours to go, we are still tying up the loose ends of this educational event.  Ready or not, our tour starts at the Pennsylvania German Cultural Heritage Center, where participants will get their guide booklet and map, learn a bit about the history of the county and our agrarian heritage, and get the green light to wind their way through the Blue Mountain region of northeastern Berks County.

Will people come out for the tour?  Did we do enough to advertise the event?  Did we do too much and will we be too successful in having the public stop by?  Will the weather cooperate?  Will folks have a good experience?  Will they leave with a better understanding and respect for the farmers who work 24-7-365 to put food on their tables?

While this is a multi-farm tour, planned and executed by a group of agencies and farm organizations, some farmers host their own Open House events.  I recently participated in one of these individual invitations to the non-farm public at Keith and Margaret Masemore’s farm.  I came away from that dreary Saturday totally convinced that this type of public relations is key to the farm community’s survival in the future.

I watched as people who were clueless about agriculture were slowly but surely enlightened about the everyday tasks that farmers perform to make a living and produce food for their neighbors.  They smelled the strong aroma of fermented corn silage and haylage, some wrinkling their noses.  They walked cautiously across a strategically placed rubber mat placed on a cow walkway to avoid coating their shoes in fresh manure.  They gazed down at cows and heifers chewing their cuds and resting comfortably on mattresses.  They listened to the farmer as he explained how he mixes their feed to optimize milk production, milks them twice a day, and the financial investment he has made to make a living in farming.

The visitors were impressed by the conservation practices the farmer employed to protect the land and be a steward of the natural resources so integral to the farm business.  They appreciated the complexity of balancing fertilizer, genetics, and management to optimize field crop production.  They enjoyed the opportunity to pet and lead goats and bunnies, and to name calves that were housed in hutches.  Some children climbed aboard a securely parked John Deere tractor, posing for pictures and play-acting as farmers for a day.  Parents wished they could trade places with their kids but resisted asking the youthful drivers to relinquish the tractor seat to them.

Neighbors in the new homes across the road from the host farm left with a better understanding about the noise and daily activities they observed from across the fields.  They could see, hear and smell everything first hand, and make the important connection between knowledge and their senses.  Instead of questioning what was happening on the neighboring farm from afar, they now knew that the roar of a tractor, the mooing of cows, the bleating of goats, and the fresh country air aroma were all integral parts of this family farm.

Could a visitor misinterpret the facts about farming?  Could they criticize the normal husbandry that occurs on modern farms?  The answer is absolutely “yes.”  But, what I witnessed made me a firm believer that we all need to take a chance on teaching non-farm neighbors about our farms.  Better they hear the facts from those of us who live next door, farm the land, and care for the livestock, than if they listen to radical groups whose message is not a true representation of today’s agriculture.

Farm visits are risky business.  But, it is even more risky for farmers to not share their story.  Whether you join a group to sponsor a day of farm tours, or whether you open your farm to your nearest neighbors, take the time to teach these people the importance of agriculture in their lives.  You might be surprised at the results.

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The sensation of the entire world spinning out of control woke me from a deep sleep.  My dark bedroom was whirling every direction.  I clamped my eyes, shutting out the blackness, but my mind was besieged by flashing cyclones spinning out of control.  I struggled to bring normalcy to my consciousness, and eventually, the tumbling sensation subsided.

What had happened?  Nothing I had ever experience before outside of an amusement park’s spinning cyclone ride could compare to the unexpected and unwelcomed interruption to a good night’s sleep.  I tried to shake off the feeling of dread that was creeping into my psyche and threatening to traumatize me into imagining the worst.  Despite my attempts to explain away the dizzy feeling as a fluke, I immediately imagined an incurable malady was turning my world upside down.

I concentrated on trying to go back to sleep so that I could hopefully wake up from this bad dream and my world would be right again.  Cautiously, I opened my eyes a few hours later to the welcomed light of day.  The room was peacefully still and the swirling had ceased.  I breathed a sigh of relief.

All was going well until I leaned a bit too far down and to the right.  Suddenly, that dreadful tipping of the universe recurred.  This wasn’t a nightmare because I was no longer sleeping.  I carefully evaluated the vertigo that threatened to envelope my world.  Was I a hazard to myself if I resumed my everyday activities?  Would this feeling strike when I was driving a car or tractor?  Could this happen again in a blink of an eye?  I was worried.

I spoke to friends and coworkers about this strange occurrence to get a sense of what others might have experienced.  I heard one story of an uncle who had a similar dizzy spell and was told there was no medical cure and he would have to live with it.  Yikes.  That wasn’t the answer I was hoping for.

A conversation with another friend with whom I was sharing my health concerns left me with more hope.  She told me that, as part of her graduate studies, she had job shadowed an audiologist.  The vertigo I was feeling was treatable.  She suggested I get to a doctor who specialized in treating issues with the inner ear.

Protein crystals could have migrated out my inner ear, she said.  These crystals are what send signals to the brain and help determine balance.  When these crystals shift out of their assigned spot, the resulting vertigo would be instantaneous.  After hearing my friend's advice, it sounded like a doctor’s appointment might be the ticket to getting my life back to normal.  I made the call.  The three-week wait was long and nerve wracking.  I learned to avoid movements that set off the tumbler turmoil in my life.

As a child, I never enjoyed the giant spinning barrel that other children skillfully ran through by climbing its walls as they dashed to the other end.  The one time I attempted to follow my friends, I found myself falling, and rolling, rolling, and rolling until the attendant finally stopped the barrel and allowed me to crawl permanently away.  I never hoped to experience that sensation again.  Now, a half century later, I found myself tumbling again and it was no barrel of laughs.

I waited patiently in the doctor’s office for my turn to benefit from the skillful analysis of the physician and the audiologist.  After preliminary tests that made me strain to hear various sound pitches and hit a button at the moment they became audible, I finally was put into the hands of a young woman who asked me questions about the vertigo I was experiencing.

After the initial round of questions, she asked me to recline on my left side.  I had already told her the dizziness only struck when I was on my right side.  Finally, she told me to keep eye contact with her as I slowly reclined backwards on my right side.  And then the room began to swirl.  “There it is,” she said.  “The rapid eye movement is there.  Relax and we’ll get things back in order.”

With my head cupped in her hands, she lowered my head so that it was tipped back and below the medical examination table on which I lay.  She asked me to slowly roll to my left, and a few minutes later instructed me to sit up slowly.  I looked at her in astonishment.  The strange imbalance that had plagued my world for nearly a month had vanished.  I couldn’t believe this was all it took to stop my world from spinning.  The audiologist probably sensed my skepticism.  So, she asked me to repeat the right-side recline and this time there was no spinning examination room.  I was ecstatic.

As I prepared to depart, the doctor cautioned me to be prepared to come back perhaps one more time for the audiologist's treatment.  After that, he suggested it would be unlikely that my inner ear’s protein crystals would be sending my world spinning again.  He sent me on my way, cautioning me to wear ear plugs when driving tractors, running chain saws, or whenever I am around loud and noisy machinery.  He pointed out there was already damage that had been done from past neglect, but that I could avoid permanent hearing loss by just using plugs or ear protection headsets.

I heeded the warning and stocked up on ear plugs on my drive home.  I was glad the cure to my vertigo was such a simple procedure and that there are knowledgeable  friends and physicians who provided the answer to my ailment.  Thankfully, while my world still seems to spin out of control at times, my vertigo has vanished.  I have a new found respect for protein crystals and the control they have over our lives.  Nature’s balancing act is hard to beat.  Don't take it for granted.  

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A storm of black and white hair swirled around on the cool autumn breeze.  Clamping my mouth closed and squinting my eyes against the floating fur, I kept brushing my line up of Border collies as they waited their turns to be pampered.  It was an endless task, or so it seemed.  The more I ran the brush through their coats, the more the dog's fine undercoat surfaced and clung to its bristles.  Like the silk scarves of a magician, the fine hair just kept coming and coming.  The seasonal ritual of shedding demanded my attention once again.  An hour of outside grooming would hopefully help keep the floors of my house from harboring heaping mounds of dog hair in the week ahead.

Border collies are definitely not among the breeds of dogs that earn their room and board on the fact that they “don’t shed.”  Actually, all animals shed hair, even humans.  But some dogs, like poodles, schnauzers, and less useful dogs, have a reputation for not shedding.  Because these breeds of dogs are generally clipped and groomed more regularly, their seasonal hair loss is less conspicuous than most canines.  Border collies are blessed with long feathers on their legs and a double coat of fine hair covered by longer, coarser hair.  You can count on them losing this bountiful coat twice a year, both spring and fall to make way for the new fur coat that matches the season’s temperatures.

As I finished the last dog, I looked around my feet to see my lawn adorned with circles of fluff.  Once the dogs exited the grooming space, I could have pasted together another dog from the hair left behind.  I decided to leave the interesting pattern the aftermath of my efforts painted against the green grass for others to admire until the next morning.

I was reminded of a woman I met years ago who spun her collie’s hair into yarn.  She carded her collie’s shed-out hair in the same fashion she carded her sheep’s shorn wool.  I walked away from watching her work her talents on her spinning wheel, creating long threads of fiber, wondering who would want a sweater made from dog hair.  As I looked at the mountain of hair shed from my five Border collies, I began to envision the potential market for black and white sweaters.  They would certainly be warm.  The hair coat of Border collies sheds rain, snow, dirt and whatever else they decide to roll in.  You’ll never see a Border collie shiver, even on the coldest day.  On hot summer days, they cool off in a tub of cold water or the creek to keep from overheating.

The following fall day found my abstract art creation transformed by the morning dew.  The wispy hair coating the tips of the grass took on the appearance of cotton candy before it is swirled on a paper stick.  It was time to gather up this water-crystal-coated web and tidy up the yard.  As I raked it together, the hair melted and matted into a tiny fur ball.  How could so much hair shrink into something smaller than a kitten?

This new art form of Border collie hair has taken on a new role under the holly bush where I deposited it.  It has become a replica of a skunk, and startles the unsuspecting passerby when they see this black and white decoy out of the corner of an eye.  While my aim was not to attract more visiting skunks, I get a chuckle every time I see the startled look and then relief of folks when they realize this “skunk” doesn’t spray!

This time of year there are plenty of skunks wandering nearby, and sending out their distinct aroma when frightened or hurt.  I am happy our dogs have not tried to tackle the real thing recently.  Bathing them in tomato juice leaves their white hair tinted pink.  And the combo smell of wet dog, tomatoes and the aftermath of a skunk encounter takes spaghetti off our family’s menu indefinitely, or at least until the smell wears off the dogs.

Shedding --- it’s just another way to celebrate the changing seasons on the farm.

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The first day of autumn arrives on Monday.  While I happily welcome the first day of spring which heralds the beginning of a new growing season and the end of a long winter, the arrival of the first fall day brings a much more melancholy feeling.  It is hard to believe six months of planting, nurturing and harvesting crops is cycling to a grand finale.  The last cuttings of hay are being raked and baled.  The early corn is being chopped and ensiled, and the remaining stalks that are drying in the fields are turning a golden brown as their ears droop under the weight of plump grain.

My thoughts begin shifting from drought and high temperatures to impending months of snow and frigid days and nights.  The only thing between summer and winter is three months of crisp autumn days filled with brilliant fall colors on tree-covered hillsides.  Their leaves of orange, yellow, red and brown hues drift slowly down to earth to blanket the ground, waiting until they are hidden beneath drifts of white snow.

Cold.  The temperatures are already falling and sweatshirts are comfortable additions to my morning and evening attire.  Gone are the hot humid days that brought sweat to brow all summer long.  I reluctantly slip my bare feet out of flip-flop sandals and into confining socks and shoes.  Claustrophobia.  My toes rebel against the confinement that blisters and pinches them within the leather walls.  They are suddenly hidden from the warm sun that baked them to a golden brown while walking and working in the field.  The V-mark that contrasts my tanned and un-tanned foot tops will eventually blend into faded brown as the calendar pages flip to October, November, December and the new year.  My feet will hibernate inside socks, slippers and boots for another six months until freed again by warmer weather.

While I have never been tough enough to go totally shoeless like some brave soles who can walk on stones and never wince, I spend most of the summer in sandals.  Even when farm work takes me into the barnyard, I prefer flip flops to boots.  Cow flops and hooves are hazards to avoid when wearing only sandals.  Unless we are doing intense cattle work, I ignore the potential podiatric danger and opt for cool comfort instead.  Like they warn children on television, this blog will also warn “Caution, don’t try this at home without parental supervision.”  But, in reality, the farm is the best place for children to run barefoot or practically shoeless for those whose soles aren’t quite tough enough.

I savor the cool breezes that drift through the farm house windows.  I will put off lowering them, and eventually closing them, to keep the temperatures inside a tolerable 60 degrees.  Without the fresh air, my house seems less friendly, too stuffy.  My family shivers until I relent and build a fire in the fireplace insert to take the chill away.  I seal up the storm windows and bunker down for the frosty days and nights that paint the glass with ice crystals that glitter and melt in the morning sun.

For me, this cycle of lengthening and shortening days has happened for more than a half century.  By now, it should be easier to adjust my psyche to the seasonal changes.  The one thing that helps is having a few fall-calving cows that remind me that life’s cycle promises joys, no matter what time of year we are celebrating.  I remind myself to appreciate the harvest season, the blessings of another crop year, and the opportunity to give my feet a rest as we fall into winter when I warm my toes near the fire and plan for another year of farming.

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We met on neutral ground --- the parking lot of a nearby restaurant.  We all got cautiously out of our cars and trucks, looking around for friendly faces.  The organizer waved us over to the trunk of her car that served as a desktop that morning.  At last the final group arrived, with license plate and door insignias that normally strike fear into the hearts of farmers. The all too familiar logo of the Department of Environmental Resources reflected the sun’s early rays.  The atmosphere on this August day started off on the cool side in many ways.

We divided our ranks and split up into a vehicle caravan and headed to the field.  My driver was Luke Brubaker, a well-respected Lancaster County farmer.  Joining our group was a farm couple from central Pennsylvania and a staff person from the Attorney General’s office.  Riding with someone from the state’s chief lawyer’s office was a bit disconcerting, but we decided to make the most of the opportunity to share with her our perspective on environmental rules as farmers.  We were pleased to find this person receptive and knowledgeable about the laws that govern agriculture, and sympathetic to the struggles farmers have year-round with Mother Nature and on occasion with ill-natured local government officials.

Our first stop was a Berks County farm that raises ducks, utilizing everything but the quack.  As we disembarked from our caravan carriers, the tour group, that numbered several dozen people, clustered around the farm’s management staff and listened to the details of how their operation supplies eggs, duck, feathers, and fertilizer to consumers.  We heard a litany of government agencies listed by the manager that inspect, investigate, and regulate this agri-business each and every day.  We divided into two groups, forcing the commingling of farmers and government regulators and elected officials.  One state senator and a state representative from the area joined the tour of the facilities.

We slipped on bio-security boots and entered one of the long houses for the egg laying ducks.  The engineering of the building kept the ducks and the sawdust floor litter dry.  The water fountains were elevated over a slatted floor so that duck droppings and water drippings were collected and flushed into the waste treatment system.  The cool breeze carried little odor through the curtained building despite the hundreds of ducks that were waddling contentedly from nesting boxes to food containers, or just resting on the floor.

The group asked lots of questions and got plenty of answers at the duck farm.  Egg washing, duckling hatching, slaughtering and processing, and final waste management were all observed and discussed.  It was impressive how well managed the entire operation was, and how carefully every segment fit into the farm’s location and environment.  The only issue that particular day was the layer of dust that coated every vehicle since there had been no rain for weeks on the dirt roads meandering through the facilities.

It was obvious the farm was taking special care to produce a safe product while at the same time caring for the land on which the ducks were raised.  What struck me the most was a comment made by one of the managers that all the care the company takes in ensuring a safe and wholesome food product can evaporate in a few hours once their trucks deliver the birds to their customers in the big cities.  Despite all the inspectors that swarm around the farm on a regular basis, when the ice on which the birds are delivered melts away before the ducks are sold or properly stored, and there is a “bad” duck, the fingers are pointed back to the farm.  That is unfair and frustrating, but unfortunately part of doing business.

We went from ducks to horses, and visited a young couple’s farm where boarding, training, and riding lessons were partnered with beef cattle to help earn a living.  Recently purchased from the previous generation, this couple was continuing the family tradition of farming, but from a new perspective.  No more dairy cows were milked in the barn.  The Hereford replacements were part of a growing freezer beef direct marketing effort for the new generation owners.  Agriculture education was a key part of the operation, as the couple invites the public to horse shows at the farm.  They are helping people understand where food comes from, and focus the message that the horses, cattle, and chickens that call this farm “home” are livestock and not pets.  As visitors, we heard the message loud and clear, along with how difficult, but not impossible, it is to take over a farming business.

I was impressed by the obvious transition plan that was being followed as this farm changed hands.  The young couple bought the farm from her parents at an age when they have plenty of energy to apply to the tasks that farming demands.  They were making changes, improvements, and redirecting the operation to fit their needs and interests.  They are ensuring that their children have the opportunity to be raised on the family farm and can discover whether a future in farming is in their destiny.

The regulators were observant, and questioned why the stream in the pasture was not fenced.  The couple pointed out that cost, construction, and design were factors that made stream bank fencing an option they were deferring at the moment.  They stressed that keeping livestock out of the stream would have to be partnered with sensible fencing layout that allows flash grazing to control invasive weeds.  Both sides --- farmers and regulators --- heard each other and seemed to find an understanding based on common sense.

By lunch time, our group of farmers and regulators felt more comfortable in each other’s company.  The conversation hummed as we networked about stewardship and pollution controls, unreasonable regulation and the need for better understanding between farmers and their non-farm neighbors and regulators.  While I won’t go so far as to say the old Pennsylvania slogan --- “You’ve got a friend …” --- was the end result of this environmental farm tour with the state’s mud cops and lawyers, what was achieved was a better appreciation of each other’s jobs.  Kudos to the Pennsylvania Farm Bureau for putting the time and energy into these types of programs, bringing farmers and environmental regulators together, in real barns, on real farms, for better understanding.

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Annoying, aggravating, and agonizing.  Those are three words that describe the results of three shiny leaves that have made the past three weeks of summer less than a treat.  To say that I am itching for winter would be pretty much on target right now, even though the cold and snow that comes along with that season are not on my list of favorites.

Poison ivy has a way of creeping up on farmers.  It loves to invade our fence lines and field boundaries.  It climbs our trees, and sneaks into flower gardens.  It is a nuisance plant whose purpose in life is a mystery to me, except to keep us on our toes when enjoying the outdoors in summer.  My encounters with this devilish plant always leave me wishing I had worn long pants, a long-sleeved shirt, and gloves, despite the 90-plus degree weather that makes shorts, sandals, and tee shirts a much cooler wardrobe for work on the farm.

While there are some people who have never had the experience of poison ivy’s revenge on human skin, I am not one of those fortunate folks who can wade through it and raise nary a welt.  Instead, I seem to be a magnet for its rash-causing oils, even when I am on a tractor seat.  A few have suggested I swallow a few leaves every spring to give me immunity to the poison ivy torment.  While there are some brave souls who may risk an internal outbreak to stop the outside blisters in the future, I am certainly not one of them.

When I was a youngster, I would spend summer days riding my horse, Charlie, along the Swatara Creek with a band of neighborhood kids and their horses and ponies.  We would wade through knee-high poison ivy beds on our way to the water.  Tethering the horses on nearby trees, we would swim and wade the afternoon away, washing the poison ivy oils downstream in the process.  Thankfully, I never got poison ivy from those childhood escapades.

My first reaction to the poison ivy plant caught me unprepared for the plants’ seriousness if not avoided.  I was, once again, wading through a field of poison ivy as a soil conservationist for the United States Department of Agriculture.  This time it was work and not fun that forced me into the tri-leafed enemy.  I was surveying a pond site for a Berks County landowner on one of the hottest days of summer.  The sweat that was pouring off my skin did nothing to wash away the lurking oils, and by the time I got home from work, it was too late.  The damage was done.  And I was destined to get the worst poison ivy rash I ever want to experience.  My face, neck and arms broke out in a raging rash that took all my will power to stop scratching the tormentor's itch.

I welcomed the doctor’s injection of a poison-stopping shot a few days later, when the rash had made me physically ill and totally miserable.  The relief was almost instantaneous as the poison ivy rash met its match.  That first encounter happened thirty years ago, and I still respect the power of the poison ivy plant and try to avoid it.  But sometimes it just sneaks up on me.

Last year I was mowing an older grass stand at my folks’ farm on a day when the warm breeze brought little relief from the sweltering heat that engulfed the tractor.  Little did I realize that the breeze was covering me with a mist of poison ivy oils.  By the time we ate dinner, I began to get my first clue that I was in trouble.  It was too late to do anything but dig out the ointments and brace myself for the incessant itch.  It was another maddening contest between my mind telling me what not to do, and the poison rash forcing me to ignore the message.  This time I toughed it out, determined not to visit the doctor’s office.  Eventually the poison ivy battle was won and my life got back to normal.

While I should have known better after those two experiences, I threw caution to the wind once again this summer and paid the price.  As I attacked the task of cleaning out fence rows where multiflora rose and brush attempt to grow, I failed to notice the shiny leaves sprouting up in my path.  Wanting to finish the job, I trudged on, vowing to wipe out these unwelcome invaders with my herbicide secret weapon at the next opportunity.  Once again, the plant's assault on my skin has been embedded in my memory.  My resolve has been hardened to keep my distance from this sneaky summer-spoiling plant in future years.  The battle scars from this year's rash, several weeks and tubes of anti-itch cream later, will be a reminder that will last at least until the first frost!

Lancaster Farming's guidelines for posting comments on the website ask that you follow the Golden Rule, respecting other opinions and being truthful and civil.  Do not post any statements that are illegal, defamatory, obscene, threatening, or plagiarized.