Wedded to the Land: Stories from a Simple Life on an Organic Fruit Farm

“Whether she’s writing about the staccato of a hairy woodpecker echoing through the woods, tapping sweet sap from a cluster of maples during a spring sugaring ritual or mourning the loss of her ox, Tolstoy, Joan Donaldson’s sensuous prose shimmers and surprises. Her collection of essays, , peels back the skin of her blueberry farm with the precision and eloquence of a Wendell Berry, Edward Abbey, and other agrarian essayists who make us pine for the lost heart of the country.” —George Getschow, writer-in-residence, The Mayborn Graduate Institute of Journalism, former editor for the John thought he was building a garage when he erected a timber-frame building only a stone’s throw from the house we built on the back of our farm. While washing the dishes, I mulled over how pleasant it would be to look out our kitchen window and watch goats lounge in a paddock. If goats lived in the new shed, the walk wouldn’t be far when milking in the winter or during kidding season. Once outside, I scanned the sixteen-by-twenty-foot framework. “You know, a couple of goats would fit nicely in here. There’s room for two stalls.” John’s hammer paused. I continued. “The aspens and honeysuckle on the north would shelter an outdoor pen.” I tied on a nail apron and picked up a hammer.