October 2022 - September 2023 In some traditional cultures, the year begins with the harvest. Larders are full; things are at their peak in the natural world. Next comes seven months of decline, and then five months of renewal. Vermont Almanac marks a year’s time in the same manner.
contributors 3 preamble 11 october 13 november 39 december 61 january 85 february 107 march 133 april 155 may 177 june 199 july 221 august 245 september 267
A content index of the many people, places, and topics covered in Volume I, Volume II , and Volume III is avilable online at vermontalmanac.org. A similar index for Volume IV is in the works.
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P R E A M B L E
A
mong other things, this book is a celebration of rural culture. That word, culture, is often employed in an empty way, its power diminished by overuse in a million non-profit fundraising letters. Other times, culture is wielded sharply, as in the “culture wars.” There can be a jingoistic tint to it all: Are you in or out? Whose side are you on? This baggage trailing an otherwise deeply meaningful word suggests a need for us to clarify: What, specifically, are some of the elements of rural culture worth celebrating? A culture of doing, for one. Of self sufficiency. Each fall we celebrate turning wood into fuel, and plants and animals into nourishment for the winter months ahead. These natural rhythms carry over into the next season and then the next – around and around. The repetition is key, as the high calling of culture comes from long-nurtured habits. Lots of cultures celebrate doing. Tech culture is racing madly to put a new iPhone in your pocket and develop a machine that makes thinking obsolete. Urban culture builds and then tears down and then builds again, monuments to and of a human-centered existence. The doing in rural culture, on the other hand, is closely linked to the natural world. And those of us who appreciate this are endlessly grateful for the connection. The rural culture worth celebrating is a free-thinking one. There’s a story about a Vermont teacher from the 1950s on page 166, told through the words of his students 70 years later. The teacher was a young idealist from away, a man “who pursued what pleased him;” the students were rural Vermonters in the tiny town of Guilford who, as their reminiscences bare out, pursued what pleased them. Who were the free thinkers in the story – the teacher who followed his dreams and ideals to Vermont, or the provincial kids who would go on to spend their entire lives in a tiny town, ignoring the “Oh the Places You’ll Go” commencement speeches and the push to uproot, earn, and consume? They all were. And this free-thinking spirit goes hand in hand with Vermont’s spirit of live and let live, which people here are rightly proud of. The rural culture that’s worth celebrating is generous, which was clearly seen this summer when parts of the state were decimated by flood waters and neighbors dropped everything to pitch in. We see it in the way people are proud to support local businesses. We see it in a million little transfers of knowledge about our Vermont ecosystems – both human and natural – from person to person, from generation to generation. The self-sufficiency described above does not come at the expense of community. This book exists because its contributors are driven to dig in – sometimes figuratively and sometimes with a tool in hand. It exists because our free-thinking readers are drawn to our subject matter and are willing to pay for home-grown content. It exists because of the generosity of these contributors, as well as our readers, and sponsors, and donors. Thank you all.
stor ie s f r om & f or t he l and
11
October 2022 - September 2023 In some traditional cultures, the year begins with the harvest. Larders are full; things are at their peak in the natural world. Next comes seven months of decline, and then five months of renewal. Vermont Almanac marks a year’s time in the same manner.
contributors 3 preamble 11 october 13 november 39 december 61 january 85 february 107 march 133 april 155 may 177 june 199 july 221 august 245 september 267
A content index of the many people, places, and topics covered in Volume I, Volume II , and Volume III is avilable online at vermontalmanac.org. A similar index for Volume IV is in the works.
10
v e r mon t al m anac | vol um e 1v
P R E A M B L E
A
mong other things, this book is a celebration of rural culture. That word, culture, is often employed in an empty way, its power diminished by overuse in a million non-profit fundraising letters. Other times, culture is wielded sharply, as in the “culture wars.” There can be a jingoistic tint to it all: Are you in or out? Whose side are you on? This baggage trailing an otherwise deeply meaningful word suggests a need for us to clarify: What, specifically, are some of the elements of rural culture worth celebrating? A culture of doing, for one. Of self sufficiency. Each fall we celebrate turning wood into fuel, and plants and animals into nourishment for the winter months ahead. These natural rhythms carry over into the next season and then the next – around and around. The repetition is key, as the high calling of culture comes from long-nurtured habits. Lots of cultures celebrate doing. Tech culture is racing madly to put a new iPhone in your pocket and develop a machine that makes thinking obsolete. Urban culture builds and then tears down and then builds again, monuments to and of a human-centered existence. The doing in rural culture, on the other hand, is closely linked to the natural world. And those of us who appreciate this are endlessly grateful for the connection. The rural culture worth celebrating is a free-thinking one. There’s a story about a Vermont teacher from the 1950s on page 166, told through the words of his students 70 years later. The teacher was a young idealist from away, a man “who pursued what pleased him;” the students were rural Vermonters in the tiny town of Guilford who, as their reminiscences bare out, pursued what pleased them. Who were the free thinkers in the story – the teacher who followed his dreams and ideals to Vermont, or the provincial kids who would go on to spend their entire lives in a tiny town, ignoring the “Oh the Places You’ll Go” commencement speeches and the push to uproot, earn, and consume? They all were. And this free-thinking spirit goes hand in hand with Vermont’s spirit of live and let live, which people here are rightly proud of. The rural culture that’s worth celebrating is generous, which was clearly seen this summer when parts of the state were decimated by flood waters and neighbors dropped everything to pitch in. We see it in the way people are proud to support local businesses. We see it in a million little transfers of knowledge about our Vermont ecosystems – both human and natural – from person to person, from generation to generation. The self-sufficiency described above does not come at the expense of community. This book exists because its contributors are driven to dig in – sometimes figuratively and sometimes with a tool in hand. It exists because our free-thinking readers are drawn to our subject matter and are willing to pay for home-grown content. It exists because of the generosity of these contributors, as well as our readers, and sponsors, and donors. Thank you all.
stor ie s f r om & f or t he l and
11
o c t o b e r
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I N D U S T R Y
f
History of Vermont Barns
arns are ubiquitous across the rural Vermont landscape. Their presence tells us where farms are, where they were, and – more hopefully – where they might be again. Their architecture can also tell us a lot about when the barn was built and what it was likely used for. Learning to recognize these seven distinct types of historic barns can help you trace our state’s agricultural heritage.
ENGLISH BARNS ( CI RCA 17 70s TO
CI RCA 1840s) were commonly built by Vermont
settlers who migrated into former Native American lands after the Revolutionary War. Identifying features include a wide doorway on the eaves side, unpainted vertical sheathing boards, and hand-hewn timber frames. Typically measuring about 30x40 feet with sills set close to the ground, many of these gable-roofed barns served Vermont families who were sustaining themselves through subsistence farming. English barns feature a central drive floor flanked by a large hay mow extending to the roof on one side; on the other side there’s an enclosed space for sheltering animals with additional hay storage above. As soil fertility waned and the importance
of returning animal manure to nourish croplands became recognized, some farmers had their barns built on sloped sites with basements beneath for collecting manure. G ABLE FRO N T BARNS
( CI RCA 1840s
TO CI RCA 1880s) By the 1840s, people were
leaving rural Vermont for opportunities out West. This also coincided with a shift to dairy farming in Vermont, as the prior “sheep boom” waned due to global competition. As farm labor shortages were compounded by the American Civil War, various “model barn” design innovations were encouraged in agricultural periodicals. Rotating the plan of the barn by shifting the main entrance to the gable end provided important advantages. With a center drive floor running lengthwise beneath a ridge line, these barns could be made larger by adding bays, thus supporting larger dairy herds. Typically constructed on sloping sites, gable front “bank barns” also typically featured manure basements. Sheathing barn walls with shingles or painted clapboards were other innovations prompted by the theory that if stabled cows could be kept warmer in “tight barns” during the winter, they would need less feed, thus dairy herds could be increased without more acreage.
English barn
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stor ie s f r om & f or t he l and
DRAWINGS BY THOMAS DURANT VISSER
Gable front barn
English barn, Worcester
25
o c t o b e r
B
I N D U S T R Y
f
History of Vermont Barns
arns are ubiquitous across the rural Vermont landscape. Their presence tells us where farms are, where they were, and – more hopefully – where they might be again. Their architecture can also tell us a lot about when the barn was built and what it was likely used for. Learning to recognize these seven distinct types of historic barns can help you trace our state’s agricultural heritage.
ENGLISH BARNS ( CI RCA 17 70s TO
CI RCA 1840s) were commonly built by Vermont
settlers who migrated into former Native American lands after the Revolutionary War. Identifying features include a wide doorway on the eaves side, unpainted vertical sheathing boards, and hand-hewn timber frames. Typically measuring about 30x40 feet with sills set close to the ground, many of these gable-roofed barns served Vermont families who were sustaining themselves through subsistence farming. English barns feature a central drive floor flanked by a large hay mow extending to the roof on one side; on the other side there’s an enclosed space for sheltering animals with additional hay storage above. As soil fertility waned and the importance
of returning animal manure to nourish croplands became recognized, some farmers had their barns built on sloped sites with basements beneath for collecting manure. G ABLE FRO N T BARNS
( CI RCA 1840s
TO CI RCA 1880s) By the 1840s, people were
leaving rural Vermont for opportunities out West. This also coincided with a shift to dairy farming in Vermont, as the prior “sheep boom” waned due to global competition. As farm labor shortages were compounded by the American Civil War, various “model barn” design innovations were encouraged in agricultural periodicals. Rotating the plan of the barn by shifting the main entrance to the gable end provided important advantages. With a center drive floor running lengthwise beneath a ridge line, these barns could be made larger by adding bays, thus supporting larger dairy herds. Typically constructed on sloping sites, gable front “bank barns” also typically featured manure basements. Sheathing barn walls with shingles or painted clapboards were other innovations prompted by the theory that if stabled cows could be kept warmer in “tight barns” during the winter, they would need less feed, thus dairy herds could be increased without more acreage.
English barn
24
v e r mon t al m anac | vol um e 1v
stor ie s f r om & f or t he l and
DRAWINGS BY THOMAS DURANT VISSER
Gable front barn
English barn, Worcester
25
d e c e m b e r
M
Northeast Slopes
any Vermonters know they live in a state that thrives on community. Almost every town has folks who will tell you all about local history, the sights to see, the accomplishments of their neighbors. These towns are like big families, with all the nitpicking, internal disagreements, and ultimately, contentment with having a united sense of place and belonging. Corinthians, as the people of Corinth are called, will bring up Northeast Slopes as a singular point of pride for them. On Route 25, between Bradford and West Topsham, this hill has pulled together more local effort and goodwill, has given more kids affordable starts to lifetimes of skiing, and has seen
more sustained action over the decades, than any other hill in New England. To be sure, along the way, there have been squabbles, resentments, and disillusions. But something about this north-facing field on a slope has transcended all that and kept the small-town treasure going for almost 90 years. As the story goes, back in 1936, within 20 years after the world’s first ski resort opened in France for the growing numbers of people practicing the relatively new wintertime activity of alpine skiing, the Bradford Winter Sports Club was established. Rural Vermonters appeared to be enthusiastically receptive to an outdoor occupation that was about enjoying winter, not just surviving it, and a hill in
PHOTOS BY BRIAN CARROLL
For nearly nine decades Northeast Slopes has been a local ski area that brings the community together.
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stor ie s f r om & f or t he l and
75
d e c e m b e r
M
Northeast Slopes
any Vermonters know they live in a state that thrives on community. Almost every town has folks who will tell you all about local history, the sights to see, the accomplishments of their neighbors. These towns are like big families, with all the nitpicking, internal disagreements, and ultimately, contentment with having a united sense of place and belonging. Corinthians, as the people of Corinth are called, will bring up Northeast Slopes as a singular point of pride for them. On Route 25, between Bradford and West Topsham, this hill has pulled together more local effort and goodwill, has given more kids affordable starts to lifetimes of skiing, and has seen
more sustained action over the decades, than any other hill in New England. To be sure, along the way, there have been squabbles, resentments, and disillusions. But something about this north-facing field on a slope has transcended all that and kept the small-town treasure going for almost 90 years. As the story goes, back in 1936, within 20 years after the world’s first ski resort opened in France for the growing numbers of people practicing the relatively new wintertime activity of alpine skiing, the Bradford Winter Sports Club was established. Rural Vermonters appeared to be enthusiastically receptive to an outdoor occupation that was about enjoying winter, not just surviving it, and a hill in
PHOTOS BY BRIAN CARROLL
For nearly nine decades Northeast Slopes has been a local ski area that brings the community together.
74
v e r mon t al m anac | vol um e 1v
stor ie s f r om & f or t he l and
75
f e b r u a r y base in a liquid form – for other companies that want to make ice cream. They’ll take the mix and turn it into, say, cookies and cream ice cream,” adds Michaud. “We’ll produce mix for them depending on the fat percentage they want, or whether they want eggs included – these are custom mixes.” In some cases, Kingdom Creamery will co-package finished ice cream in another company’s pint or half-gallon cartons, but, more often than not, they stop the process at the base mix stage and ship that out to customers in cases or totes (which tip the scales at about 330 pounds). Kingdom Creamery also produces creemee mixes, in either 5 percent or 10 percent fat content, in three flavors: vanilla, chocolate, and maple. Like their ice cream mixes, companies buy their creemee mixes to sell not just in Vermont creemee stands but all over New England and New York. Four full-time employees are needed to run production at the creamery, which takes place from
Sunday to Thursday each week. All of the products require either refrigeration or freezing, so the creamery building has a huge walk-in space devoted to each. That requires substantial electricity, obviously, and Michaud says the electric bills are among the largest of the creamery’s costs. There are other challenges as well. Given the extensive network of plumbing and equipment, breakdowns and repairs are a regular part of life – which means that Jeremy must often come over from the farm at all hours of the day to address some mechanical issue or another. Trucking from the relatively isolated Northeast Kingdom is another ongoing obstacle, says Michaud. “Distribution out of northern Vermont is difficult, absolutely. We can make these products, but the challenge is: can we move them where they need to go in a reasonable timeframe? It is really difficult, especially since Covid, and because these are refrigerated or frozen products.”
As fresh as it gets: the dairy is just across the road from the creamery.
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BACK AT THE FARM
Clair-A-Den Farm milks about 340 Holsteins at the moment; there are about 800 head on the farm total, including youngstock and breeding stock. The creamery uses about 25 to 30 percent of the milk the farm produces. New calves are born almost daily, with the expectant cows moved to a special pen leading up to the birth so they and the new calves can be monitored carefully before and after. “You check for ketosis; you check their rumen to make sure it’s moving; and you check their temperature and their eyes – just make sure they look like they’re well,” Michaud explains. There are also American Milking Devons, a heritage breed of cattle that are being raised to sell. Michaud gestures to a pair of six-year-old oxen. “This is Tom and Brady. The boys have raised them since they were babies; that’s why they’re so good. They are pretty docile.” Jeremy acts as the full-time manager of both the farm and the creamery. “He works pretty much nonstop,” says Michaud of her husband. In addition to managing the day-to-day of both operations, there’s also plenty of planning to do and regulations that must be met. Leslie has a full-time job off the farm (“my first 40 hours a week,” she jokes) with the US Department of Agriculture’s APHIS veterinary services as an animal health technician. With a federal veterinarian, she responds to suspected animal diseases such as bird flu and checks for disease at locations such as auction barns and slaughterhouses. The Michaud’s four boys were young when Jeremy and Leslie started Kingdom Creamery, but they’re now old enough to provide substantial help both there and on the farm. Lincoln, the oldest at 18, headed off to Cornell in the fall to study agriculture; Gabriel, 17, is a talented mechanic who helps keep the farm’s equipment running; Morgan, 15, has a special affinity for the creamery, often helping with packaging and single-handedly setting up a local delivery program of milk, ice cream, eggs, and beef during Covid, when he was just 13; and Dawson, 12, is an entrepreneur in his own right, raising and selling meat pigs. On one visit in the summer of 2023, all four of the boys were out haying by themselves, each handling a different part of the job. “They’re an integral part of this operation,” says Michaud. “They’re very good at what they do – they’re problem solvers, they’re workhorses, stor ie s f r om & f or t he l and
they are farmers. We wanted to raise our kids like this, and we’re proud of it.” The addition of the creamery has been a net positive for the farm, says Jeremy. But there’s no getting away from the fact that running the creamery is a tremendous amount of work. He adds, “To get going, “there was a lot of financial risk involved.” “It was scary,” agrees Leslie. “But we were young and ready to dive into something – and we were doing this for our kids – we want them to have the opportunity, the best opportunity they can have, in agriculture and the dairy business. And so here we are.” —Patrick White
119
f e b r u a r y base in a liquid form – for other companies that want to make ice cream. They’ll take the mix and turn it into, say, cookies and cream ice cream,” adds Michaud. “We’ll produce mix for them depending on the fat percentage they want, or whether they want eggs included – these are custom mixes.” In some cases, Kingdom Creamery will co-package finished ice cream in another company’s pint or half-gallon cartons, but, more often than not, they stop the process at the base mix stage and ship that out to customers in cases or totes (which tip the scales at about 330 pounds). Kingdom Creamery also produces creemee mixes, in either 5 percent or 10 percent fat content, in three flavors: vanilla, chocolate, and maple. Like their ice cream mixes, companies buy their creemee mixes to sell not just in Vermont creemee stands but all over New England and New York. Four full-time employees are needed to run production at the creamery, which takes place from
Sunday to Thursday each week. All of the products require either refrigeration or freezing, so the creamery building has a huge walk-in space devoted to each. That requires substantial electricity, obviously, and Michaud says the electric bills are among the largest of the creamery’s costs. There are other challenges as well. Given the extensive network of plumbing and equipment, breakdowns and repairs are a regular part of life – which means that Jeremy must often come over from the farm at all hours of the day to address some mechanical issue or another. Trucking from the relatively isolated Northeast Kingdom is another ongoing obstacle, says Michaud. “Distribution out of northern Vermont is difficult, absolutely. We can make these products, but the challenge is: can we move them where they need to go in a reasonable timeframe? It is really difficult, especially since Covid, and because these are refrigerated or frozen products.”
As fresh as it gets: the dairy is just across the road from the creamery.
118
v e r mon t al m anac | vol um e 1v
BACK AT THE FARM
Clair-A-Den Farm milks about 340 Holsteins at the moment; there are about 800 head on the farm total, including youngstock and breeding stock. The creamery uses about 25 to 30 percent of the milk the farm produces. New calves are born almost daily, with the expectant cows moved to a special pen leading up to the birth so they and the new calves can be monitored carefully before and after. “You check for ketosis; you check their rumen to make sure it’s moving; and you check their temperature and their eyes – just make sure they look like they’re well,” Michaud explains. There are also American Milking Devons, a heritage breed of cattle that are being raised to sell. Michaud gestures to a pair of six-year-old oxen. “This is Tom and Brady. The boys have raised them since they were babies; that’s why they’re so good. They are pretty docile.” Jeremy acts as the full-time manager of both the farm and the creamery. “He works pretty much nonstop,” says Michaud of her husband. In addition to managing the day-to-day of both operations, there’s also plenty of planning to do and regulations that must be met. Leslie has a full-time job off the farm (“my first 40 hours a week,” she jokes) with the US Department of Agriculture’s APHIS veterinary services as an animal health technician. With a federal veterinarian, she responds to suspected animal diseases such as bird flu and checks for disease at locations such as auction barns and slaughterhouses. The Michaud’s four boys were young when Jeremy and Leslie started Kingdom Creamery, but they’re now old enough to provide substantial help both there and on the farm. Lincoln, the oldest at 18, headed off to Cornell in the fall to study agriculture; Gabriel, 17, is a talented mechanic who helps keep the farm’s equipment running; Morgan, 15, has a special affinity for the creamery, often helping with packaging and single-handedly setting up a local delivery program of milk, ice cream, eggs, and beef during Covid, when he was just 13; and Dawson, 12, is an entrepreneur in his own right, raising and selling meat pigs. On one visit in the summer of 2023, all four of the boys were out haying by themselves, each handling a different part of the job. “They’re an integral part of this operation,” says Michaud. “They’re very good at what they do – they’re problem solvers, they’re workhorses, stor ie s f r om & f or t he l and
they are farmers. We wanted to raise our kids like this, and we’re proud of it.” The addition of the creamery has been a net positive for the farm, says Jeremy. But there’s no getting away from the fact that running the creamery is a tremendous amount of work. He adds, “To get going, “there was a lot of financial risk involved.” “It was scary,” agrees Leslie. “But we were young and ready to dive into something – and we were doing this for our kids – we want them to have the opportunity, the best opportunity they can have, in agriculture and the dairy business. And so here we are.” —Patrick White
119
m a r c h
W E A T H E R
R
M
Remarkably Consistent
arch often features big swings in the weather as winter fights for dominance with spring. March 2023, however, was noteworthy for its remarkable consistency. No one felt this more than Vermont’s sugarmakers, whose whole trade depends on the weather. In southwestern Vermont, where I sugar, we had five days when the temperature got modestly above 50 degrees, and one day when it stayed in the 20s; every other day the highs fell somewhere in the 30s or 40s. On 12 days of the month the daytime highs and the nighttime lows were within 10 degrees of each other. On 30 out of 31 nights, the temperature dropped below freezing. This is textbook good
Clearing sap lines after an epic mid-March snowstorm – the largest of the season, particularly in southern Vermont.
136
sugaring weather, and from a quality perspective, it was a textbook-good year. (See page 144 for a statewide summary.) We – and seemingly every other sugarmaker I spoke to – made lots of light, great-tasting syrup. This makes sense because warm temperatures mean an increase in microbial activity, which at a certain point begins to affect syrup quality and flavor. What’s interesting is that the textbook-good weather in our woods didn’t mean a banner year for quantity. We had an average season in terms of volume produced, not a record season. And what kept it from being a record season was the fact that it froze almost every night. “Wait,” you’re thinking. “I’ve been told my whole life that freezing nights and warm days are what sugarmakers want.” And that’s true, but it’s only partly true. Another dimension to yield involves a vacuum system, which every modern producer employs. And you don’t see substantial gains with vacuum when the sap is flowing well. In other words, vacuum really pays off when the sap weather is not ideal – on day two, and three, and four of a run when the trees haven’t frozen and have yet to recharge. In 2020, our best year ever, it only froze three times in fourteen days during the second and third weeks of March. But we pulled sap through the lines on all fourteen of those days, and on 11 of them, it was flowing 24 hours a day. This year, during that same two-week window in the heart of the season, sap started flowing when it got above freezing in the morning, and then the flow stopped when things froze up each and every night, usually between sundown and midnight. I suspect that lost time was the difference between a season-total average of 28.2 gallons of sap per tap in 2020 and the 24.7 gallons of sap per tap we averaged in 2023. To be clear, I’m not complaining. If given a choice, I’d rather have a cool year like this one than a warm year like 2020, because when things freeze at night, a sugarmaker gets to sleep. Any sap that wasn’t boiled during the day stays v e r mon t al m anac | vol um e 1v
We take a representative sample of the syrup we make on a particular day and put it on the windowsill of the sugarhouse. Note how the syrup was notably darker in 2020 (top) – the weather borne out in the color. pristine. It’s fun making light syrup. When it’s 50, or God forbid 60 degrees, and the sap’s running through the night, a sugarmaker is running, too, racing the clock to get the sap boiled before it turns off-flavor. In this month of consistent weather, the one notable outlier was a fierce mid-March snowstorm that buried southern Vermont. Forty-inch-plus amounts were recorded in Readsboro (42.1), West Brattleboro (41), and Landgrove (41). Some of the top accumulations
farther north were 31.3 inches in Ludlow, 27 inches in Weston, 26 inches in Danby Four Corners, 25.5 inches in Greensboro, and 24 inches in Warren. The deep snow was the consistency of fine sand. A friend from Guilford wrote and said: “March snow, four feet when drifted. And soft. I sank on snowshoes and could barely lift my feet to turn around. One neighbor described swimming in the snow to reach another. I watched this.” —Dave Mance III
We looked back at our weather summaries from the past three volumes of the Vermont Almanac and saw that March 2022 was 2.8 degrees warmer than the 21st century average and a banner sugaring year for many producers in northern Vermont. March 2021 was 4 degrees above the 21st century mean and had 5 days of record-breaking heat. March 2020 was also 4 degrees above the 21st century mean, with sugarmakers (including this one) complaining about 50 and 60 degree weather. stor ie s f r om & f or t he l and
137
m a r c h
W E A T H E R
R
M
Remarkably Consistent
arch often features big swings in the weather as winter fights for dominance with spring. March 2023, however, was noteworthy for its remarkable consistency. No one felt this more than Vermont’s sugarmakers, whose whole trade depends on the weather. In southwestern Vermont, where I sugar, we had five days when the temperature got modestly above 50 degrees, and one day when it stayed in the 20s; every other day the highs fell somewhere in the 30s or 40s. On 12 days of the month the daytime highs and the nighttime lows were within 10 degrees of each other. On 30 out of 31 nights, the temperature dropped below freezing. This is textbook good
Clearing sap lines after an epic mid-March snowstorm – the largest of the season, particularly in southern Vermont.
136
sugaring weather, and from a quality perspective, it was a textbook-good year. (See page 144 for a statewide summary.) We – and seemingly every other sugarmaker I spoke to – made lots of light, great-tasting syrup. This makes sense because warm temperatures mean an increase in microbial activity, which at a certain point begins to affect syrup quality and flavor. What’s interesting is that the textbook-good weather in our woods didn’t mean a banner year for quantity. We had an average season in terms of volume produced, not a record season. And what kept it from being a record season was the fact that it froze almost every night. “Wait,” you’re thinking. “I’ve been told my whole life that freezing nights and warm days are what sugarmakers want.” And that’s true, but it’s only partly true. Another dimension to yield involves a vacuum system, which every modern producer employs. And you don’t see substantial gains with vacuum when the sap is flowing well. In other words, vacuum really pays off when the sap weather is not ideal – on day two, and three, and four of a run when the trees haven’t frozen and have yet to recharge. In 2020, our best year ever, it only froze three times in fourteen days during the second and third weeks of March. But we pulled sap through the lines on all fourteen of those days, and on 11 of them, it was flowing 24 hours a day. This year, during that same two-week window in the heart of the season, sap started flowing when it got above freezing in the morning, and then the flow stopped when things froze up each and every night, usually between sundown and midnight. I suspect that lost time was the difference between a season-total average of 28.2 gallons of sap per tap in 2020 and the 24.7 gallons of sap per tap we averaged in 2023. To be clear, I’m not complaining. If given a choice, I’d rather have a cool year like this one than a warm year like 2020, because when things freeze at night, a sugarmaker gets to sleep. Any sap that wasn’t boiled during the day stays v e r mon t al m anac | vol um e 1v
We take a representative sample of the syrup we make on a particular day and put it on the windowsill of the sugarhouse. Note how the syrup was notably darker in 2020 (top) – the weather borne out in the color. pristine. It’s fun making light syrup. When it’s 50, or God forbid 60 degrees, and the sap’s running through the night, a sugarmaker is running, too, racing the clock to get the sap boiled before it turns off-flavor. In this month of consistent weather, the one notable outlier was a fierce mid-March snowstorm that buried southern Vermont. Forty-inch-plus amounts were recorded in Readsboro (42.1), West Brattleboro (41), and Landgrove (41). Some of the top accumulations
farther north were 31.3 inches in Ludlow, 27 inches in Weston, 26 inches in Danby Four Corners, 25.5 inches in Greensboro, and 24 inches in Warren. The deep snow was the consistency of fine sand. A friend from Guilford wrote and said: “March snow, four feet when drifted. And soft. I sank on snowshoes and could barely lift my feet to turn around. One neighbor described swimming in the snow to reach another. I watched this.” —Dave Mance III
We looked back at our weather summaries from the past three volumes of the Vermont Almanac and saw that March 2022 was 2.8 degrees warmer than the 21st century average and a banner sugaring year for many producers in northern Vermont. March 2021 was 4 degrees above the 21st century mean and had 5 days of record-breaking heat. March 2020 was also 4 degrees above the 21st century mean, with sugarmakers (including this one) complaining about 50 and 60 degree weather. stor ie s f r om & f or t he l and
137
a p r i l
A T
H O M E
•
E
Edward Koren, 1935–2023
In many cases Vermont – both its residents and visitors – take center stage. “He took notes while out and about, returning to his home-studio in Brookfield to gently satirize the Vermonters he encountered,” wrote VT Digger editor-in-chief Paul Heintz in a memorial story. He did the same with those in the big cities. In all cases, his favorite target was pretentiousness.
ED KOREN; COURTESY OF CURTIS KOREN
“We think it’s terribly important that you meet the people responsible for the food you’re eating tonight.”
162
v e r mon t al m anac | vol um e 1v
I
Frittata
had two people from back South ask me “what’s in season?” last April. This is usually a great question to get me talking, but in the moment I only responded with a heavy sigh: “Nothing but what’s in greenhouses and a few storage crops.” Only afterwards did it dawn on me: How could I forget eggs? The glorious butt-fruit of our sassy yard birds that all but disappear in winter before making a glorious resurgence with the lengthening days. One of the many beautiful things about a frittata is that it’s exceedingly flexible – an easy pantry meal for the off-season, but still a lovely way to use some of your bountiful produce in more productive seasons. It’s such a no-recipe recipe, I think I’ve distilled it down as good as I can. Just don’t undercook or overcook it. —Olivia Piepmeier
ART BY OLIVIA PIEPMEIER
d Koren was known around the world as an accomplished artist and cartoonist, with his work appearing perhaps most prominently in The New Yorker magazine from 1962 until the time of his death this April. But in Brookfield, which he called home since 1978, he was known simply as a friendly, generous neighbor and dedicated member of the volunteer fire department for more than 30 years. “He was born in New York and first came to know and love Vermont while attending a theater camp in Waitsfield as a teen,” his wife, Curtis, told us. Koren’s easily recognizable pen-and-ink drawings feature somewhat beastly creatures with over-sized noses and wild, shaggy hair. Often there is humor behind his doodlings, and as longtime New Yorker cartoon editor Robert Mankoff explained, “The humor has humility. It doesn’t think it’s going to change the world, but it still thinks it’s worth telling you how strange the normal really is.”
I NG RED I EN TS
ME T H O D
eggs, depending on how big your pan is and how many you have (with a 12-inch pan, you need at least 6 eggs for a thin frittata, but 9 would be very reasonable, 12 would be very generous)
Preheat the oven to 400. I like to start by dealing with the eggs – perhaps because mine are fresh out the hen and I gotta wash them, so I do that and go on and crack them in a bowl. Unless the veggies and/or meat are freshly cooked some other way, they need a warm-up at least. Melt the fat in a cast iron pan and either warm up or cook the meat and/or veggies. If it’s greens of some sort, I would wait till the end of the cooking process. While the above is happening, I usually go on and mix the eggs (and milk/cream if using), cheese, and salt and pepper. When whatever add-ins are done, pour in the egg mixture. Tilt the pan to get everything distributed nicely. Make sure the burner isn’t hotter than medium and put a lid on (or something to trap heat). Let this cook for at least 5 minutes, maybe less if you have a thin one, more if it’s thicker. The goal is to get at least the sides looking solid. Remove the lid and put the pan in the oven. Timing depends on thickness. The goal is for it to be totally cooked through but not rubbery.
milk/cream, optional, usually a small amount fat of choice – butter, olive oil, or the fat from a meat being used are my go-tos salt & pepper, to preference a cheese of some sort (it could technically work without it but why would you do that?) veggies and/or meat, chopped or whatever in an amount that’s not so much that the pan is covered stor ie s f r om & f or t he l and
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H O M E
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Edward Koren, 1935–2023
In many cases Vermont – both its residents and visitors – take center stage. “He took notes while out and about, returning to his home-studio in Brookfield to gently satirize the Vermonters he encountered,” wrote VT Digger editor-in-chief Paul Heintz in a memorial story. He did the same with those in the big cities. In all cases, his favorite target was pretentiousness.
ED KOREN; COURTESY OF CURTIS KOREN
“We think it’s terribly important that you meet the people responsible for the food you’re eating tonight.”
162
v e r mon t al m anac | vol um e 1v
I
Frittata
had two people from back South ask me “what’s in season?” last April. This is usually a great question to get me talking, but in the moment I only responded with a heavy sigh: “Nothing but what’s in greenhouses and a few storage crops.” Only afterwards did it dawn on me: How could I forget eggs? The glorious butt-fruit of our sassy yard birds that all but disappear in winter before making a glorious resurgence with the lengthening days. One of the many beautiful things about a frittata is that it’s exceedingly flexible – an easy pantry meal for the off-season, but still a lovely way to use some of your bountiful produce in more productive seasons. It’s such a no-recipe recipe, I think I’ve distilled it down as good as I can. Just don’t undercook or overcook it. —Olivia Piepmeier
ART BY OLIVIA PIEPMEIER
d Koren was known around the world as an accomplished artist and cartoonist, with his work appearing perhaps most prominently in The New Yorker magazine from 1962 until the time of his death this April. But in Brookfield, which he called home since 1978, he was known simply as a friendly, generous neighbor and dedicated member of the volunteer fire department for more than 30 years. “He was born in New York and first came to know and love Vermont while attending a theater camp in Waitsfield as a teen,” his wife, Curtis, told us. Koren’s easily recognizable pen-and-ink drawings feature somewhat beastly creatures with over-sized noses and wild, shaggy hair. Often there is humor behind his doodlings, and as longtime New Yorker cartoon editor Robert Mankoff explained, “The humor has humility. It doesn’t think it’s going to change the world, but it still thinks it’s worth telling you how strange the normal really is.”
I NG RED I EN TS
ME T H O D
eggs, depending on how big your pan is and how many you have (with a 12-inch pan, you need at least 6 eggs for a thin frittata, but 9 would be very reasonable, 12 would be very generous)
Preheat the oven to 400. I like to start by dealing with the eggs – perhaps because mine are fresh out the hen and I gotta wash them, so I do that and go on and crack them in a bowl. Unless the veggies and/or meat are freshly cooked some other way, they need a warm-up at least. Melt the fat in a cast iron pan and either warm up or cook the meat and/or veggies. If it’s greens of some sort, I would wait till the end of the cooking process. While the above is happening, I usually go on and mix the eggs (and milk/cream if using), cheese, and salt and pepper. When whatever add-ins are done, pour in the egg mixture. Tilt the pan to get everything distributed nicely. Make sure the burner isn’t hotter than medium and put a lid on (or something to trap heat). Let this cook for at least 5 minutes, maybe less if you have a thin one, more if it’s thicker. The goal is to get at least the sides looking solid. Remove the lid and put the pan in the oven. Timing depends on thickness. The goal is for it to be totally cooked through but not rubbery.
milk/cream, optional, usually a small amount fat of choice – butter, olive oil, or the fat from a meat being used are my go-tos salt & pepper, to preference a cheese of some sort (it could technically work without it but why would you do that?) veggies and/or meat, chopped or whatever in an amount that’s not so much that the pan is covered stor ie s f r om & f or t he l and
163
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riters preach what they need to hear, which is to say our sermons, more than not, reflect our personal shortcomings. But sometimes, when we’re lucky, we get out ahead of ourselves and live what we preach. This happened to me during opening day of May’s turkey season when I shot a turkey and then gave myself permission to feel it: an act that can be surprisingly hard when you’re sneaking in a few hours of hunting on a weekday before work in a culture that prides itself on its ability to never stop. I’m proud to say I appreciated the moment and gave the rest of the day to it. I watched the turkey die, even though that’s the part hunters hate. I didn’t walk away and come back after the wing beats had subsided. Instead, I said a prayer
186
Life Rafts and sat on the wet earth, feeling happy and sad and being present. When I left the woods, I took the time to show the turkey to my father – the man who taught me to hunt. It was a simple act that resulted in simple joy. We took pictures, even though kill shots feel a little silly at age 47. For a moment, we were a boy and his dad again. Before processing, I showed the turkey to the cat, who slunk towards it with dilated pupils while making a sound I’d never heard before. He later buried the offal and cached the head and gizzard in a crack in a tree stump and then spent three days guarding his treasure. I butchered the bird slowly, working the joints with a knife so the exposed bone ends were impeccable. I packaged the breast meat for poaching, deep frying, and making pounded turkey
cutlets; I saved the drumsticks, thighs, wings, heart, liver, and gizzard separately for braisetype recipes like the one below. I thought of Joe Herman who taught me how to cut meat elegantly years ago. I plucked the wing feathers, so my daughter and I could make quill pens to dip into black walnut ink. I thought of the traditional Abenaki culture in Vermont that’s been and continues to be a source of knowledge about living in tune with the earth. The process carried over into the afternoon. I stayed in the moment, putting these thoughts on paper instead of getting back to work. The point is, I think I did things right. I share this not out of smugness, but because I’ve fallen short in the past. I’ve never disrespected an animal I’ve taken as a hunter, but I have
v e r mon t al m anac | vol um e 1v
whizzed through the endeavor as if it were a trip to the grocery store, processing in a hurried manner that did not sufficiently honor the life. When I learned to hunt in the 1980s, it was a fairly common practice to rip the breast meat off a bird and call it good enough. I know better now. I took this chance to atone and pass on a better way to the next generation. Writers humor themselves by thinking their words might influence the world, but usually the best we can do is give a reader something they recognize so they don’t feel alone. I offer this to other turkey hunters in a sense of fellowship. If there is something meaningful here for non-hunters, perhaps it’s the observation that difficulty feeling goes hand in hand with difficulty paying attention; both challenges are epidemic in our culture. Work never stops. Adult responsibility never stops. The expectations we place on ourselves and on others never stop. The torrent of information we absorb through our computer screens never stops. Yet, in these flood waters that bombard us float the important events that give our lives meaning – some of them big, like our children being born or our loved ones dying – lots of them little, like killing a turkey on a spring morning and feeling connected to our animal selves – but, man, are they crucial. It’s probably not too maudlin to extend the flood metaphor and call the important events life rafts. It’s on us to recognize them and seize them when we can. —Dave Mance III stor ie s f r om & f or t he l and
PAVO DEL MONTE (“ MOUNTAIN TURKE Y ”)
This recipe for turkey dark meat was inspired by Hank Shaw’s “Turkey Yucatan,” which was in turn inspired by David Sterling’s Pavo del monte en k’ool rojo. I N GREDI EN TS
Kosher salt and maple syrup for brining at a ratio of 3 tablespoons salt and 3 tablespoons syrup per quart of water drumsticks, thighs, wings, gizzard, and heart of wild turkey. (Save the more delicate breast meat from your bird for a different recipe.) 100 grams achiote paste (you can buy this online – it’s important) 2 teaspoons smoked salt
2 tablespoons bear grease (see Volume I of the Almanac for instructions) or vegetable oil
⅓ cup Seville orange juice (or substitute 2 tablespoons orange juice, 1 tablespoon lime juice, 1 tablespoon grapefruit juice) SAUCE
2 heads garlic 1 yellow onion, quartered 3 paste tomatoes, sliced in half lengthwise 2 tablespoons bear grease or vegetable oil 1 tablespoon oregano & 2 sprigs cilantro 50 grams achiote paste cornstarch ME T HOD
Brine the turkey for a few hours then drain. Then mix the next four ingredients together, pour them over the turkey, and marinate in the fridge overnight. Fire up a wood-burning grill and char the garlic, onion, and tomatoes. You’re looking to put char marks on the outside of the vegetables, not cook them. Same goes for the turkey pieces, which you’ll char next, then set aside. To make the sauce, coarsely chop the charred tomato and onion. Remove the garlic skin and add the charred cloves. In a Dutch oven, sauté the vegetables in the bear grease or vegetable oil over medium heat for about 5 minutes, then remove from heat and put in a blender or food processor. Add the oregano, achiote paste, cilantro, paprika, and a cup or so of water. Puree until more or less smooth. Put the turkey pieces into the pot and cover with the sauce. Rinse the blender out with water and add that water, too. The turkey pieces should just be covered. Bring to a simmer and add salt to taste. Cover the pot and simmer gently over low heat until the turkey is tender – about 90 minutes for a jake, as much as 3 hours for an old Tom. When the turkey is tender, the sauce should be thick. If not, add cornstarch to thicken until it’s BBQ-sauce-like. Lift the meat from the bones (being sure to remove the drumstick tendons) and serve in the sauce topped with a homemade garden salsa and crumbly Vermont cheddar. Serve on corn tortillas or over rice.
187
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riters preach what they need to hear, which is to say our sermons, more than not, reflect our personal shortcomings. But sometimes, when we’re lucky, we get out ahead of ourselves and live what we preach. This happened to me during opening day of May’s turkey season when I shot a turkey and then gave myself permission to feel it: an act that can be surprisingly hard when you’re sneaking in a few hours of hunting on a weekday before work in a culture that prides itself on its ability to never stop. I’m proud to say I appreciated the moment and gave the rest of the day to it. I watched the turkey die, even though that’s the part hunters hate. I didn’t walk away and come back after the wing beats had subsided. Instead, I said a prayer
186
Life Rafts and sat on the wet earth, feeling happy and sad and being present. When I left the woods, I took the time to show the turkey to my father – the man who taught me to hunt. It was a simple act that resulted in simple joy. We took pictures, even though kill shots feel a little silly at age 47. For a moment, we were a boy and his dad again. Before processing, I showed the turkey to the cat, who slunk towards it with dilated pupils while making a sound I’d never heard before. He later buried the offal and cached the head and gizzard in a crack in a tree stump and then spent three days guarding his treasure. I butchered the bird slowly, working the joints with a knife so the exposed bone ends were impeccable. I packaged the breast meat for poaching, deep frying, and making pounded turkey
cutlets; I saved the drumsticks, thighs, wings, heart, liver, and gizzard separately for braisetype recipes like the one below. I thought of Joe Herman who taught me how to cut meat elegantly years ago. I plucked the wing feathers, so my daughter and I could make quill pens to dip into black walnut ink. I thought of the traditional Abenaki culture in Vermont that’s been and continues to be a source of knowledge about living in tune with the earth. The process carried over into the afternoon. I stayed in the moment, putting these thoughts on paper instead of getting back to work. The point is, I think I did things right. I share this not out of smugness, but because I’ve fallen short in the past. I’ve never disrespected an animal I’ve taken as a hunter, but I have
v e r mon t al m anac | vol um e 1v
whizzed through the endeavor as if it were a trip to the grocery store, processing in a hurried manner that did not sufficiently honor the life. When I learned to hunt in the 1980s, it was a fairly common practice to rip the breast meat off a bird and call it good enough. I know better now. I took this chance to atone and pass on a better way to the next generation. Writers humor themselves by thinking their words might influence the world, but usually the best we can do is give a reader something they recognize so they don’t feel alone. I offer this to other turkey hunters in a sense of fellowship. If there is something meaningful here for non-hunters, perhaps it’s the observation that difficulty feeling goes hand in hand with difficulty paying attention; both challenges are epidemic in our culture. Work never stops. Adult responsibility never stops. The expectations we place on ourselves and on others never stop. The torrent of information we absorb through our computer screens never stops. Yet, in these flood waters that bombard us float the important events that give our lives meaning – some of them big, like our children being born or our loved ones dying – lots of them little, like killing a turkey on a spring morning and feeling connected to our animal selves – but, man, are they crucial. It’s probably not too maudlin to extend the flood metaphor and call the important events life rafts. It’s on us to recognize them and seize them when we can. —Dave Mance III stor ie s f r om & f or t he l and
PAVO DEL MONTE (“ MOUNTAIN TURKE Y ”)
This recipe for turkey dark meat was inspired by Hank Shaw’s “Turkey Yucatan,” which was in turn inspired by David Sterling’s Pavo del monte en k’ool rojo. I N GREDI EN TS
Kosher salt and maple syrup for brining at a ratio of 3 tablespoons salt and 3 tablespoons syrup per quart of water drumsticks, thighs, wings, gizzard, and heart of wild turkey. (Save the more delicate breast meat from your bird for a different recipe.) 100 grams achiote paste (you can buy this online – it’s important) 2 teaspoons smoked salt
2 tablespoons bear grease (see Volume I of the Almanac for instructions) or vegetable oil
⅓ cup Seville orange juice (or substitute 2 tablespoons orange juice, 1 tablespoon lime juice, 1 tablespoon grapefruit juice) SAUCE
2 heads garlic 1 yellow onion, quartered 3 paste tomatoes, sliced in half lengthwise 2 tablespoons bear grease or vegetable oil 1 tablespoon oregano & 2 sprigs cilantro 50 grams achiote paste cornstarch ME T HOD
Brine the turkey for a few hours then drain. Then mix the next four ingredients together, pour them over the turkey, and marinate in the fridge overnight. Fire up a wood-burning grill and char the garlic, onion, and tomatoes. You’re looking to put char marks on the outside of the vegetables, not cook them. Same goes for the turkey pieces, which you’ll char next, then set aside. To make the sauce, coarsely chop the charred tomato and onion. Remove the garlic skin and add the charred cloves. In a Dutch oven, sauté the vegetables in the bear grease or vegetable oil over medium heat for about 5 minutes, then remove from heat and put in a blender or food processor. Add the oregano, achiote paste, cilantro, paprika, and a cup or so of water. Puree until more or less smooth. Put the turkey pieces into the pot and cover with the sauce. Rinse the blender out with water and add that water, too. The turkey pieces should just be covered. Bring to a simmer and add salt to taste. Cover the pot and simmer gently over low heat until the turkey is tender – about 90 minutes for a jake, as much as 3 hours for an old Tom. When the turkey is tender, the sauce should be thick. If not, add cornstarch to thicken until it’s BBQ-sauce-like. Lift the meat from the bones (being sure to remove the drumstick tendons) and serve in the sauce topped with a homemade garden salsa and crumbly Vermont cheddar. Serve on corn tortillas or over rice.
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INTERVALE COMMUNITY FARM FACEBOOK
more somber,” Seven Days updated readers the following day. Rising water from the Winooski River was spreading from garden to garden, destroying crops and farmers’ livelihoods by the minute. A similar scene played out at farms across the state. The floodwaters wreaked havoc on every segment of ag: produce that flooded cannot, by federal law, be sold; corn and hay fields were flattened; berry farms were submerged; farms lost barns, coolers, equipment; access roads were washed away. Some diversified farms experienced all of these. “Pretty much everything in this lower field here is going to be unsalvageable. All of our corn from this field, our blueberry plants, apples, pick your own flowers in this section, along with the pick your own herbs here, because it’s all been touched by this contaminated water,” said Kaity Mazza, farm manager at Paul Mazza’s farm in Essex Junction. Smaller farms in smaller communities were hit just as hard. “The season is over for some people,” said Grace Oedel, executive director of the Northeast Organic Farming Association of Vermont, at the time. “And the season is drastically affected for many, many others.” To help take stock of such widespread damage, the Vermont Agency of Agriculture surveyed the state’s farmers to find out just where the damage was most severe and to try to quantify the losses. The results were tabulated on a running basis via an online “dashboard” – below was the status as of Oct. 2, 2023,
though the state cautioned that “The accuracy of this data should be considered incomplete as the Agency believes not all impacted individuals and businesses have yet reported.” The data collected were invaluable in terms of understanding the scope of the flood damage and directing relief efforts, but the numbers alone can’t tell the story behind the heartbreak suffered at so many farms that saw weeks, months, years, decades of effort washed away in a single storm. Nor can they tell of the spirit that remained after the waters receded. Just one example was seen at Foote Brook Farm in Johnson, which lost its barn, equipment, and 75 percent of its crops. “We’ve really been in survival mode,” co-owner Joie Lehouillier told Seven Days on August 23. “We have to concentrate on how we make it out of this season alive.” Neighboring farms stepped up, donating produce so that Foote Brook’s roadside farmstand, which was undamaged, could keep operating. With the local grocery store destroyed by the flood, the farmstand saw its busiest summer of business in the farm’s 10-year history. And Angus and Holly Simpson, owners of West Farm down the road in Jeffersonville, started a GoFundMe campaign that raised more than $60,000 for Foote Farm. While the losses were substantially more than what was earned or donated, Lehouillier said the outpouring of support boosted her morale: “It makes me want to keep on going and be here for my community.”
The rush before the storm: volunteers harvest what they can in already wet conditions on July 10 at Intervale Community Farm.
he writing was on the wall. Sensing what was coming, an urgent plea was put out on July 10 for volunteers to help harvest whatever produce could be harvested before flood waters ruined everything. “Volunteers put on overalls and boots Monday morning and headed over to Intervale Community Farm for an emergency harvest as the Winooski River surged toward flood stage,” reported Seven Days on July 10. “By early afternoon, muddy adults and children alike had filled crates upon crates
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of beets and carrots. Andy Jones, the farm manager, said they already had plenty of volunteers. But all afternoon, cars kept coming.” Some 50 volunteers arrived to help the collection of farms that call the Intervale home; they harvested in conditions that were already muddy from the summer’s never-ending rains until 9 p.m. It was a community effort to save what could be saved. Just as predicted, the waters kept rising. “By Tuesday morning, the mood at the Intervale was v e r mon t al m anac | vol um e 1v
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An Agricultural Catastrophe
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INTERVALE COMMUNITY FARM FACEBOOK
more somber,” Seven Days updated readers the following day. Rising water from the Winooski River was spreading from garden to garden, destroying crops and farmers’ livelihoods by the minute. A similar scene played out at farms across the state. The floodwaters wreaked havoc on every segment of ag: produce that flooded cannot, by federal law, be sold; corn and hay fields were flattened; berry farms were submerged; farms lost barns, coolers, equipment; access roads were washed away. Some diversified farms experienced all of these. “Pretty much everything in this lower field here is going to be unsalvageable. All of our corn from this field, our blueberry plants, apples, pick your own flowers in this section, along with the pick your own herbs here, because it’s all been touched by this contaminated water,” said Kaity Mazza, farm manager at Paul Mazza’s farm in Essex Junction. Smaller farms in smaller communities were hit just as hard. “The season is over for some people,” said Grace Oedel, executive director of the Northeast Organic Farming Association of Vermont, at the time. “And the season is drastically affected for many, many others.” To help take stock of such widespread damage, the Vermont Agency of Agriculture surveyed the state’s farmers to find out just where the damage was most severe and to try to quantify the losses. The results were tabulated on a running basis via an online “dashboard” – below was the status as of Oct. 2, 2023,
though the state cautioned that “The accuracy of this data should be considered incomplete as the Agency believes not all impacted individuals and businesses have yet reported.” The data collected were invaluable in terms of understanding the scope of the flood damage and directing relief efforts, but the numbers alone can’t tell the story behind the heartbreak suffered at so many farms that saw weeks, months, years, decades of effort washed away in a single storm. Nor can they tell of the spirit that remained after the waters receded. Just one example was seen at Foote Brook Farm in Johnson, which lost its barn, equipment, and 75 percent of its crops. “We’ve really been in survival mode,” co-owner Joie Lehouillier told Seven Days on August 23. “We have to concentrate on how we make it out of this season alive.” Neighboring farms stepped up, donating produce so that Foote Brook’s roadside farmstand, which was undamaged, could keep operating. With the local grocery store destroyed by the flood, the farmstand saw its busiest summer of business in the farm’s 10-year history. And Angus and Holly Simpson, owners of West Farm down the road in Jeffersonville, started a GoFundMe campaign that raised more than $60,000 for Foote Farm. While the losses were substantially more than what was earned or donated, Lehouillier said the outpouring of support boosted her morale: “It makes me want to keep on going and be here for my community.”
The rush before the storm: volunteers harvest what they can in already wet conditions on July 10 at Intervale Community Farm.
he writing was on the wall. Sensing what was coming, an urgent plea was put out on July 10 for volunteers to help harvest whatever produce could be harvested before flood waters ruined everything. “Volunteers put on overalls and boots Monday morning and headed over to Intervale Community Farm for an emergency harvest as the Winooski River surged toward flood stage,” reported Seven Days on July 10. “By early afternoon, muddy adults and children alike had filled crates upon crates
226
of beets and carrots. Andy Jones, the farm manager, said they already had plenty of volunteers. But all afternoon, cars kept coming.” Some 50 volunteers arrived to help the collection of farms that call the Intervale home; they harvested in conditions that were already muddy from the summer’s never-ending rains until 9 p.m. It was a community effort to save what could be saved. Just as predicted, the waters kept rising. “By Tuesday morning, the mood at the Intervale was v e r mon t al m anac | vol um e 1v
VERMONT AGENCY OF AGRICULTURE
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An Agricultural Catastrophe
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Is a Hemp Fiber Industry Possible in Vermont?
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centuries-old hand tools simply do not exist in our region. In fact, there is no set of machines that takes the plants from stalks to long staple yarn in the entire western hemisphere, a veiled opportunity that could be serving countless industries nationwide. The UVM Extension research farm.
UVM EXTENSION
here’s a wealth of history in Vermont related to fiber production, which is evidenced in the many shepherds, spinners, dyers, woolen mini-mills, and weaving schools that call our state home. It has not been easy for those of us who keep this cultural heritage alive, especially amidst the fallout from NAFTA and CAFTA – trade deals that effectively outsourced this work. But no one has had it harder than hemp producers and processors. As the state, and to a slower extent the country, reevaluates its relationship with Cannabis sativa, there’s hope that we can remember how to grow fine fiber from the plant, in addition to the flowers, as was done for centuries before prohibition. Over the last three growing seasons I have been working for the University of Vermont Extension program growing hemp for fiber on our research farm. Prior to my joining the team, hemp fiber was grown but never processed. It was as if we were growing apples but never tasting them: how would we know if we had a quality product if we weren’t sampling the yield? Fast forward three years, and three sets of mandated fingerprints and background checks later, and our fiber knowledge has grown by leaps and bounds. This year we received a USDA CARE grant to increase our fiber program from one trial to five. Now we’re researching everything from varieties, to seeding rates, to harvest dates, to multi-year crop rotations. Woven prototypes made from each years’ crop serve as a testament to the strides that have been made in our agronomic practices from one season to the next – they get better and better. Many folks from both inside and outside of the region have contacted me for samples, and, given that I’m doing the fiber extraction myself, with just my hands, I haven’t been able to keep up with the demand. Recently, our fiber was evaluated for quality at the NC State Wilson College of Textiles, and of the five highest-scoring domestic hemp samples, two of them were ours. We know we have the potential for a viable, thriving industry in our region, and several stakeholders have been identified, but processing equipment beyond
The climate of Vermont is ideal for growing hemp, even in the face of a changing climate. All bast fibers (flax, hemp, jute, nettle, etc.) must undergo a retting process after harvest. This occurs in mid-August; a time of year when we are very likely to have the necessary humidity, dew, and rainfall, while other areas of the country are experiencing drought or even wildfires. But with all I now know about growing hemp fiber, I can’t in good faith ask farmers to take the risk of growing it until we have infrastructure in place so that stakeholders, consumers, and businesses
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Is a Hemp Fiber Industry Possible in Vermont?
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centuries-old hand tools simply do not exist in our region. In fact, there is no set of machines that takes the plants from stalks to long staple yarn in the entire western hemisphere, a veiled opportunity that could be serving countless industries nationwide. The UVM Extension research farm.
UVM EXTENSION
here’s a wealth of history in Vermont related to fiber production, which is evidenced in the many shepherds, spinners, dyers, woolen mini-mills, and weaving schools that call our state home. It has not been easy for those of us who keep this cultural heritage alive, especially amidst the fallout from NAFTA and CAFTA – trade deals that effectively outsourced this work. But no one has had it harder than hemp producers and processors. As the state, and to a slower extent the country, reevaluates its relationship with Cannabis sativa, there’s hope that we can remember how to grow fine fiber from the plant, in addition to the flowers, as was done for centuries before prohibition. Over the last three growing seasons I have been working for the University of Vermont Extension program growing hemp for fiber on our research farm. Prior to my joining the team, hemp fiber was grown but never processed. It was as if we were growing apples but never tasting them: how would we know if we had a quality product if we weren’t sampling the yield? Fast forward three years, and three sets of mandated fingerprints and background checks later, and our fiber knowledge has grown by leaps and bounds. This year we received a USDA CARE grant to increase our fiber program from one trial to five. Now we’re researching everything from varieties, to seeding rates, to harvest dates, to multi-year crop rotations. Woven prototypes made from each years’ crop serve as a testament to the strides that have been made in our agronomic practices from one season to the next – they get better and better. Many folks from both inside and outside of the region have contacted me for samples, and, given that I’m doing the fiber extraction myself, with just my hands, I haven’t been able to keep up with the demand. Recently, our fiber was evaluated for quality at the NC State Wilson College of Textiles, and of the five highest-scoring domestic hemp samples, two of them were ours. We know we have the potential for a viable, thriving industry in our region, and several stakeholders have been identified, but processing equipment beyond
The climate of Vermont is ideal for growing hemp, even in the face of a changing climate. All bast fibers (flax, hemp, jute, nettle, etc.) must undergo a retting process after harvest. This occurs in mid-August; a time of year when we are very likely to have the necessary humidity, dew, and rainfall, while other areas of the country are experiencing drought or even wildfires. But with all I now know about growing hemp fiber, I can’t in good faith ask farmers to take the risk of growing it until we have infrastructure in place so that stakeholders, consumers, and businesses
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