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Stories from the heart of Hawthorn Farm.

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Time to Iron My Hands!

In the early hours, before the swallows sing, I shift restlessly in bed. My hands are clenched from cumulative hours of grasping tools and milking goats. I sandwich my hands between pillows to remind them to bend the other way instead of eternally curling fingertips towards palms. I am a tool-using primate. My body takes on the cast of the tools I use and what I do. As the season wears on, hands and feet toughen. My freckles darken. A friend takes a video of me driving the horses, and I watch it in amazement. My forearms ripple with muscle like something out of a bodybuilder magazine. (Admittedly, the lighting was good.) In my bread-labor life, my body is an essential tool. Not soft

An Insurmountable Marketing Hurdle

How am I going to get rich and famous on a suburban homestead? Not from the small bills dropped into the jar at our weekly farm stand. Not from giving a farm tour three times a month in the summer. Definitely not from inviting local kids to graze on our raspberries. I'm coming to terms with being a subsistence farmer in a commodity world. I have taken farm marketing classes. I have done the enterprise budgets for selling squash at the farmer's market, for starting a goat dairy, for running full-time kids' programs. None of it pencils out into a modern salary, or sounds very fun to do all the time. If I think about giving 8 tours a week to tramping bands of tourists, the joy goes out o

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Woodinville, WA 98072, USA

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