Little Farm Homegrown: A Memoir of Food-Growing, Midlife, and Self-Reliance on a Small Homestead by Susan Colleen Browne John F. Browne

Author:Susan Colleen Browne, John F. Browne
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Whitethorn Press
Published: 2018-06-12T16:00:00+00:00

After all these weeks, I was used to the revolting chore—although our cat warfare wouldn’t have been my personal choice for curing me of squeamishness. And I, who hated even the idea of harming another living creature (okay, I do kill slugs, without remorse—ants too), was inuring myself to murdering critters by the hour. Would this never end?

The first of July arrived—and it seemed like all of a sudden, the number of caterpillars in the yard was way down. Within days, I saw only a few stray cats. It looked like the plague really was over.

Despite these encouraging signs, I couldn’t shut down my state of high alert—watching for cats, peering in the apple trees for nests, hunching my shoulders when I left the yard to dump compost, ready to duck from a rogue cat drop from above. John and I toured our food-growing areas, assessing our tattered apple trees. “They’re still okay,” John said, gazing up at the Akane “And the leaves will grow back.”

Apparently, all our cat picking had kept the fruit trees reasonably healthy. The wild trees, though, were a different story—the alders were half-defoliated, leaving the woods looking oddly autumnal for early summer.

So the cats were gone. Instead, we were seeing cocoons everywhere. Under the eaves of our house, curled into leaves, even in strange places like the corners of the recycling bins. Surrounded by cocoons, though, was a piece of cake compared to our caterpillar horror movie. John and I were worn to the bone, and kind of depressed. I felt I’d lost one precious month of my life, the loveliest month of the year. Still, I was filled sweet relief that John and I had gotten through this terrible time. And saved our garden.

Speaking of, we had our vegetables to plant, the watering to catch up on. Our normal lives to resume. Although I had to wonder: after all the killing, feeling utterly revolted simply walking into our yard, would I ever feel the same way about Berryridge Farm again?

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