Organic and Sustainable Farm
We farm organically and sustainably.
We define our work as:
- farming that is environmentally responsible,
- farming that is economically viable, and
- farming that is socially just.
We are one of the earlier farms to be certified organic – we began farming organically in the 1980’s and are certified by California Certified Organic Farms.
We also believe in the power of stories, stories that capture the meaning of our work and stories that convey our passion.
Below are some stories that help define and guide us on our sustainable and organic farm - from Epitaph for a Peach (by David Mas Masumoto)
Allowing Nature to Take Over
I used to have armies of weeds on my farm. They launch
their annual assault with the first warm weather of spring, parachuting
seeds behind enemy lines and poking up in scattered clumps around the
farm.
They work the underground first, incognito to a passing farmer like me. By the end of winter I have my guard down, dulled by the holidays and cold fog. The weeds take advantage of my carelessness.
The timing of their assault is crucial. They anticipate the subtle lengthening of each day. With exact calculation they germinate and push upwards towards the sunlight, silently rooting themselves and establishing a foothold. The unsuspecting farmer rarely notices any change for days.
Then with the first good spring rain, the invasion begins. With beach fronts established, the first wave of sprouting creatures rise and boldly expose their green leaves. Some taunt the farmer and don't even try to camouflage themselves. Defiantly they thrust their new stalks as high as possible, leaves peeling open as the plant claims more vertical territory. Soon the concealed army of seeds explode and within a week what had been a secure, clear territory is claimed by weeds. They seem to be everywhere, no farm is spared the invasion.
Then I hear farmers
launching their counterattack. Tractors roar from their winter hibernation,
gun barrel gray exhaust smoke shoots into the air and cold engines churn.
Oil and diesel flow through dormant lines as the machine awakens. They
will do well when let loose in the fields, they are hungry for work.
The disks and cultivators sitting stationary throughout the winter rains
await the tractor hitch. The blades are brown with rust stains, bearings
and gears cold and still since last fall. But I sense they too may be
anxious to cleanse themselves in the earth and bare their sleek steel
shimmer.
Even the farmers seem to wear peculiar smiles. Through the cold winter season, they were assigned to maintenance, repairing equipment, fixing broken cement irrigation gates, replanting lost trees and vines. Their hibernation culminates with a desk assignment at the kitchen table, where they sit surrounded by piles of papers, laboring on taxes (farmers are required to file by March 1st). After restless hours of pouring through shoe boxes of receipts and trying to make sense of instructions written by I.R.S. sadists wanting to punish all of us who are self-employed, farmers long for a simple task outside. We are anxious to walk our fields, to be productive, to work our land. A full winter's worth of penned up energy is unleashed on the tiny population of weeds.
Within a day to two, the genocide is complete. Fields become "clean," void of life except vines and trees. Farmers take no prisoners. I can sometimes count the number of weeds missed by their disks. "Can't let any go to seed," a neighbor rationalizes. Each seed becomes a symbol of evil destruction and an admission of failure.
Farmers also enlist science to
create a legion of new weapons against the weeds. They spray preemergent
herbicides, killing latent seed pods before they germinate. Others use
contact or systemic killers, burning the delicate early growth of weeds
and injecting the plants with toxins that reach down to the roots. As
spring weeds flourish between rows, a strip of barren earth beneath each
vine or tree magically materializes from a spray applied a month or two
before. At times I wonder what else is killed in order to secure an area.
A weed might be defined as any undesirable plant. On my farm, I used to call anything that wasn't a peach tree or vine a weed. I too considered a field "clean" if it contained nothing but dirt, barren of anything green except what I had planted. All of my neighbors did likewise. We'd compete to see whose field would be the "cleanest". But our fields weren't clean. They were sterile.
We pay a high price for sterility, not only in herbicide bills and hours of disking, but also in hidden costs like ground water contamination. Some farmers can no longer use a certain herbicide because the California Department of Agriculture tested and discovered trace residues contaminating the water tables beneath their farms. It had been widely used because it kills effectively and is relatively cheap - for about $10 per acre it would sterilize an entire field.
But signatures of a "clean" field can stay with the farm for years. Behind my house, I planted some landscape pines - hardy, cheap, grow anywhere black pines that kept dying. They died a slow death, the needle tips burning before turning completely brown, the top limbs succumbing first, the degeneration marching down toward the heartwood like a deadly cancer. Uncertain of the cause of death, I gave up trying to grow the pines after the third cremation. Staring at the barren earth I at last discovered the reason: nothing grew on that strip of earth. The preemergent herbicide I once used remained effective and has left a long term brand on the land.
But I now have very few weeds on my farm. I removed them in a single day using a very simple method. I didn't even break into a sweat. I simply redefined what I call a weed.
It began with an uncomfortable feeling, like a muse whispering in my ear, which led to an observation about barren landscapes. It doesn't make sense to try and grow juicy grapes and luscious peaches in sterile ground. The terms "juicy" and "luscious" connote land that's alive, green most of the year with plants that celebrate the coming of spring.
A turning point came when a friend started calling his weeds by a new name. He referred to them as "natural grasses". I liked that term, it didn't sound as evil as "weeds", it had a soft and gentle tone about it. So I came to think of these "weeds" as part of the natural system at work on my land, part of allowing nature to take over my farm.
And nature did take over. Once I let my guard down and allowed a generation of seeds to germinate, they exploded everywhere. For years I had deceived myself into thinking I had destroyed every weed seed. I was wrong, they were just waiting for an opportunity.
The first weed of spring is the Pineapple weed, covering the vine berms. But it quickly wilts with the first heat of May. Chickweeds hug every tree, growing into a lush mat before dying with the first 80 degree days. This grass may be allelopathic, producing toxins that kill competing weeds. Few other plants grow through the mat, the yellowed and dry Chickweed work like a protective mulch guarding the tree trunks.
By the middle of spring, the grasses flourish and a sea of weeds fill all but the sandiest and weakest earth. I try to keep my vine and orchard berms clear, a lesson gleaned from an earlier confrontation with a weed named Mares Tail. This tall and slender creature can grow straight up into a vine leaf canopy and out the top. Mare's Tail doesn't hurt vines, but at harvest workers must battle the pollen and fight through a wall of stalks and leaves to reach the precious grapes. So I try and keep my new natural grasses away from the vine berms and tree trunks.
As nature takes over my farm, everything grows voraciously. New insect life swarms in my fields. Aphids coat milkweeds like pulsating black paint. Normally they aren't a problem for vines and peach trees, aphids would rather suck on milkweed. But they are denied that meal because of the thousands of lady beetles that invade my fields for spring feasting. I wonder what other invisible life thrives in the natural grasses, what pathogens and parasites join my farm. I can't measure their presence but I feel secure and the grapes and peaches still look fine.
I walk my fields and feel life and energy. In the evening a chorus of voices call out, the legions of insects venture out to feed. On family bike rides we have to keep our mouths closed, or bugs will fly in. I often think, "There's something going on out here..." and smile to myself.
I was a fool to try to control weeds. I fooled myself by keeping sterile fields without knowing the long term prices I was paying. Allowing nature to take over proved easier than I imagined. Most grasses will naturally die back without my intervention and I've learned to recognize those few which I should not ignore. The majority of natural grasses are not as bad as farmers fear.
In the eyes of some farmers, my farm looks like a disaster with weeds gone wild. Even my father grows uncomfortable. He farmed most of his life during an era of control and to him the farm certainly now appears completely chaotic and out of control. He keeps a few rows next to his house weed-free as if to maintain a buffer between him and a lifetime of nightmares from fighting weeds.
I still have bad dreams about some obnoxious weeds like Bermuda, but my nightmares ended once I stopped thinking of them as weeds.
Squatting
My workers come from many places in Mexico and live in small towns scattered throughout the valley. Del Rey, where many of them live, is the nearest town to my farm, estimated population about 1,500 but during the summer harvest, the town swells twice its size. The workers live in rented rooms, small cramped boarding houses or hidden bungalows in converted garages and tool sheds.
I visit one of these apartments. The workers live in a small out building behind my foreman's house. Some of the men are standing, others are squatting in a familiar squat.
Baachan squatted that way, peasants I had seen in South America squatted that way, old folks in rural Japanese villages squatted the same. It is a "common folk" way of resting and a fine observation point to watch the world. It's the type of squat I use when I'm waiting, not waiting for anything in particular but the kind of waiting and resting that's part of farming.
Squatting evens out physical differences. Tall people and short folk become closer in height when squatting. You share with others a common point of view. Once you squat you have to think twice about getting up; you become conscious of choices and decisions. Squatting is a mark of country folk who have worked the land and their legs are in excellent condition. You can't squat well if you are overweight, if your legs are used to sitting in chairs, or you are lazy. I wonder if we've lost the art of squatting. In our fast paced world today, we're too busy or think we're "too good" to squat.
On my visit to their home, I recognize
two of the squatting workers who had picked my peaches that morning.
With beers in their hand, crushed cans lying next to them, one
jumps up and waves me over to offer a beer. I am about to accept in a
gesture of friendship, but somehow I can't. I know that the price they
pay for a six pack of beer equals an hour of work. I calculate that a
single beer equals picking one extra tree in 105 degree heat. I think
of that worker earlier in the day, his sweat mingling with peach fuzz,
his expression exhausted . I politely decline the drink and squat
next to him.
I examine the workers' home. The "apartment" is converted from a tool shed or a small, freestanding single car garage. I'm sure it isn't legal housing and I'm positive my foreman makes a good income from renting the space to workers. Yet I'm certain the workers are satisfied with finding any housing at all and with the protection they receive from my foreman, a good man who seems fair and quiet. He doesn't allow gambling, drugs or prostitutes on his place. In fact, his own family lives in the adjacent house and one of his daughters is married to one of the steady workers. One farm worker tells me he has returned here for ten years, coming back to Mario's place every year. For these farm workers, this is their shelter.
Inside the house are rows and rows of bunks and a small kitchen, with a bathroom attached to the outside. One fellow is designated cook and he explains how skillful he is at saving money and stretching the meat with beans and vegetables. The cook says he'll make lunches for everyone who has work the next day. They pool their expenses. Some of my peaches are sitting on the counter to be shared. He finishes his beer, asks if I'd like a peach, and smiles. I can't tell if he's joking or not.
I am relieved to see that everything seems adequate and that my workers are being treated fairly. A lot of farmers do feel responsibility for their workers. Most of the older farmers know from personal experiences what it is like to work the land for low wages and to live in simple shelters.
As I leave, I think of the disparity between my home and the farm workers housing. I remember my first summer after college at U.C. Berkeley. I wanted to solve the problems of poverty and inequality immediately. I adopted the popular idea of "thinking globally and acting locally" by doubling the prevailing wages for our workers. After calculating my expenses and income for that month, I realized I had lost thousands of dollars. My idealism was then moderated. I concluded that providing jobs was the best contribution I could make to the world.
Now I try to pay a little better than the prevailing wage and I work out in the fields alongside the farm workers. And sometimes I still squat with them.