Story Time at Clatter Ridge Farm

Bobbie Emery
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I'm a farmer, thinker, and writer. I can't seem to help myself. It's what I do, who I am, and what I love. clatterridgefarm.substack.com

  1. Oct 21

    Until a Good End Comes

    I first posted this story in October 2023, but I think it deserves an update - which I have included at the end as a postscript. Shortly before my mom passed away, she encountered a skunk with an empty dog food can stuck on its nose. She wanted to help but wasn’t sure how she could without getting sprayed. She was heading into the church for a meeting, and someone called out to her to leave it be and she did. She told me later that she felt like a hypocrite going into the church when she was too afraid to help what was surely the “least of these.” I told her, I for one, was very glad she didn’t try, as I would have had to give her a tomato juice bath, just like when her Irish Setter got sprayed. (To be clear, Ted the dog was not trying to be a good Samaritan - he was actually going out of his way to antagonize the skunk). I wrote my mom a children’s story about the skunk, titled “Late Again”, which ironically, I didn’t finish in time to ever show her. A very long decade passed with the story stashed in a desk drawer, until a couple years ago when I thought my grandchildren might enjoy it. I asked my sister if she would illustrate it, but she said no - as did a couple of other artist friends. They all said that illustrating was an art unto itself, and that I needed an illustrator - a children’s book illustrator. So, I went online in the fall of 2021 and checked out freelance illustrators for hire and found one in Ukraine. I loved her work, and she seemed like she would be easy to collaborate with. It was before the war and all I knew about Ukraine was that I liked how they raised honeybees! Admittedly it wasn’t a lot to go on and by the time I decided to offer her the job, the Russian Army was gathering on the Ukrainian border so I waited, thinking it would all blow over in a couple weeks. Weeks turned into months and when the Russians actually invaded, I sent Nataliia a message and some money- it was our first contact. I told her I had wanted to hire her but the money I was sending was just a gift, and that I hoped it would help her get somewhere safe. She thanked me in an email from “on the road near Kyiv” as she fled to Slovakia with her children. She said all she could take with her was a knapsack and iPad and that the money I sent would help her buy clothes for her two children. She said despite “these hard times” she had much to be grateful for because, “unlike most of the women fleeing the country, as long as there is internet wherever I end up, I can still work and provide for my family.” I told her at some point I wanted her to illustrate a children’s book for me and that she should contact me when she was safe, and the time was right. She wrote from Slovakia and said she was ready to work and that “now more than ever” she would appreciate the distraction. I sent her the story but by spring the shelter where she was staying closed, and she said she was heading back to Ukraine. It was months before I heard from her again. When she started sending the preliminary sketches and colored illustrations, I watched as the story I had written magically came to life. Every day I’d check to see if she’d sent anything, which she often did after she put her kids to bed. “A quiet night!” She’d cheerfully write. “No rockets or drones”. Sometimes the illustrations came in the middle of the night, and I’d ask if she was ok. “Yes, we are fine, but the kids are restless from the constant sirens and explosions, so we are spending the night in the basement of our apartment building.” Some nights they’d sleep in the hallway outside their apartment – “where there is no glass to shatter. The bombs are far off but our windows rattle so much I’m afraid they will explode.” She sent pictures of her 5-year-old daughter sound asleep sitting with her back against the wall, and of her 7-year-old son grinning as he peered out from under a blanket covering his head. “We are fine” she wrote “and if we survive all this, nothing will ever frighten us again.” The process of creating this book took on a life of its own and though I am thrilled that it is finally done I have no intention of ever profiting from its creation. All the proceeds from the sale of the book will go to Save the Children’s “Fund in Ukraine.” More than anything, I hope my grandchildren love the story. I’ll hold them close and read it to them as many times as they’ll let me. We’ll sit outside, under our brilliant blue New England sky and enjoy a quiet autumn breeze. We are as far from drones and bombs and shattering glass as we could possibly be, and from a life I pray to God they’ll never know. Postscript February 21, 2025 - and here we are again October 21, 2026 Horrified, and nauseated, by our country’s most recent policy change and abandonment of Ukraine, and its desire to normalize relations with Russia - I wrote Nataliia and said that I was sorry. I fully expected an expletive laced response, but as always, her focus was on her children and her hope for their future - not her own. She ended her email with; “I console myself with the thought that everything will be fine in the end, and if it is not fine now, then it is not the end yet. So, we fight, we work until a good end comes… And thank you for your support, it is like a small ray of light:) ” Here is the link to United 24 It is the official Ukrainian Government sponsored website for those of us who wish to donate directly to Ukraine. On that website there are dozens of funds you can chose to support - from rebuilding schools to robotic demining efforts. I now direct my donations to support the Ukranian military because that is what, as an American, I voted for my government to do. And even if my government is no longer willing to honor its commitments, at least I still can. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit clatterridgefarm.substack.com

  2. Sep 24

    A Flock of One’s Own

    I try not to take it personally but I’m starting to notice just how many of my friends have left me recently. Our chantarelles were the first to go. As soon as the heat of the summer started to fade, the meandering patch of apricot scented mushrooms vanished without a trace. I know the subterranean mycorrhizal network is still there, but it’ll stay hidden until the next prolonged heatwave soaks into the ground and wakes them up again. I’m forever hopeful though, and every time I walk by the sleeping patch I gently plead, “Just one more?” Our swifts abandoned us one day last week, just as abruptly as the chantarelles. They left the chimney, as they always do, right before dawn but they failed to return home that night to roost, and I’ve not heard from them since. I’m sure they’ve already reunited with their extended flock headed to South America where they’ll hang out for the winter. I should be happy for them, and I know they’ll be back next year, but I really wasn’t ready to see them go. The cicadas and katydids are still going strong, but they too will fall silent after the first hard frost, and I know that night is coming soon. Breeding season for our sheep began a few weeks ago, as the daylight length started to change. Our young ram lambs started fighting incessantly with each other and began to look at their female flock mates in a whole new light. We relocated them to another pasture, a bachelor pad of their own, and for the most part, civility has returned. The young fawn twins that were born in our pasture this Spring, still have their spots but as their winter coats grow in, they will look more and more like the yearlings they’ll soon become. Bears are now looking for the 20,000 calories a day they need to gain the fat reserves that will sustain them through the winter. Our chickens, sheep and ducks unfortunately make an easy meal. Male coyote pups will soon get chased off their childhood turf and will wander about looking for new territory, a mate of their own, and food along the way. And so, the season of predation begins again and I’m not ready. We have miles of fencing to repair and fewer hours of daylight each day to get it done. And of course, there’s hay to collect, hoses to drain, and firewood to bring in. Last year, after an epically long snowy winter that just wouldn’t quit, I told a woman I barely knew that I envied my sheep. Sometimes being part of a flock seems like just the perfect thing. Sure, I have plenty of friends and family, but there are times that I don’t really want consolation or help - sometimes, all I want to do is lift my head and bellow and have a flock mate bellow back. That’s it, a gentle but firm reassurance that I’m not alone. My new friend who has health issues for which there is no cure, and of which she is clearly tired of discussing, wholeheartedly agreed. She was particularly enamored by our flock of ducks. She loved the constant greeting and head bobbing - as if they were forever meeting each other anew, over and over again. So now, once a day or so, and apropos of nothing, or something, one of us will stop what we are doing and lift our heads long enough to text out a “Baa!” or “Quack” and the other will respond in kind. No attempt to console or fix anything. Just a baa or quack in passing. After a particularly frustrating day this summer, filled with mostly self-inflicted pain, I texted her “Baa! Quack! Splat!” and that elicited a bit more concern than usual. “Everything okay?” she texted back quickly. “Yes, just a minor stumble– thanks for checking.” “That’s what flock mates do” - she reminded me. And then we went about our separate lives, having neither fixed nor sorted anything - but inexplicably happier, just the same. I’m not ready for it to be winter again, but clearly it is on its way. Once it finally arrives though, it’ll be fine, and I’ll settle in. Winter always means more time in front of the fire reading, writing - and watching Anne pretend she hasn’t just fallen asleep again. So even as the seasons are changing and time is clearly moving on, I can take comfort in knowing that in this journey that we mostly travel alone- I do indeed have a flock of my own. Baa! Quack! (no splat) Thanks for reading Clatter Ridge Farm! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit clatterridgefarm.substack.com

  3. Sep 18

    God Forbid!

    Years ago, after my dad died, I accompanied my mom to the bank. The manager suggested that she add another name to her checking account, “in the event that, God forbid, you should become incapacitated or die.” My mom chuckled and I shot her the look that she used to give me - the look that pleaded “Please don’t say whatever it is you are about to say.” And she, with all the defiance she had clearly learned from me, told him “We are all going to die - in fact that’s part of his plan. God requires it.” Though less tactful than she might have been in her younger years, she was absolutely correct – death seems to be the only predictable outcome to being alive. Whether human, hummingbird, goldfish, or a hemlock tree, our time will come. In livestock farming, death is a way of life. The sheep in our fiber flock either die from disease, predators, or old age, none of which is a particularly pleasant way to go. Our abattoir on the other hand is kind, gentle, and quick. We didn’t get into farming with the idea of ever selling meat, but over the years our thoughts evolved. The more we learned about farming, the more strongly we believe that large confinement operations are a horrific blight on our morality, environment, and health. So, until the entire country becomes vegan, there needs to be many more alternative sources of meat. Being a purveyor of death can be soul crushing, but I believe strongly in trying to change the way this country farms, by offering at least one small-scale alternative . Thanks for reading Clatter Ridge Farm! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit clatterridgefarm.substack.com

  4. Sep 5

    Outrunning the Storm

    A massive hurricane in September 1938 blasted its way through our farm, and left scars still visible today. Most of the trees on our ridge were snapped off at ground level. The oak trees, though, quickly resprouted, as oaks are prone to do. Now, almost 90 years later, some have grown into enormous trees again, but this time with multiple trunks. When we built our house, we wound our driveway between several such trees, as we didn’t have the heart to take them down. They greet me as I return home each day, beacons of nature’s resilience. The 1938 hurricane came without any warning. The ability to predict hurricanes didn’t start until the 1950’s and even then, there was little more than 24-hour notice. On that autumn day in 1938, schools and businesses were open as usual. It wasn’t until the wind picked up, and the classroom windows started shattering, that teachers instructed the kids to run home “as quickly as possible”. The storm was one of the most severe on record. Massachusetts recorded sustained winds of 121 mph and gusts of 186 mph. (For comparison, Hurricane Sandy had wind speeds of 90 mph and gusts of 115 mph). 682 people were killed in New England and the damage to infrastructure was colossal. Barns recently filled with the entire year’s harvest were destroyed. That catastrophic agricultural loss, coming on the heels of the Great Depression, forced many farmers into bankruptcy and many more to just simply give up and sell their land. An abutting neighbor approached my grandmother because “she just didn’t have the heart to rebuild”. My grandmother purchased the land and tasked my uncles with clearing it and planting spruce trees. As kids, a generation later, we were lucky enough to harvest a legacy of joy from that horrific storm. Those spruce trees had grown into a magical forest, where we cut our Christmas tree every year. In the nine decades since that storm, our government’s ability to predict the weather has improved dramatically – from a teacher telling the kids to run home “as quickly as possible” to being able to track the hurricanes as soon as they begin to form thousands of miles away. The National Weather Service’s budget for 2024 cost the average taxpayer $4 a year. The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) budget in 2024 cost taxpayers another $34 a year. Both agencies were hit hard by the 2025 DOGE plundering and further hamstrung by “The Big Beautiful Bill.” I used to be able to get up to date accurate forecasts any time of day or night on my phone and move my animals to shelter or shade, depending on the weather. Those forecasts depended on weather ballons and on the NOAA staff needed to interpret them and raise the alarm. Both budgets have been cut drastically to “save on taxes.” Perhaps not coincidentally, there were two storms this summer that caught me, and other area farmers, completely by surprise and caused significant damage to infrastructure and the hay crop. Haying requires three solid days with zero chance of rain in order to cut, dry and gather the hay. “Unanticipated” passing showers can ruin the entire crop. The cost for each of us for the now hamstrung weather service was, in 2024, $38 a year. I’m happy to pay my share- and yours as well, if it keeps the hay dry, farm animals safe and prevents children from having to try to outrun a storm. Thanks for reading Clatter Ridge Farm! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit clatterridgefarm.substack.com

  5. Jul 22

    A Million and One Penguins

    Two of our grandchildren stayed with us last week, and even though they are definitely the sweetest, best-behaved children on the planet, they completely wore us out. And for me anyway, the more tired I got, the less patient I became - especially when it came to the youngest one’s fairly predictable melt downs. I realize she is only 5, and I totally understand the allure of a well-executed crying jag, but I grew weary, and by week’s end, I was a wee bit testy. On Friday, in the midst of an epic fuss about how she wanted the red bowl (which her older brother was eating out of and had no intention of giving up), I handed her the green bowl which I had cleverly labeled “This bowl is actually red.” Incensed and gaining a second wind of unhappiness, she bellowed even more emphatically; “I want the RED bowl – The REAL red bowl!” Exasperated I exclaimed in response “and I want a million penguins, but we don’t always get what we want!!!” Startled, she caught her breath and asked. “What would you do with a million penguins?” Afraid that the slightest hesitation on my part might allow the melt down to resume, I launched into a breathless monologue about the day in the life of the average penguin rancher. To begin with, I told her, there are no part time penguin ranchers because you need a minimum of a million penguins or they start getting lonely - really lonely. And everyone knows there’s nothing sadder than a really lonely penguin. Sheep just need a couple of other sheep around them to feel safe in the world, and pigs just need one other pig to be completely happy - but penguins need lots and lots of company. And obviously, if you have a lot of penguins, you have a lot of work. Half your day is spent rushing from nest to nest collecting, monitoring, and then sitting on all the eggs that are about to hatch, but which still need to be sat upon. And then once the chicks do hatch, you have to waddle about and carry them on your feet – waddling and balancing is a whole lot harder than you’d think. It takes a lot of practice - but that’s the good thing about having a million penguins, you learn quickly. The very worst part of being a penguin rancher though, is having to constantly dive into the frigid ocean to find a fish small enough that you can feed to the chicks. And catching the little buggers is not an easy task. You have to swim around with your mouth wide open hoping the perfect fish swims in. It’s not like you can use a net or a pole. Baby penguins only like mouth-caught fish. They are very particular about that because not unlike human babies and 5 year olds – they are very hard to please. And then changing the subject abruptly I told her a kind of long-winded story about my penguin friend Donovan who was indeed very hard to please, but who eventually became a very successful airline pilot. I finally ran out of steam just about the time she finished her cereal and announced - “I’m going to the bathroom now” (I’m paraphrasing here) and as she was leaving, she informed me that the bowl was not actually red, the cereal was way too mushy, and my story wasn’t very good. Thanks for reading Clatter Ridge Farm! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit clatterridgefarm.substack.com

  6. Jul 16

    Precisely What We Need

    Maybe it’s because I’m an “Adult Child of an Engineer” that I am constantly contemplating how to redesign things that work okay - but could be better. The human body is one of those things that I often think falls way short of perfection. (And the older I get, the shorter it falls.) For instance, I’ve often wondered why my arms couldn’t be just a little bit longer, so I could reach and scratch the middle of my back. I suspect that evolution determined long ago that people who sought the company of others, if for no other reason than to get their backs scratched, stayed together and for survival purposes at least, we really are better off together. Another redesign I would vote for would be to completely do away with fingernails. Other than peeling the occasional orange, I see no use for them and for those of us that work in the soil with our hands, it’s a constant annoyance trying to keep them clean. But maybe always having a small dose of healthy soil under their nails helps explain why kids who grow up on farms tend to be much healthier than the population at large. In fact, 70% of antibiotics in use today originate from soil bacteria. Unfortunately, the overuse of these antibiotics, especially in animal feed, has created antibiotic-resistant “super bugs”. In 2018, in a race against time to find new antibiotics, the National Institute of Health (NIH) funded a research program which collected 2,000 soil samples from across the country. Researchers discovered in many of those soil samples, a new class of antibiotics called “malacidins.” Happily, malacidins are very successful at wiping out many drug-resistant “super bugs,” including the dreaded and deadly MRSA infection. So maybe once again, it’s the big picture of microscopic organisms that we are missing. Maybe by working with the earth and in essence scratching its back while tending its soil, the earth will watch out for ours by providing us with precisely what we need. Thanks for reading Clatter Ridge Farm! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit clatterridgefarm.substack.com

  7. Jul 9

    I Love Hard Work

    Anytime I’m near a honeybee hive, I linger. I can’t seem to help it. Even though my “to do” list is as long as any honeybee’s, I just stand there and gawk. Perhaps it’s the 40 years I’ve spent managing construction sites that has me so enamored. There is no one in charge of the hive, but everything gets done. There are no bees leaning on shovels, drinking coffee, or chatting on their cell phones. The vast majority of the bees in the hive will only live a few weeks - they quite literally work themselves to death. At the hive entrance, there is always an endless torrent of bees coming and going. Most of them are foragers, collecting everything the hive needs to thrive (pollen, nectar, propolis, water). When they return, they are met by “guard bees”. If the guards don’t recognize the smell of an incoming bee – it is either chased away or killed. Once safely past security, the foragers are greeted by specialized worker bees inside the hive that help them unpack their bounty. Pollen is the only source of protein the hive gets and is vital as a food source. Each forager bee will visit only one type of flower on any given foraging journey, and when they return their pollen sacks range in distinct colors from bright yellow, pink or a deep amber color depending on which type of flower they visited. “Nurse bees”, inside the hive, mix the pollen with honey and their enzyme rich saliva to make fermented “bee bread”. The bread is then fed to all the bees in the hive, and any surplus is stored in empty cells for future use. The nurse bees consume more than their share of the bread and in turn produce royal jelly which is fed to developing larvae and the queen. The larvae are fed the jelly for the first 3 days of their life - the queen is fed jelly throughout her life. The foraging bees are fed last and if there isn’t enough left over to feed them their full ration, the foragers get the message that they need to work harder to gather more pollen for the hive. (FYI- this kind of “feedback loop” would NOT work well with me.) Nectar is transferred from the foraging bee to worker bees and the enzymes it is exposed to in the process turns it into diluted honey. Young bees are in charge of storing the watery honey in a comb and fanning it with their wings to evaporate the excess moisture. Once it is the right consistency, they cap the cell with wax. Tree resin is brought back to the hive, mixed with honey and saliva to create propolis. The building crew inside the hive uses the propolis to cover the bottom of an empty cell before the queen lays an egg in it. They also use it to fill in small cracks in the hive, and somewhat ominously, it is also used to encapsulate any intruder that was killed by the guard bees but is too heavy to remove. Propolis is what gives beeswax that wonderful aroma. Without it, the wax has no scent. Water is as essential to bees as it is to humans. Water collector bees work tirelessly bringing water into the hive. The water is used to make bee bread, royal jelly, and to reconstitute stored honey. On hot days it is also sprayed over the surface of empty cells while several thousand young worker bees flap their wings creating a wing powered cooling system not unlike our own air-conditioning systems. By human standards, I’m a pretty industrious being, but I’m sure bees consider me a total slouch. Every time they see me, there I am leaning on a shovel, just watching them. For Christmas, they’ll probably get me a t-shirt that says “I love hard work- I could sit and watch it all day.” Thanks for reading Clatter Ridge Farm! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit clatterridgefarm.substack.com

  8. Jul 3

    Stacking Hay

    I was thinking, that if I was ever told I only had one hour to live, but I could spend it doing anything I wanted, I’d choose stacking 400 bales of hay in our hay loft, on a 97-degree day – because that hour would last an eternity. Normally we wait until the weather turns cooler to get the hay in, but we were worried that the price is going to skyrocket again this year, so we went ahead and ordered it. It was delivered, of course, on what turned out to be one of the hottest days of the year. When the truck arrives, we put our hay “elevator” on the bed of the truck where the driver can load the bales onto the conveyor that transports them up to the loft, where I stand waiting to unload them. The fifty-pound bales come quickly, one after another, and it’s always a struggle just to keep up. I grab each bale as soon as it comes within reach, but before it falls off the end of the conveyor, either dropping back down to the ground - or worse yet, derailing the rest of the load. Once I’ve successfully grabbed the bale, I throw it to the person doing the stacking. Each bale lands with a decisive “thunk”. The interminable mechanical clacking of the hay elevator reminds me incessantly that I forgot to tighten the chain - and the screeching of the gear cogs lets everyone know I also forgot to oil the gears. Unsuccessfully, I try to distract myself by making up lyrics that go with the screech, the clack and the thunk. Here’s the best I could do: The screech of the cog the clack of the chain the thunk of the bale... The screech of the cog the clack of the chain the thunk of the bale... The screech of the cog... I know- it needs a little work. Even in cooler weather it’s a monumental chore to get the hay in. Last year, I was the one stacking the bales, and even though it was a crisp November morning I quickly overheated so I removed my sweatshirt and hung it up inside the loft - promptly forgetting about it until the last bale was unloaded and I started cooling off again. Calculating that the sweatshirt was, at that point, buried about 400 bales in, and we only use 5 bales a day, I probably wouldn’t see it again until sometime in late February. I was extremely pleased, however, to discover that my car keys were not in the sweatshirt pocket, which in itself would have necessitated making the hard choice between re-stacking the 400 bales to retrieve them, or trying to convince Anne it was time to buy a new truck.. Thanks for reading Clatter Ridge Farm! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit clatterridgefarm.substack.com

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I'm a farmer, thinker, and writer. I can't seem to help myself. It's what I do, who I am, and what I love. clatterridgefarm.substack.com

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