North Star Homestead Farms, LLC

Farms are certainly places of function—growing food to feed the family, the neighbors, and some to sell to help keep the place running—but often in family-run, small-scale farms, there is also attention to other details that are not just for form or convenience.  Flower gardens by the house do attract wild pollinators and provide habitat for hummingbirds and butterflies, but they are also pleasing to the senses of the people who live and visit the space.

Over the centuries, we can see the pride in craftsmanship that has been built into farms (especially barns) from a time when the pace of work moved slower and ethnic styles in architecture leant a noticeable flavor to homesteads.  While they meet the need (sheltering livestock, grain, and hay), they also command a presence and serve as the visual crown of the barnyard.  Many times, the barn went up on a farm (with the help of neighbors and family) before the house!

But attentions to detail, to form, and to visual appeal can be found all over the historically connected farm—from quilts to baskets to rugs to wagons.  One of the definitions of art is “to make special,” and these small but significant acts of making ordinary objects and work spaces unique and pleasing is part of the everyday aesthetics of homestead living.  As an artist of many mediums, those moments of everyday aesthetics—whether planting marigolds and sunflowers this morning in the flowerbeds or weaving a colorful rag rug—are sparks of joy and creativity amongst the often long and hard work of farming.

Just today, we were visited by the film crew from Wisconsin Public Television’s “Around the Farm Table” series to discuss a shooting in June.  We were strolling around the barnyard, meeting the sheep and turkeys, checking out the parlor, and laughing at humorous pigs.

“Wow,” one of the producers kept remarking.  “You have such a pretty farm, so clean and tidy.  You guys have really taken care of this place.”

Pride of place and the value of caring for a piece of our precious earth not only shows in the lack of junk piles and sagging buildings but also in the striking barn quilt, the cheery red-and-white poultry coops, and the border of tulips popping up through fresh bark mulch.  Even Laura Ingalls’ mother found meaning in “making things pretty” in the various homesteads the family owned across the country during the pioneer days.  Taking time to “make special” our environment is a way to show respect for the space as well as kindle that special beauty inside ourselves as well.

So often, farming is a matter of making order out of chaos, each and every day.  The strawberry bed was overwrought with weeds, so I spent days with a garden claw, ripping out the quack grass, dandelions, sorrel, and daisies—turning the damp, cool spring soil while being careful not to disturb the strawberry roots as much as possible.  I tamp in new plants in the bare patches, mulch lightly with bedding straw to help suppress weed seeds, and lay down chips in the walkways.  It’s tedious work, and I have to take breaks when my back wears out, but with only one bed left needing weeding attention, the seven-bed patch of June-bearing strawberries not only should be more productive this year, but it’s also a very pleasing view out the farmhouse picture window. 

Here’s another example.  This last winter wreaked havoc with the front stoop at Farmstead Creamery (as you may have noticed if you came to visit during those months…didn’t everyone have problems with something this year…).  With all the frost heaving, at one point the front door wasn’t even openable and folks had to make their way in through the kitchen door!  Despite the cold, Jon Sorensen of Venison Creek Construction (who built the creamery) came to jack-hammer out enough of the slab to accommodate the door.  It was a long and grueling process (not to mention dusty!), but he held in there for us.

All winter, we’ve been vacillating about what to do with the stoop.  Obviously, it couldn’t stay.  So this last week, Jon came with a saw and cut the beasts into pieces we could haul away.  The last vestige refused to break up, so Jon bent the rebar, hooked it to his truck, and drug it out!  There, take that you nasty concrete!!!  Away with thee!

With the new attempt at a stoop, Jon buried heat tapes and foam to help keep heaving at bay.  But instead of repouring a cement slab, we decided to try pavers.  Now, some folks might have just picked up whatever and thrown something together so visitors didn’t have to spend even more time entering through the back, but Jon also has a cultivated sense of everyday aesthetic.  Like building a barn or planning a flower garden, he worked with the limited materials at hand, in the space required, to create a stoop that not only serves the form and function needed to meet ADA standards and ease of access, but it also holds its own visual appeal in keeping with the aesthetic theme that makes Farmstead Creamery special.

Creating pieces of everyday aesthetic takes times, thought, and care.  Our new stoop certainly outshines the former, practical-only one (hole busted through or no), and we wonder why we didn’t think of this lovely idea in the first place.  It fits in so well with the visual theme of timbers and fieldstone that some of the people who’ve stopped since the installation haven’t noticed there was a change at all.

Now, I know that some folks won’t notice just because they don’t—they’re in a hurry or they’re distracted by something else.  Alternately, others may be inspired to think differently about their own stoop or patio space.  Either way, the little things do make a difference in the homestead environment to bring meaning and appreciation to the often dirty and thankless work of livestock and crop tending.  In our tech-infused society, where instant gratification and speed are the driving desires, it’s important to cultivate time and appreciation for an everyday aesthetic—to build a place that pleases the eye and soothes the mind.

This week, take time to cultivate your own space with simple but pleasing aesthetics, whether in the garden, the home, or beyond.  Maybe it’s time to bring order to the chaos of the garage or add an attractive bird bath to the front flower beds.  Whatever way works for you, springtime is a great space for “making special” in our everyday environments.  I’ll keep working on those strawberry beds.  See you down on the farm sometime.

Laura Berlage is a co-owner of North Star Homestead Farms, LLC and Farmstead Creamery & Café. 715-462-3453 www.northstarhomestead.com

There are so many things happening all at once on a farm in springtime—lambs are being born, the rubble of autumn’s garden is being transformed into new green life, chicks are hatching in the incubator or arriving at the post office, and new colonies of bees are being hived up for summer pollination.  The lambs on our farm come from our own ewes, and the chicks hatching in the incubator come from our own hens, but the other additions have to be brought in from elsewhere, and this is where the drama starts.

The first chicks we ordered came from a rare breed hatchery in Iowa, with a minimum shipping quantity of 25 day-old chicks.  Now, it might seem a terrifying proposition to send a tiny little chick through the jostle and jolt of the postal service, but this is possible because of a special feature of poultry biology.  Just before chicks hatch, they absorb the yolk into their abdomen, which gives the chicks enough energy to live for a few days without food and water.  This ability, when raised by a mother hen, allows time for their slightly younger nest mates to hatch out before the oldest ones require nutrients. 

So, box up enough little birds together, with comfy bedding and holes for ventilation, and they can be sent to their new home via USPS.  But wait too many days, and it can be stressful for the little loves.  The Iowa hatchery has the odd policy to ship on Fridays…which meant that it wouldn’t arrive in the Hayward Office until Monday, which is a pretty long ride for chicks.  But once we learned that the parcel of peepers spent the evening at the sorting facility in Spooner, we were able to speak to the manager there to CALL US (no matter what the hour) when the birds arrived and we would drive the hour to pick them up.

Day-old chicks need a warm, cozy environment—about 85 degrees.  When they’re hen-raised, this is under mom’s downy feathers.  But when you’ve received a box of 100 of them through the postal system that means your car needs to be at the ready.  So here we are with chick season, the call comes in at 1:00 in the morning, we’re up, dressed, and ready to go by 1:15.  It takes a good deal of radio and attempts at constant talking to stay awake all the way to Spooner.  Once we reach the sorting station, there’s only a few lights on, and all the doors are locked.  The buzzer has been broken and taped over, so that’s no help.  I pound on the glass door, wave my arms, jump up and down—anything to catch a bit of attention from the folks bustling about as they pass by the doorway to the next room.

I’m sure the guys standing outside the bar across the street must think I’m a nutcase.  But at last, I’m noticed, and the cheeping boxful of fuzzballs is ready for us to take home.  The car is roasting, my feet in my rubber muckboots are wet with sweat, and it’s a long, loooooooong roasting ride home trying desperately to stay awake!

Lately, I’ve been using a hatchery from Beaver Dam, WI, which ships out on a Monday, and I receive the chicks either Tuesday or Wednesday.  This week, the call came at 5:23 in the morning, with a hesitant, “And does an Ann live there as well?”

“Yes, that’s my Mom.”

“Well, we have a package for her…and it’s bees.”

Most post offices are accustomed to baby chicks coming through the mail (though not all of them know to help keep the little ones warm…one year we had a “helpful” person keep the box next to the air conditioner!!!), but there have been other postal adventures that have been less well received.

One spring, we were eager to branch into vermaculture—growing worms to turn food scraps into humus compost.  This could be beneficial for the garden and building top soils.  After considerable online research, we settled on the vigorous redworms instead of local night crawlers and placed an order through a reputable vermaculture site.  We clicked “submit” and waited eagerly for our composting crawlers to arrive.

Just like with the chicks, we received a call upon their arrival, though it was far from cheery spring fever or the “get these bleeping peepers out of here.”  It was something closer to, “Um, did you guys order some worms?  I think you’d better come and get them.”

So we dutifully took the drive into town, climbed the steps, and walked up to the counter.  A petite, sandy-haired lady was holding down the desk, but when we mentioned that we have come to fetch the worms, her eyes grew round and wary.  Without saying a word, she placed the “use next window” marker on her counter and seemed to fade away into the backdrop of boxes, carts, and letters.  After a pregnant and silent pause, another worker came half-snickering out of the back with one of those big, plastic post office crates.  “Here,” he offered.  “Just bring it back cleaned up when you’re done with it.”

Down in the bottom of that crate was our little box of worms, a corner half torn and a few stray wrigglers poking about on the floor.  Apparently, the desk lady had picked up the box and one had waved its little face in the air, which was apparently too much for her.  It became a running joke for years afterwards that one day we’d be ordering alligators through the mail!

But this week, we expanded to shipping bees.  Not by choice, but things do happen.  Traditionally, we’ve ordered packages of bees through our area’s beekeeper’s association, which pools resources to order packages by the trailer load from bee breeders in southern states.  On arrival date, all the beekeepers who ordered new packages descend upon the drop site to take their share home to hive up.  But this year, with the growing national honeybee shortages due to Colony Collapse Disorder, I wasn’t able to source any packages through the group.

So I went searching for another option, which meant joining a different buying group out of Baldwin.  So early one Thursday, intern Jacob and I hit the road at 6:00 in the morning to trek down HWY 63 to pick up a 2-pound package of Italian/Buckfast cross honeybees.  I hadn't been to this honey farm before, and we trekked up and down Baldwin searching for the “Honey” sign. 

Finally, I ducked into a farm implement store to ask directions.  The man at the front desk immediately picked up the phone and wasn’t interested in talking to me between show lawn tractors, as did a manager fellow in the room next door.  The folks at the parts counter faded into the background, and no one else seemed to be around.  Goodness, what did I look like, farmzilla?  Finally, I found a couple of poof-haired ladies in a room marked “bookkeeping,” who offered these bizarre instruction.

“Oh yes, I know exactly what you’re talking about.  As you go through Baldwin, on the right (she extended her left hand) is the Dollar General, and right there on the left (she extended her right hand) is the bee place.”

Feeling a bit more confused, we tried driving through town again.  On the left, we found the Dollar General (yes, it was actually on the left), but to the right was a dairy farm.  About a half mile further (mm-hmmm, just across the street I’m sure…) we finally came to the honey farm on the right, successfully picked up the package of bees and brought them home.

But to my great sorrow, upon opening the package to introduce to the hive, the queen was curled up dead in her cage!  Panic!  A hive is dead without a queen to lay eggs, and no other bee can take her place.  My overwintered hive, upon further scrutiny, had also lost its queen, so I was doubly queenless with no on-farm replacements.  Thankfully, the honey farm made amends by delivering a new, live queen a few days later, but in the heat of the moment, I ordered two Carniolan queens from Ohio via overnight delivery.

Well, if you’ve lived up here long enough, you know that nothing overnights to the Northwoods, no matter how much you pay for shipping.  This meant that, when neither the chicks nor the bees arrived on Tuesday, that Wednesday was going to be quite the day.  This returns us to the 5:23 a.m. phone conversation, with, “It looks like they’re bees.

Oh great, I thought, here we go again.  Those folks at the post office won’t want to talk to me EVER!  “Yes,” I replied calmly, “We can pick that up with the chicks too.”

The sandy-haired lady must have been feeling brave that morning (or was offsetting the insect issue with the cuteness of the chicks), because she brought them both to me at the back door (which does have a working buzzer).  The bees in their express package, though, were duly strapped into a miniature plastic postal crate.  I didn’t say anything, but I’m assuming that I’m also supposed to bring that one back, cleaned, when I’m done with it.  At least the bees were kept safe in their queen cages, ready to meet their new hives.

We cranked up the heat and trekked back to the farm with our box of chicks and our strapped-in package of queens.  “Looks like we just picked up the Birds and the Bees this morning,” we joked on the way home.  “No alligators yet, but we’re getting closer.”  Amidst all the cheep-cheep and the buzz-buzz on that warm morning drive, we also couldn’t help but feel like spring was truly here.  See you down on the farm sometime.

Laura Berlage is a co-owner of North Star Homestead Farms, LLC and Farmstead Creamery & Café. 715-462-3453 www.northstarhomestead.com