The Nature of Nature 2019

As we congregated in the depths of his barn, I tried to hear David Kline’s voice over the sound of his cows who were busy seeking attention, pawing in the mud and exclaiming in a low guttural m-o-o-o. I remember he talked about the milk industry a couple of times throughout our visit and described the difficulties that small dairies have been facing for quite a while now. One of the big problems that small family farms face is finding a market to sell their products, and making enough money off of it to sustain that way of live. In David’s case the farm is organic, allowing them to sell the milk at a premium price. In fact Organic Valley, one of the largest cooperative organic brands, buys their milk and sells it for them. I knew that this type of relationship between farmer and large company existed, but it was very cool to see the whole operation in person.

What struck me most about our visit to David Kline’s farm was his appreciation of insects. So many farmers are quick to insect loathing because of pest damages and loss of crop yield. In our lifetimes I hope to see insects and biocontrol agents become more prevalent, especially in organic farming. It was refreshing, both in conversation with David Kline and in reading Great Possessions, to see a farmer appreciate not only the many services insects can provide as pollinators and natural enemies of pests, but also appreciate the diversity and unique survival strategies of this diverse group. He outlines some of these in the chapter The World of Insects and wraps up with the quote “Maybe we should take more time to study this fascinating part of God’s Creation instead of swatting and spraying everything that crosses our path.” As an entomologist, it’s hard to disagree.

I love cows. I think they’re one of the most beautiful creatures. When I don’t know what to draw, I draw cows. Standing in David Klines barn, watching the cows watch us from the roped off door of the milking room, I was standing in the barn thinking “man if only I had my notebook on me I could sketch these cows.” And these cows seemed to have an intelligence to them. I watched as one of the calves inside complained there was one cow that would call back to them, as if in conversation. Their brown eyes seemed to watch me watching them, as if asking “So are you going to feed me or what?”

I’ve always kind of romanticized farm life. There’s something about the image of a corn fields rolling out over the hills under a blue sky that captivates me more than undeveloped forests. And there’s privilege inherent in that image.

I discovered a couple years ago that I’m allergic to horses. I don’t know if its the horses themselves or if its the dust from the straw and fecal matter, but walking into the barn I started to sneeze within minutes. I wouldn’t last one day on a farm. But it’s easy for me to say that it’s beautiful and that this is the most perfect existence because I don’t have to live with it day in and day out and keep my eye on the changes in the market and the environment and watch my cows die. I don’t have to think about the state the animals I’m eating lived in or the state of the farmers who grew them if I don’t want to.

David Kline talked a lot about his organic farming practices and how his farm runs. You could tell that there’s pride in the way he runs his farm. You could tell by the way he talked about it that he felt confident that his animals were well treated and that his product was quality. He seemed fulfilled by his work, and that’s all we can really hope for in a job.

I think a lot about the way chicken farmers working for Tyson don’t get a say in how they raise their chickens because of the way Tyson sets them up. I think a lot of places would like to farm like Kline, but I don’t think they see a choice. Organic farming can be costly and its hard for non factory farms to compete with the massive amount of food that factory farms can produce–Kline said as much when he was talking about his organic co-op.

I’ve met many people who have lived on or worked on farms in their lives. THey all have the same funny frankness around death that has to do with the fact that they are around death so much. I dont think it is a gift or a curse but as they tell me, “it simply is”. They still cry when their grandmothers pass and they still get sad remembering old cats but their perception i guess is more real. They understand it better than any of us will who arent surrounded by it constantly. I think it is an interesting way to connect his writing to his life because he doesnt believe that the environment will eventually die. I guess i would think that someone who is so accustomed to the idea of passing on could see there was also a time and an end to the natural world but his optimism is interesting

I walked away from David Kline’s farm thinking, “I guess I’ve met more cows.” As a child if someone would have asked me my favorite place on Earth, I would have said my cousins’ farm. I have fond memories of jumping on wrapped up hay and leaping from barrel to barrel, of walking around the barn and encountering the odd cow who was separated from the herd, and feeding their pigs who wanted nothing else but food from you. I stepped into Kline’s barn and the nostalgia hit me like a freight train. The smell of the barn and the hay took me back to my cousins’ farm.

However, when we were standing in the barn and encountered his cows who could have come into the barn had the doors been open, I was reminded of another barn I spent hours in. During my senior year of high school, I had to complete a Rube Goldberg Machine, and because the machine had to be so large, my partner, James, and I completed it in his three-walled barn. I have mixed memories about the machine in general, but I loved the cows in that barn. They weren’t technically James’ cows; the barn and land were used by a big heifer company farm who would keep three to six months old cows in his barn. Then the cows would be moved to another farm, and new cows would come. Whenever I wanted a break from working on the machine, I would approach a cow, offering it a Frito. It took several attempts but, eventually, a cow ate a Frito from me. Once that first cow ate the Frito and didn’t die, the other cows must have realized I was not trying to poison them, and they all wanted Fritos from me. I’d like to imagine I was called “the Frito lady” among the cows. After the machine was finished, I went one last time to James’ house to burn the machine and say goodbye to the cows. I walked into the barn and was surprised and heartbroken to realize they were not the same cows. These cows stared at me blankly, wondering who I was. I asked James when the cows would die, and he estimated two years. I get a little sad every time I think that all my cow friends are gone. Upon seeing Kline’s cows, this memory came rushing back. I looked at the cows’ sweet faces and was surprised when I saw the calves. Of all the cows I’ve seen, none have been quite so little. I was happy to hear that Kline’s cows live ten to twelve years and that he too is connected to some of them

I sit on the porch of an old yellow house in the Catskill Mountains. Beneath me is a sturdy wood porch, and my fingers fiddle with the cracks and knots as I scan the scene before me. To my left, beyond the highway that now cuts in front of the house, are beautiful mountains, illuminated with yellow, orange, red, and brown leaves. This is the prime week for leaf-peepers. As I scan to the right the mountain range continues, warm colors jutting into the cool blue sky, like the painting palette of God. To the right begins what looks like a collection of quaint, country-side Dutch style houses, encircled by a metal fence. It was designed for passers-by to never know that a water sanitation facility lay at the feet of these majestic mountains. Finally the view ends in the seemingly endless highway that trails off into the distance. In all the spot the yellow house is nestled into is a conglomeration of natural beauty and mismatched industrial comforts, melding together into a picture I call home.

The beauty of the little town of East Grand Rapids has always captivated me. As I strolled down the local park, I was able to sit down on a nearby bench and witness a pleasing creation. I faced in outwards towards the nearby man-made lake and saw the shimmering water reflections that sparkled as the sun was setting. I watched Canadian geese and a few ducklings crossing the dark blue waters as the hurry to rest. Further outwards, on the opposite side of the lake, lies a swamp-like portion of the lake with the rare appearance of a swan appearing, if one were to be lucky enough. To the right of my view lied the public library and high school, with the lines of houses boarding the lake only a few feet away from the school itself. To my left resided the yacht club and their private docks to harbor their boats. These boats all ranged from sail boats to speed boats, however the only thing stopping me from inspecting them is a small wire fence. Past the private harbor was the town’s oldest restaurant, Rose’s, which began long before I was born. It’s lakeside view is unmatched and is a perfect spot to observe the calm waterfront scenery. Behind me laid the Gaslight Village, where the old gas-powered lamps are still used to this day to bring light to the small sub-urban development. Being surrounded by the landmarks and history of my small hometown made me feel quite at peace with the environment around me.

I survey the landscape around me. I am sitting on a rock on top of a grassy hill overlooking a serene lake and a hilly pasture across the lake. To the left of me, there is a little bridge that crosses over the lake and connects the side where I’m sitting to the pasture. Here and there, little ducks bob on the water, occasionally dunking their heads underneath the water and splashing about. Another few ducks stand on the shore closest to me, drying off and scavenging for food from the little children playing in the grass. Turtles bask on rocks surfacing above the water. Across the lake, a herd of cows graze peacefully. They look like undefined dark blobs, but there is a certain gentleness about them that even distance can not hide. Along with the cows sits a pavilion that looks like a tiny dollhouse. Lush green trees line the hills of the pasture, and every now and then a breeze makes them dance around. To the right of me, on the side that I am on, there is a couple sitting on a swinging bench who are also surveying the beauty of the lake and its inhabitants. Even more to the right, all traces of civilization disappear and all that can be seen on either side is just water and trees. A heron rests in the shallow water. He is watching us as much as we are watching him. As I gaze around, slowly the sun starts to set and the sky erupts into different colours of pink and orange and purple. The still water of the lake imitates the colours of the sky. It almost acts as though a mirror would by reflecting the beauty of the vibrant sky. Lake Varner is truly one of the prettiest places to be seen in Newton County, Georgia.

The hill is just steep enough in the front yard that, come snow, you can get a little momentum on a sled. You’ll veer straight into the road, where, barring a car pummeling over you at speeds higher than the sign on the telephone pole suggests, you can see the Mercer Building in the distance. The Mercer Building is the tallest building in the state; from the thirty-fifth floor, you can see clear through Downtown Louisville. Looking past the sprawling expressway, the chaos of Spaghetti Junction to the east and the icon of Churchill Downs to the south. Beyond Old Louisville and the Victorian homes-turned-apartment-segments is the Ohio river, sourced from the Alleghany and Monongahela Rivers in Pennsylvania. That’s what I keep in mind now, in Wooster, three-hundred miles of cornfield and forest northeast from the small one-bedroom on South 6th Street.