Chapter One
A Place to Settle
What I remember most is falling in love with the place. Instantly. I recall the minute details as well-the scent of moist hay, the hiss of the radiator as the engine of my mother''s 1974 Toyota Celica cooled, the warm July sun against my skin, the feel of rich, fertile dirt under my feet, the rustle of wind through the rows of corn planted nearby. But mostly these particulars blended together into an exhilarating, unexpected sense of being deeply at home on this land I''d never before seen.
Stepping away from the car, I looked around, taking in the gentle roll of the land from north to south. The earth was lush and green in the early summer, cleared of large trees in most areas, with scatterings of gangly oaks and box elders, and a stand of what looked like young pines in the distance. An immense weeping willow arched over a large wooden farmhouse in front of me. Beyond it was a weathered wooden barn and, farther off, several dilapidated outbuildings teetered on the hillside. Beside them were a couple of old, cobweb-covered tractors. The distance in between was carpeted with plush foliage dotted by unruly patches of prairie wildflowers in their last stages of bloom, many already gone to seed. Next to me I could almost sense my mother thinking, "We''ll get this place cleaned up and orderly in no time." Inside I reveled in its anarchic disarray.
The buildings were separated from the rest of the 80-acre farm with a fence of posts and barbed wire. A two-track dirt driveway ran between the house and the outbuildings and led to a gated pasture where I could see, hear, and smell a herd of black-and-white Holstein dairy cows, their tails in constant motion, swishing at flies. They had grazed the vegetation to ankle height. On this side of the fence the mix of weeds and unkempt former lawn grasses past the height of the house foundation, largely obscuring the front door.
My mom began walking through this high growth toward the farmhouse. She is a short woman, barely five feet tall on a good day, and the sight of her tromping through the greenery waving her arms was like a gentle parody of a machete-wielding jungle explorer blazing a trail through dense underbrush. I made to follow her, but my eye was drawn in another direction, toward a cluster of weeping willows, and particularly the dark, mossy recess on the ground between the trees. Perhaps it was just the opportunity to find shade from the warm sun that steered me that way, or perhaps it was my recent training as an ecologist. Maybe it was some innate connection with the land. Whatever the cause, I headed off toward the trees and, parting the tall vegetation with my arms, stumbled onto a treasure.
In the cool shade I found a torrent of clear water, a crystal-clear spring bubbling up from the earth. Looking closer, I saw a flurry of movement. The gushing stream was full of fairy shrimp-grayish-white, nearly translucent creatures, about a quarter inch in length, that darted about in undulating, wavelike patterns, powered by several rows of sweeping legs and spinnerets. The shrimp danced about against the background of a dark green algae-like aquatic plant, which itself waved back and forth in the current discharging from the spring. This was not the green slimy algae commonly found in the polluted waterways and streams of Chicago, where I''d started out that morning. I reached into the water to touch this plant and found it attached firmly to a limestone rock. Around the rock was more life: a flurry of small aquatic insects, including mayflies and caddis fly larvae, which I knew from my training are typical of only high-quality water resources. They held tightly to the bottom and sides of the rock as though a strong displacing current was tearing at them.
There was also something here I had learned about in plant ecology classes but had never seen: a red algae species adhering to the underside of several rocks. Unlike some green and blue-green algae species, red algae, like the aquatic insects, indicates very high-quality water. I became so entranced by the spring, with its vegetation and shrimp and insects, that I stumbled backwards, hit my head on something behind me, and fell to the ground.
* * *
It was 1981 and I was twenty-six years old, a young research ecologist full of energy and idealism, and I was looking for a home, but not in the way many people look for an apartment-as a refuge from their work lives or a haven of comfort and convenience. Rather, I was searching feverishly for a place that would become the central focus of my living and my work. Somewhere I could walk the talk of environmentalism. I dreamt of a home that would allow me, two decades after the start of the back-to-the-land movement, to become deeply involved with the land, where I could live simply and build a relationship with nature and my work that was exciting and rejuvenating. This imagined farm I sought would be a root source of lifelong learning, an entr?e to greater understanding of nature and of our relationship with the earth. It was a grand vision, but also a very tall order to fill given the meager amount of money I had at my disposal. No one in his right mind would consider research ecology-the science of applying ecological knowledge to solve environmental problems and manage natural resources-a smart money-making career choice. But I had chosen it nonetheless, and having land of my own was critical to my education and, perhaps, my sanity.
I''d spent long months looking for a place, often with my mother at my side. Each time my hopes would rise as we left suburban Chicago and drove into landscapes with farms and open sky. As we neared each potential location my heart would race with anticipation. I fell in love easily with half a dozen of the properties, for any number of reasons. I made an offer on one because of its view of a large bur oak tree on an adjacent property. At another I fell for the seclusion: it was a quiet place on a dead-end farm road, with no neighbors or through traffic for miles. But each time we''d return disappointed, as some feature spoiled each place-the absence of any even remotely livable farmhouse, a price tag that was far beyond my very limited means, or totally inappropriate neighboring farmers. In one case I was so taken with a nearly perfect farm that I almost failed to notice a large pork producer nearby, whose hogs created an unbearable stink.
I''d never pursued any purchase for so long, and my patience was in tatters. Each failure-be it the site, the funding, or the timing-seemed a disaster, a sure omen that I''d never find an appropriate farm, or be able to afford it if I did. After a dozen unsuccessful attempts I was truly discouraged. My dream seemed doomed to failure.
It was my mother who came to the rescue. She had faithfully driven down long country roads week after week and comforted me through the repeated letdowns, despite being unable to fully accept my career choice. She had continued to tell her friends that "little Stevie" was going to be a veterinarian years after I had begun my ecology studies. I don''t think it was a question of pride or of being able to boast to her friends, although veterinarian was the closest shot any of her children gave her to "my son the doctor." Somehow my work just didn''t compute for her. Nonetheless she had taken up the standard just as my spirits sagged, and she jumped into the hunt for a farm with tenacious vigor.
She worked for a police union in Barrington, a suburb of Chicago, and when the police chief mentioned that his family owned three farms, she pressed him for details. It turned out that one of the farms, located in southern Wisconsin, had long been a vacation spot for him, his brothers, and their extended families. It had been largely vacant for some time, with portions of the lands rented out to actual working farmers. We were forewarned that the old farmhouse was in great disarray, and that every room, including the kitchen, was wall to wall with beds: roll-aways, doubles, a bank of bunks for the gangs of children and friends that sometimes visited in the summers and winters.
The chief wasn''t actually looking to sell the farm, but my mother can be very convincing and rarely takes no for an answer. I felt a little sorry for him, thinking back to my childhood, to how relentless she could be when she wanted something. I have a clear memory of her haggling for what seemed like hours with the local shoe store owner over the "outrageous" price of the annual installment of gym shoes for me and my brothers. And it''s easy to recall other occasions when she spoke sternly with teachers and students alike, making sure the Apfelbaum clan was treated well at school. So it wasn''t a stretch to imagine her pestering the police chief daily for updates on this piece of land, until he finally caved in. Soon we were on our way to view the place-given the keys and sent off on our own for what should have been a two-hour drive.
We didn''t barrel down the road at high speeds, bell-bent on getting to the farm as fast as possible, as I would have had I been alone, driving my beat-up 1950 Willys. Instead we took the Celica and made endless gas station stops. And paused at deserted intersections for stoplights that seemed to last for hours. And Mom needed to go to the bathroom. And then go again. How many times can one person have to go during a hundred-mile drive? I didn''t have to, so why did she? Then there was confusion over the directions, and long moments of scrutinizing maps that weren''t detailed enough to include many of the narrow country roads. My frustration mounted. I was so anxious to get there and she seemed to be doing everything she could to slow us down.
"It''s a long way," she said at one point, several miles down a poorly marked gravel road.
And again, a bit later, "I wouldn''t want to drive this in the winter. All that ice and snow."
"I''ve got snow tires-it''ll be great" was all I could answer.
Even though I was focused on our destination, and irritated by her seeming reluctance, I heard the worry in her voice: worry about my leading a rugged lifestyle she couldn''t fathom away from the niceties and conveniences of modern urban America, worry for my safety, and, mostly, worry, about my being so far from the family.
This was nothing to the long list of concerns she would develop as we discovered the rundown condition of the farm and it became increasingly possible that I might actually live there.
* * *
I hit the moist ground by the spring with a thud, more surprised than hurt. Something fell beside me, pinging off a small rock. A blue enameled tin cup. Clearly it had been hung on the tree branch for use in the spring. I dipped it in immediately, and took a deep sip of the mouth-numbingly cold, clear water.
"Mom! You''ve got to try this!" I yelled.
When she made it over to the spring from her cursory walk around the house, she looked skeptical.
"It''s fantastic." I filled the cup for her.
"It might not be clean," she said. "Or safe."
"Not from the faucet. Right." I took another long sip and replaced the cup on the branch. "You''re going to have to learn to trust me on some of this."
From the spring and the shade of the surrounding trees, my eyes were drawn across the road to a hill that glowed with the midsummer color and texture I had learned could only be that of a prairie. While Mom headed to the barn, I walked toward the hill. I paused at the wire fence beside the road. There was no sign posted, but thoughts of territorial farmers with shotguns or angry dogs flickered through my mind. The lure of the prairie, golden and wild, flecked with spots of color, drew me on. I continued up the hill, side-stepping beautiful flowers and oval-shaped badger burrows. At the top of the hill, amidst pale purple coneflowers that swayed in the warm midday breeze, I turned to look behind me.
The farmhouse and other buildings sat cradled by golden prairie, a rich contrast with the tarpaper and asphalt roofs and the weathered timber sidings. The belt of prairie was narrow, essentially patches of land in the middle of an intensely agricultural region that had been left fallow and reverted to a semi-wild state. From the hill I saw endless farms stretching into the distance, each connected to the next by dark cornfields. Other features accented the landscape-the occasional rich green of a waterway; slight gaps for property lines, and straight fencerows of intertwined trees. A euphoric feeling came over me, the same feeling I had when paddling my canoe through glassy waters, or hiking through untrammeled wilderness-the magical experiences that had steered my life in this direction to begin with, prompting me to study ecology and dedicate myself to communing with nature; the very experiences that had brought me to the farm that day, seeking a new place to put down roots.
Down below, Mom had gone into the farmhouse to inspect. The building had been sealed for quite some time, and as she opened windows and doors the musty smell of mildew spilled out. Inside it was a true mess. Stained mattresses were strewn everywhere, corners nibbled by mice that had left piles of droppings everywhere. She was mortified at first, but soon began strategizing how to fix the place up, where my bedroom would be, what could possibly be done with the decaying kitchen. None of this mattered to me at all. I quickly looked over the space, saw the chimney with its cracking mortar, and figured I could vent my wood-burning stove into it-the bare minimum needed to deal with the harsh Wisconsin winter. That, a water source, and a bathroom (inside or out, didn''t matter) were enough for me. Mentally I was still back outside, looking over the farm, seeing the golden prairie and deep green cornfields blanketing the earth, the trees reaching into the blue sky; and the vibrant, flowing spring with its cold water feeding the land, supporting its own perfect microcosm of undulating insect and algae life.
* * *
The purchase negotiations were rocky. The property encompassed 80 acres, but the owners only wanted to part with the five around the buildings. This was a tiny scratch at my fantasy. Still, given my financial situation, it would be a decent start. However, the survey found that this 5-acre parcel violated the boundary of the cornfield behind the house, for which a tenant farmer had a multiyear contract. Ultimately I was able to purchase only 2.7 acres, bounded by fences and surrounded by corn, which was a mere toehold in this sea of greenery: But it was a toehold nonetheless.
The drawn-out negotiation process made me desperately impatient, so I moved onto the land in late summer, long before the sale was complete. I had permission to be there, but not to take up residence in the farmhouse. Instead I moved into the hayloft, a squatter with the gentle blessing of the landlords. I cooked by camp stove, drank and bathed at the spring, and slept in my worn blue down sleeping bag.
The first night I pushed together a thick pile of hay on the haymow platform, some twenty feet off the ground, laid my bag out on top, and crawled in, utterly exhausted by the effort of moving. In moments I''d drifted off to sleep. Hours later I awoke, disoriented, to a chorus of sounds-the erratic bellowing of cows in the nearby pasture. Why now? I thought. What has happened in the middle of the night to set them off? Bad dreams, perhaps? A cricket chirping too loudly? The distant howling of forlorn coyotes? I lay awake for some time listening to bellowing, not yet able to distinguish between the cows and the bulls, not yet aware how many nights during the following years I''d find myself listening to the persistent calls.
After drifting back to sleep despite the noise, I woke at dawn to rays of sunrise streaming in from the open haymow doors more than eight feet above me, bathing rough-hewn beams and wooden walls in a fiery red light. Nearby there was a chattering of birds. I searched about for a way to climb up, but no ladder or built-in steps were visible. Eventually I found myself balancing gingerly as I crept out onto the timbers that supported the loft. The wood under my feet was mostly smooth with age, but here and there a stray rough edge bit into my foot. Suspended too far off the floor for comfort, I looked down to see my shoes, innocently strewn beside my sleeping bag, mocking me. And as I looked down, I lost my footing for a moment, and found myself clutching at the beam, my heart racing. Finally calming my_ self, I continued my way out to the center timber. There I grabbed hold of the thick, dusty rope that ran to the door and carefully pulled myself along the beam.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Nature''s Second Chanceby Steven I. Apfelbaum Copyright © 2009 by Steven I. Apfelbaum. Excerpted by permission.
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