Oct. 20. was the last time we watered our crops before the atmospheric river on Oct. 23 soaked our fields with about six inches of rain in 24 hours. Before Oct. 23, California was a parched and golden-dry landscape, riddled with failing wells, rocky riverbeds, dry canals, and puddles instead of lakes.

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There is nothing quite like them. They are cute yet rugged, tender yet fierce, and (mostly) independent yet loyal. I’m talking about farm dogs – the constant companions ambling next to a farmer, getting caught in ankles, trouble and our hearts. Instead of contemplating the uncertain future of farming in California, let us instead take a moment to celebrate the certainty of canine companionship on the farm.

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I see them in all sorts and places, in organized journals, in sketchbooks, in pocket-sized notepads, on a computer or phone, and sometimes in a farmer’s perfect memory that can compete with any academic. The information, the stories, the notes, the things to remember, the things they would like to forget, the ideas for next year, and the failings of this year.

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Yesterday was our least favorite day of the year. Old hen recycling day. After 2.5 years as productive laying hens, half our flock was culled to make way for the new, more productive generation of chickens. After all, we do live on a farm, and we can’t keep hundreds of pet chickens. So once a year my husband and I stress for a week about this one bad day for our chickens. As farmers whose main focus is on growing plants, we are not as skilled or collected as our animal-focused colleagues at the long and emotional process of turning hens into food. It’s smelly, messy, sad, and a lot of hard work.

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I am sure many of my customers remember the days when my son Albie was an infant, and I would hand him off to one customer-friend or another during the Napa Farmers Market so that I could get through a rush of sales, and so they could get their dose of baby hugs. Alas, a day where I would hand my child to someone outside of my household seems far off and alien after 13 months of a global pandemic.

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There are many unromantic truths to being a farmer, all tied in with experiences that are more beautiful than you can imagine. Trudging out into the cold night to close up my chicken coop so they do not get eaten by a visiting bobcat is completely unappealing when I am ready for bed. But, while out there, I might see the most spectacular night sky, with stars, clouds, the moon rising, and an owl hooting in the background.

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I believe all Californians can agree that “relentless” is the best description of this summer’s fire season. After a brief respite from a horrifying August and September, once again Californians wake up to more wildfires ravaging our beautiful state, and in particular Napa and Sonoma. Although my farm is an hour from Napa, my heart is in its community, and I share the same experiences and trauma from living in a fire-prone landscape.

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To grasp and manage complex ideas, humans make categories and classifications. However, the biological world we live in rarely supports a clean world of categories. Farming is a complex system of dynamic interactions between insects, animals, microbes, nutrients, soil, weather, plants and, of course, humans.

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In many ways, this summer will be unlike any other, and in other ways it will be the same. The Napa Farmers Market will be teeming with stone fruit, tomatoes will be piled on the tables, and at our farm stand, you will find cascades of melons and watermelons.

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I come from a long line of farmers in France who have surely been farming since before French people spoke French. It is a deeply rooted cultural tradition for a husband and wife to farm a little corner of land together and have children to pass it on to.

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by Carine Hines originally appeared in the New York Times on October 24, 2019.

Image Credit: Max Whittaker for The New York Times

GUINDA, Calif. — Less than a year ago, while my husband and I were picking lettuce, a hot dry wind brought a cloud of smoke over my farm here in the Capay Valley. The wind didn’t die down, and neither did the smoke. For weeks afterward, we harvested produce while covered in the ashes of California’s most deadly wildfire. We cried for the dead, gave thanks for our own survival, and adjusted to a new California reality: Fire will always be knocking at our door.

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This past week, I spent my evenings making and freezing pots and pots of ratatouille for the winter. This peak-of-summer dish freezes perfectly and makes a delicious respite from winter produce come February.

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It’s 7 a.m. on a Saturday, and Robert and I are setting up our stand for the Napa Farmers Market. At this time of day, we enjoy the lovely coastal morning fog in Napa, which will soon be followed by sunny skies. Around us there is the bustle of each vendor preparing for the day.

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On last year’s Fourth of July, the small town of Guinda in the Capay Valley (in northwest Yolo County) hosted the “world’s tiniest” Fourth of July parade. It consisted of a gaggle of children on a tractor-trailer, with a couple of bikes and a golf cart. We all filed to our local volunteer fire station for its annual barbecue and fireworks.

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It’s the time of year when farmers look around and see cotyledons everywhere. Cotyledons are a plant’s first “leaves.” These baby leaves are the plant’s first source of energy and look markedly different from the true leaves a plant will produce as it grows.

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On the tail of a wet storm that drenched our state’s still-thirsty soils, I want to share a farmer’s relationship to rain. My husband and I have farmed through one of California’s greatest droughts and through one of its wettest years. Rain, and the lack of it, brings us challenges and solutions all in one meteorological event.

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