Read Online Farm City: The Education of an Urban Farmer by Novella Carpenter - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Novella Carpenter
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Her dog, Oscar, wandered out from the warehouse and gave a loud bark. He liked Bobby, despite Lana’s hatred, because Bobby fed him snacks of old bread and bones. This further infuriated Lana.
“Some people need to learn how to relax,” Bobby said, drawing out the last word.
Bobby had recently started an auto-repair/chop shop—a place to strip cars—at the end of 28th Street. It all started when a neighbor said her car was dead. Bobby opened up her hood, then rummaged around in the back of his car, emerging with a car battery. “I went to Berkeley,” he said to the woman. “Studied biology.” He flipped the battery upside down so the terminals touched. Battery acid flew. Her car started. Word spread: Bobby can fix cars.
When it came to my loyalties, I sat on the fence. On one hand, I was like Bobby in that I was running what some might consider an unsanitary operation (horse manure, chicken shit) on squatted land, and Bobby guarded that land for me. On the other, I was like Lana in that I enjoyed an environment free of antifreeze spilling into the gutters and an endless collection of GhostTown rubbish. (Bobby once found a giant metal shed and placed it in the lot. When I protested—what would Jack Chan say if he saw that?—Bobby took it away, grumbling.)
But now, in the battle between a cactus and a weed, I knew I couldn’t choose. This weed, Malva parviflora, was truly awful, and a dime a dozen. As for the cactus, it did require almost no water, but having a spiny plant spiking out next to a sidewalk seemed sadistic. I couldn’t referee this one, and so I shrugged and said, rather lamely, that I wished we could all get along.
A few weeks after my tequila-enhanced discovery that I was indeed an urban farmer, the chicks started to develop real feathers. Worried that they weren’t getting enough vitamin D—an important nutrient for healthy feathers—I took the birds on a field trip to the garden.
I gathered the birds into a cardboard box and then upended it into a garden bed. At first they seemed stunned by the out-of-doors—the shining sun, the blue sky, the dirt at their feet. When a pigeon flew by, without a sound they took cover under the crinkled leaves of a Swiss chard plant. The turkey poults ducked their heads underneath the chicks’ legs, trying to hide—never mind that they were twice the size of the chicks by then. After a few minutes, the instinct to roam trumped fear. The chicks fanned out, scratched at the dirt, and ate rocks. Chickens and turkeys don’t have stomachs. Instead they digest their food with a powerful muscle in their gut called the gizzard. The birds peck up rocks, which travel into the gizzard. Once there, the pebbles are ground against one another by the gizzard’s contractions, which breaks down the grains and greens and bugs.
The birds were beautiful there in the garden. The chickens ranged from dark-reddish to black to yellow-gold. The turkey poults were starting to get some color, too. One had dark black feathers; the other two were mostly white with streaks of black.
As the birds enjoyed the early summer sunshine I did some weeding and checked on my vegetable seedlings.
Not only was I growing meat birds; I had expanded to include some varieties of heirloom fruits and vegetables. I chose heirloom varieties because they are often best suited for a small home garden, because their seeds can be saved and used the following year, and frankly, because I love their names: Amish Paste tomatoes, Golden Bachau peas, Speckles lettuce, Cream of Saskatchewan watermelons. All seemed to be doing fine except for the watermelons.
In early June I had made careful mounds of composted horse manure and dusted the tops with worm casings harvested from the worm bin. Then I sank the watermelon seeds into each mound. I watered them very well, resubmerging two escapees that floated up to the surface.
I anticipated sweet melons that I would eat straight from the garden, juice dripping
“Some people need to learn how to relax,” Bobby said, drawing out the last word.
Bobby had recently started an auto-repair/chop shop—a place to strip cars—at the end of 28th Street. It all started when a neighbor said her car was dead. Bobby opened up her hood, then rummaged around in the back of his car, emerging with a car battery. “I went to Berkeley,” he said to the woman. “Studied biology.” He flipped the battery upside down so the terminals touched. Battery acid flew. Her car started. Word spread: Bobby can fix cars.
When it came to my loyalties, I sat on the fence. On one hand, I was like Bobby in that I was running what some might consider an unsanitary operation (horse manure, chicken shit) on squatted land, and Bobby guarded that land for me. On the other, I was like Lana in that I enjoyed an environment free of antifreeze spilling into the gutters and an endless collection of GhostTown rubbish. (Bobby once found a giant metal shed and placed it in the lot. When I protested—what would Jack Chan say if he saw that?—Bobby took it away, grumbling.)
But now, in the battle between a cactus and a weed, I knew I couldn’t choose. This weed, Malva parviflora, was truly awful, and a dime a dozen. As for the cactus, it did require almost no water, but having a spiny plant spiking out next to a sidewalk seemed sadistic. I couldn’t referee this one, and so I shrugged and said, rather lamely, that I wished we could all get along.
A few weeks after my tequila-enhanced discovery that I was indeed an urban farmer, the chicks started to develop real feathers. Worried that they weren’t getting enough vitamin D—an important nutrient for healthy feathers—I took the birds on a field trip to the garden.
I gathered the birds into a cardboard box and then upended it into a garden bed. At first they seemed stunned by the out-of-doors—the shining sun, the blue sky, the dirt at their feet. When a pigeon flew by, without a sound they took cover under the crinkled leaves of a Swiss chard plant. The turkey poults ducked their heads underneath the chicks’ legs, trying to hide—never mind that they were twice the size of the chicks by then. After a few minutes, the instinct to roam trumped fear. The chicks fanned out, scratched at the dirt, and ate rocks. Chickens and turkeys don’t have stomachs. Instead they digest their food with a powerful muscle in their gut called the gizzard. The birds peck up rocks, which travel into the gizzard. Once there, the pebbles are ground against one another by the gizzard’s contractions, which breaks down the grains and greens and bugs.
The birds were beautiful there in the garden. The chickens ranged from dark-reddish to black to yellow-gold. The turkey poults were starting to get some color, too. One had dark black feathers; the other two were mostly white with streaks of black.
As the birds enjoyed the early summer sunshine I did some weeding and checked on my vegetable seedlings.
Not only was I growing meat birds; I had expanded to include some varieties of heirloom fruits and vegetables. I chose heirloom varieties because they are often best suited for a small home garden, because their seeds can be saved and used the following year, and frankly, because I love their names: Amish Paste tomatoes, Golden Bachau peas, Speckles lettuce, Cream of Saskatchewan watermelons. All seemed to be doing fine except for the watermelons.
In early June I had made careful mounds of composted horse manure and dusted the tops with worm casings harvested from the worm bin. Then I sank the watermelon seeds into each mound. I watered them very well, resubmerging two escapees that floated up to the surface.
I anticipated sweet melons that I would eat straight from the garden, juice dripping
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