KIDS ON THE FARM

by Tracy Frisch

Issue 47 (September-November 09)

[Copyright © 2009, The Valley Table]

On the second day of summer, during a stretch of too much rain, a little boy named Reese scampers barefoot across a pasture. He's preparing to stage a herding demonstration with his family's young sheepdog, Gloria. When he gives the command, the puppy sets the peacefully grazing creatures in motion. Reese watches intently to see where the flock will end up. Pleased with the maneuver, he orchestrates a repeat performance. Outdoors, the six-year-old is in his element, oblivious to--or perhaps delighted by--his mud-slathered feet and spattered ankles. When he spots a tiny toad, he adroitly catches it in his cupped hands and lets it go unmolested. This child is growing up in an intimate relationship with nature, the way every country kid did not too long ago.

How many soon-to-be first-graders have experienced a rush of power from their ability to manipulate the world? Living at Cowberry Crossing Farm (Columbia County), Reese Harrison enjoys a large and varied natural playground. The farm stimulates his senses and enables him to develop the confidence and a feeling of mastery all children should be rewarded with. (The farm isn't Reese's only focus--he also plays with toys and goes to organized activities, like a drama workshop where he had volunteered to play the cow.)

In his 2005 bestseller, Last Child in the Woods: Saving Our Children from Nature-Deficit Disorder (Algonquin Books; $24.95 hardcover; $14.95 paper), Richard Louv chronicles the tragedy of "nature deficit disorder." Mesmerized by television and computers, many, if not most, children today don't grow up immersed--or even well acquainted with--nature. Instead, their experience of the outdoors tends to be circumscribed: If they are advantaged, their free time is highly structured by organized sports and enrichment activities directed by adults. Widespread societal anxieties as well as unfortunate realities have resulted in an arsenal of reasons to tightly supervise children or keep them inside the house or yard. And many children, even in the suburbs, lack access to wild places, or even sites that aren't paved or manicured.

Unlike Reese, who has almost always lived on Cowberry Crossing Farm, his older sister Grace spent half of her 12 years as a city girl. In the San Francisco Bay area, she wasn't allowed to venture outside without her parents, but they recognized her intuitive love for wide-open spaces. Whenever the family went for a getaway to a backcountry cabin, Grace would jump out of the car, throw her arms out and run down the dirt road.

Undoubtedly, this yearning influenced her parents, Cecile and Richard Harrison, in their decision to farm. Richard was raised on a dairy farm in England; Cecile spent her childhood around horses in Marin County, California. Comparatively affordable farmland, a Waldorf school, and an active community of Biodynamic and organic farmers brought them to Columbia County, where they started a diversified, direct-market farm with a wide variety of livestock and vegetables.

Reflecting on how she conceived of farming, Cecile says, "As soon as I had children, I felt like the world was unsafe for them," she recounts. She started buying organic foods and making foods that weren't yet on the market. First she became an organic activist, and later she started dreaming of Biodynamic farming.

The level of independence enjoyed by the Harrison kids would shock the average American. "In the city, people think you're crazy to leave a kid unsupervised," Cecile remarks. On the farm, she puts Reese down for a nap and leaves him asleep, alone in the house. (Cecile devised a clever system to communicate with her pre-literate son. When she's off to the gardens, she draws a picture of a flower and he knows to put on his trousers and shoes and join his mother there. If she goes out to pick up his older sister at the school bus, she draws a bus and he waits for them at home.)

While school comes first, during the summer the Harrisons count on the children's help. These children are already learning work skills under their parents' tutelage while contributing to the family livelihood. Grace is expected to weed one garden bed a day, a task she may do alongside interns twice her age, and Reese has been collecting eggs since he could walk. Grace says she really enjoys assisting customers at the farmers markets the family attends in New York City and Westchester. She started adding up sales and making change when she was nine.

Each child has a small garden plot. Grace starts her own flower seedlings in the greenhouse and grows them for bouquets. One of the varieties she chose to cultivate is a prolific dwarf sunflower called Sunny Smile.

Reese got his own garden when he was four. Though this year was too busy for his parents to help him, as they had done in the past, his garden has been productive. The enterprising siblings rescued and transplanted discarded seedlings. Reese finds his garden so motivating that very early in the season, before the family's transplants were ready, he actually bought a large tomato plant.

Describing her son, Cecile says, "His will is so strong. He'll try over and over again to catch a rabbit." (The Harrisons raise rabbits in several fenced paddocks so they can run free, rather than in hutches. Though they bury a wire fence to keep them contained, every year a few go feral.)

Cecile favorably contrasts her children's understanding of the world around them to that of some of their intern candidates who didn't grow up grounded in nature. Often, young people who want to work on their farm lack "a certain intuition about how the elements work, how to take advantage of them and protect against them," she notes.

On the other hand, being a child on a farm is not without its risks and anxieties. Big hulking cows intimidated Reese when he was younger, but when an aggressive rooster attacked him at age two, Cecile had to fend off the dangerous bird to protect him. And the kids still worry about going out after dark when the coyotes are howling.

Rather than pushing their children to farm, the Harrisons want to serve as a model for doing meaningful work that, for Cecile also includes healing, teaching, building things of beauty, and the spiritual professions. Richard observes that growing up on a farm gives a person "a critical mass of skills," a foundation for a varied life.

Judith and Abe Madey, of Claverack, have four children--Sean, Alexander, Sophia and Thomas, the baby. Judith operates Oakwood Farm on leased land adjacent to their house. "I like the fact that [the children] know what it takes to get milk and butter and vegetables on the table," Judith explains. Since she doesn't grow any fruit, she takes the family picking. They will have jam to eat until what they made runs out, she says.

For ten years Judith worked as the herdsman at the Hawthorne Valley dairy while Abe, trained as a meteorologist, managed the farm's creamery and made cheese and yogurt. Both were educated in Waldorf schools--Abe at Hawthorne Valley and Judith in Switzerland, where she grew up.

Waldorf schools follow an educational philosophy espoused by Rudolph Steiner, the German visionary who also developed Biodynamic agriculture. It stresses the development of the whole child at the proper pace. Children do handwork (first graders begin learning to knit) and experience a range of arts as well as the three Rs and narrowly defined academics.

In Judith's view, "The whole Waldorf education really rings true. The children learn what they need to know, what's appropriate, at the right time."

Abe now teaches high school science at Hawthorne Valley School. The couple speaks German at home and it's their children's first language.

When Judith decided she wanted to have more children (her third and fourth), she left behind the rigorous schedule of her 50- to 60-hour-a-week job to start farming on her own. "I really liked [the work] but I didn't have time for kids," she admits. Oakwood Farm so far has eleven cattle and a sow and her piglets. Judith sells cuts of pork and beef and within two years she plans to be licensed to sell raw milk from her totally grass-fed Jerseys.

Like the Harrison family, the Madeys are deliberately raising their four children in a farm environment. When Judith showed me the first of her two vegetable gardens, two-and-a-half-year-old Sophia headed straight for the bountiful pea vines. She plucked a pod and applied her concentration to open it. Then one at a time, she popped pea after pea into her mouth.

The farm allows Judith to spend time in the company of her children. She doesn't think it's in their interest to send them off to this activity and that. Rather she believes strongly in giving them the chance to just be kids. When asked what values she wants to instill in her children, resourcefulness--the ability to make something out of nothing--ranked high on the list, along with friendliness, courtesy and respect of others, independence, and a good work ethic.

In the summer, the two older boys help with chores, though Judith states, "I don't make them work that hard." Alexander especially likes to work with the animals. Both help take the cows into the barn and out to the pasture, and they also do some of the lawn mowing. When their parents are fixing machinery or have construction projects, the boys are always there to help.

As a family, they harvest potatoes and carrots. It's an activity the children love. For a "boring job like weeding" Judith only asks her school-age sons to help for 15 minutes. She expects them to do their tasks well and refrain from complaining. Sometimes she gives them a row to weed and the whole day to do it. Judith and Abe like to work along with the children because "it's more inspiring" for them.

Judith suspects that if they lived in a city and the children weren't able to run free, her two older boys would be considered hyperactive. She has noticed how sensitive her older son is to visual stimulation. The next child has lots of energy that could go into destructive behavior. "For a while I had to keep him busy," Judith recounts.

The Madeys currently reserve the family computer for adults. Judith and Abe plan to help their children build a computer, and only then will they be allowed to use it.

The family doesn't own a TV and at home they only listen to the radio once a week (to Prairie Home Companion).

When Alexander, who is eight, wanted a remote control car, the Madeys didn't run to the store and buy one--eventually his grandfather gave him a motor he salvaged and a remote control mechanism, and the two older boys put together a car using hot glue and a Lego construction. It worked, but soon they lost interest.

"We don't have a lot of toys," Judith stated. Abe adds, "We don't believe in saturating them with every educational toy. If it's appropriate, we'll give them a tool instead of a toy." In their old house, they packed away all the toys in the attic, except for two boxes. Every month, the children would get to choose the toys they wanted to play with and put them in one of the boxes. The system functioned like a toy library.

One challenge to raising their children in accordance with their values has been the influence of other kids, even at a school like Hawthorne Valley. "All of a sudden, they develop new wants," Judith observes. Another boy in her second son's class has a motorized bike. The Madeys' refusal to get one for their son provoked tears. "We feel it's a waste of fuel and pasture," Judith says. "Machines are to use, not to play with. I tell them the other guy [the classmate] doesn't get to drive a small tractor to pick up bales of hay."

Judith disagrees with the contemporary impulse to constantly protect children, as it stops youngsters from exploring their environment in ways that are developmentally appropriate. She's quick to add that she does not take real dangers lightly, and keeps the children away when she is operating farm machinery.

"What I'm trying to do is keep them safe, but let them do as much as they can," Judith says. In this vein, when the two–year-old sees Judith hammering, she wants to do the same, so Judith gives her a hammer and a piece of wood.

Judith admits it's not possible--or even desirable--to prevent all accidents. She lets her small children climb up a little rock and fall. They won't be badly injured, she explains. "We need to let them experience so they learn," she explains. It's a more powerful lesson than verbal warnings.

In the house, a rope ladder hangs from the high ceiling in the living room. "The two-year-old practices like her brothers," she says. The rule is simple: the kids can only climb a tree if they can do it themselves.

With objects, like knives and matches, that fascinate little ones but terrify their parents, Judith will allow her young children to use only if she is present. "I don't just plunk a knife in their hands," she stresses. The fact that her children are "not clumsy" is definitely a factor in what she feels comfortable letting them do. "It's not so much the age, but the skill and the individual," she says.

Sophia Madey, at two, wandered off all the way up the hill to the neighbors when someone else was watching her. "Having such independent kids is nice, but sometimes it's challenging," Judith says.

These days, few children understand what their parents do for work. It pleases Oley and Nadia Maczaj of Rusty Plow Farm in Ellenville that their three children see them working, doing something they enjoy.

Nadia says the farm, as an "all-encompassing lifestyle," teaches the children by example about finding one's own path, rather than settling for a paycheck and all the trappings that it entails. Farming also has enabled the Maczaj children to be involved hands-on with the family enterprise and to learn responsibility from a young age. "My dad quit a job in the city to garden because he felt he wasn't doing enough to help society," Danylo, the self-assured sixteen-year-old who is Rusty Plough Farm's mechanic in training, explains.

The Maczajs don't expect any of their children to farm--unless they want to. The goal has been to raise them to pursue any career they will love.

When Nadia and Oleh moved their family to their Ellenville farm in 2003, they had been commuters for "too many years." They lived in Suffern, held jobs in New Jersey and Manhattan (Nadia as an archeologist and Oleh in computer systems at a bank), and weekends traveled to their Catskill mountain farm. They ended up in Ellenville for the area's active Ukranian-American community (of which they and their extended families are a part).

After giving away their garden bounty for years, the Maczajs tentatively started selling their produce to colleagues at work in 1996. By the next year, they had the confidence to join a farmers market. Eventually, Oleh started taking summers off and finally he quit his job. Before the move, he frequently took one of the boys to the farm for the day.

Nadia grew up in Jersey City, surrounded by concrete and asphalt. Oleh lived in New York City, but he spent his childhood summers in the country, where, helping an aunt in her garden, he discovered his green thumb and love of horticulture. He says he would have liked to pursue this interest in college, but since it wasn't really an option, he studied the then-emerging field of computer science at NYU instead.

The boys have fleeting memories of living in the suburbs and being able to cut across yards to see their friends, or walk or bike downtown. Living on the farm makes setting up a movie date a big deal. The children have been home schooled since Danylo was in second grade, but they aren't isolated. They do plenty of things with other kids in their home school group and their circle of close friends who love to hang out at the farm.

Given the demands of the farm, the family generally stays close to home. "When we do go somewhere, the children want to come back," Nadia says. They've discovered how appealing the farm is to other people who don't have one. Sometimes the teenagers talk about divvying up the farm. "They said we can still live here," she reports, tickled by their attachment.

"Because we don't put a high value on material things, the children do not spend most of their leisure time playing with toys and electronic gadgets." Though they are enamored with them, Nadia says that they've come to realize that they have as much wealth or more without always getting the "latest stuff."

Nadia and Oleh have always paid their children for the work they do on the farm. "It's up to a point that the boys have an hourly rate," Nadia notes. (On the other hand, she says, "We have never given them an allowance--helping with dishes is not a paid chore.")

They frequently call on their children when they need help with a project, but they won't make them to do things they dislike. It comes down to respecting their different temperaments and interests. For example, their mechanically inclined son Danylo has brought old farm equipment back to life that hadn't been worked on for 40 years, but he detests harvesting. He has taken over routine maintenance of tractors and vehicles and he helps fix them, too. Though it's a chore for him, he does feed the pigs. Last year he tried working in the gardens, but the mosquitoes, heat and sweat really got to him. As much as he enjoys living on the farm, it's air conditioning and comfort that he yearns for.

Eight-year-old Julianna is "totally into the outdoors, dirt, mud, tadpoles," says Nadia, who describes her as "very low maintenance for a girl." She often accompanies her mother in the greenhouse to fill pots with soil and to thin seedlings.

Paul, a personable, outgoing thirteen-year-old, enjoys working outdoors more than his older brother. He's "the animal guy" who feeds--and talks to--the chickens. Farming involves commerce as well as nature, and Paul not only helps at farmers' markets, he makes money for himself with two businesses of his own there. A friend taught him to finger weave and he sells his key chains, bracelets, and necklaces. He makes some to order for customers who pick out the colors they want. He also makes lemonade, carrying on a tradition started by his brother.

When he's helping at market, occasionally Paul takes a break and shops for dinner (the Maczajs barter with fellow vendors). He'll even ask other vendors for recipes. Then, when the family gets home, this 13-year-old cooks their Saturday evening dinner.