Saving Izzy by Jon Katz

Author:Jon Katz
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781407030739
Publisher: Ebury Publishing
Published: 2009-02-12T00:00:00+00:00

HAROLD MCEACHRON HAS A REPUTATION AS A TOUGH, PROGRESSIVE, prosperous farmer. At one time he had crops, cows, and, rumor has it, almost fifty thousand chickens. Now in his nineties, he still owns a lot of land, likes to be driven around in his red pickup with his venerable dog George to inspect it, and is one of the most respected farmers for miles. The father of my friend Meg Southerland, he and I became pals, taking drives around the country, going to lunch at Friendly’s, his favorite restaurant, and annually visiting the Washington County Fair, where Harold, wielding his walker, makes straight for the cow-judging competitions.

He never joined the Grange or other farming groups, Harold told me, because he “ doesn’t like to talk all that much.” On our rides, though, he does talk about the old farms and their families. He can tell me what every building we see was used for.

We could not possibly be more different. Farming runs deep in Harold’s blood and lineage. His view of animals is tough and uncompromising. (George, a beloved companion of many years, has never been inside Harold’s house; he sleeps in the garage, and is fed a bucket of leftovers once a day.) He wouldn’t distribute cookies or treats to his animals, nor would he even keep animals that weren’t headed for market.

It’s often a sad journey when Harold McEachron rides past Washington County’s great old farms. Most of the farmers he knew are dead or gone, their barns rotting and silos abandoned. He’s outlived a culture, and watches its remnants fade every day. Farming, the center of life here when Harold was engaged in it, is now on the periphery. Those farms that escape decay or disrepair are often in the hands of Flatlanders like me, if they survive at all.

Perhaps that’s why, every now and then, Harold comes to see Bedlam Farm and check on my progress. When Anthony showed him the barn restoration and told him I wanted to build an office in the middle of it, so I could work surrounded by hay, sheep and donkeys, Harold shook his head. “Heh heh.” A chuckle was his only response.

He’s puzzled as to why anybody would own donkeys (“hay burners”) at all. But he is much impressed by my fences. “Those are darn good fences,” he says approvingly. “Darn good.”

One day, leaving with his grandson, he turned to me and shook my hand. “Jon, you are doing good and having fun,” he said. A tribute.

I also cherished, in April, a visit from Fred DePaul, one of Vermont’s best-known sheep shearers. It had taken me two years to lure him to my farm, and it was worth the wait. A genial man who loves sheep, is skilled with clippers, and loves to tell stories, he zipped through my flock in three or four hours, the two of us yakking nonstop. He told me his stories, and I told him mine.

Fred is older than me, but craggy and handsome,

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