HONORABLE MENTION: LDEI’s M.F.K. Fisher AwardLaura Taxel (Cleveland Chapter)

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The Farmer in the Dell Cleveland Magazine 2

Alan Halko is worrying about rain.

His skin already brown as a walnut from days spent outdoors,he sits under towering trees at a weathered-wood picnic tablebehind his home on Riverview Road. Brow furrowed, heperiodically glances at the puffy, white clouds and then outacross the bucolic landscape.Birds are twittering and the family’s dogs, Ginger and Jack,romp in the yard. Halko, dressed in shorts and a faded T-shirtwith cut-off sleeves that reveal a rose tattoo on his upper arm,is not feeling the least bit playful.

Unlike most of his Brecksville neighbors, who hope for Juneweekends filled with blue skies, bike rides, backyard barbe-cues and baseballgames, he’s yearningfor a downpour. Alan isa farmer, and his fiverows of trellised sugarsnap peas are havinga tough time thanks toan unseasonably hot,dry spring. He’s beenwatering them, butsomething’s gonewrong with the cistern.Trying to fix it is thenext thing on hisnever-finished chorelist.

“First thing thismorning I got themowers repaired,” hesays. “Then I took alook at the pump in thewater tank. I’d beenhaving trouble with thepressure. Seems likethis little float thingmight be broken. Surehope I don’t have tocall a well guy.”

Halko, his wife, Sue,and their children, 9-year-old Sarah andSeth, who just turned6, live on Springhill Farm amid crowing roosters, woodedgroves and fields he’s making fertile with a big investment ofsweat and determination. He loves it here. It’s a good place toraise corn, chickens and kids. He’s got 55 birds, and there’ssuch a demand for their eggs that he’s increasing the size ofhis flock. He found the breed he wanted in a catalog, placed hisorder, and the hatchery mailed him day-old chicks in a card-board box. He was still putting the finishing touches on a newcoop when the first shipment of 25 Golden Comets arrived atthe post office. This picturesque piece of Americana tucked off state Route 82is 3 1/2 miles from shopping malls, housing developmentsand the other hallmarks of sprawl. Joggers — lean, muscledand wearing high-priced running shoes — are a common sighton the paths of the nearby park trails. Alan, 54, grew up in

Wickliffe and acquired his own trim, fit physique from work, notworkouts.

The land he plows and plants is located in the middle of theCuyahoga Valley National Park’s 33,000 protected acresbetween Cleveland and Akron. The house he lives in was builtin the late 1870s and is listed on the National Historic Register.It was in bad shape before the park service renovated it.

Alan could never afford to buy property like this, so close tothese two urban hubs and complete with a move-in readyhome. But this place is owned by the federal government andhe and his wife are tenants. They signed a 60-year lease in2001, after being selected from a group of 22 applicants to a

program called theCountryside Initiative, ajoint venture ofCuyahoga ValleyNational Park and thenonprofit CountrysideConservancy.

There’s nothing quitelike this happening in anational park anywhereelse in the country.They’re makingdeteriorating andabandoned old farmswithin the park’sborders productiveagain. The plan is to getabout 25 of themrunning by 2015. It’s away to preserve therural heritage of thevalley and nurturesmall-scale local foodproducers with anearth-friendlyphilosophy — peoplelike Alan Halko.

Halko checks the skyagain, shakes his headand shrugs. It’s up toMother Nature now.Meanwhile he’s got to

hoe between the rows to keep the weeds down. They do well,he reports, no matter what happens. If the rain comes, heshould have about 50 pounds of peas to bring to theCountryside Farmers’ Market at Heritage Farms in Peninsulaeight days from now. “This is the first crop we harvest. Myregular customers start lining up to get the sugar snaps beforethe market even opens. If I don’t have much, there will be lots ofdisappointed people next Saturday morning.”The rain never comes. Less than 2 inches fall in the regionduring what turns out to be an unseasonably warm June.Farmers who irrigate have some added security, but it’sexpensive to put in a system and Halko can’t afford it. Hespends so much time watering that he never plants his corn.This year marks their fourth harvest. The Halkos haven’t had aprofitable one yet. Last year, a fungus brought on by early rainswiped out 350 tomato plants.

The Farmer in the Dell Cleveland Magazine 3

Luckily, the Halkos don’t depend on the farm to pay all the bills.Alan is highway superintendent for Bainbridge Township. Hestarted out on the road crew when he was 25. In a coupleyears, he can retire with a pension.

“I’m just looking forward to having one full-time job instead oftwo,” says Alan.

Until then, he gets up at 5:30 a.m., leaves the house an hourlater and puts in a second shift beginning at 4 p.m. when hegets home. He hasn’t had anything resembling leisure time inyears, unless you count the occasional winter indulgence of“The Sopranos” on late-night TV. For relaxation, he flips throughseed catalogs, catches up on back issues of Farm & DairyNewspaper and attends the Ohio Ecological Food & FarmAssociation conference. He saves his paid vacation days so hecan take Fridays off in thesummer for harvesting.

Even so, he’s onlymanaged to get a smallportion of his 10 acresunder cultivation — three-quarters of an acre forvegetables and two-thirds of an acre forSue’s flowers. Herbeautiful bouquets arealways a hit with farmers’market shoppers.

“From March throughSeptember, I don’t evenget back inside thehouse until long afterdark, except for a shortdinner break,” Alan says.“There’s always a lot toget done around here,even in the off-season,so I can’t let myself thinkabout being tired. I don’trealize how tired I amuntil I sit down.”

His friend and neighborBob Hall, whose BlueHen Family Farm is alsoamong the nineproperties currently in the program, calls him the hardestworking man in the farm business. “That makes me the JamesBrown of agriculture,” says a grinning Alan. Alan first considered farming 30 years ago during the wholeback-to-the-land movement. He read “5 Acres andIndependence” and subscribed to Mother Earth News. “But lifegoes how it goes,” he says.

He didn’t do anything more until 1994 when he and Sue boughta little place in Geauga County. “I put in a small garden and hada few chickens,” he recalls. “I had this idea we were practicingfor something bigger.”

In 1999, he saw a newspaper article about the CountrysideInitiative. “I cut it out and kept it. For the future, I told myself.”

Then he got more information, took a tour of the properties andfilled out a proposal. “I never thought mine would be chosen,”says Alan, who was among the first group of participants.

When he moved in, his land was filled with waist-high weeds.Plowing unearthed piles of broken glass and chunks ofconcrete from commercial greenhouses torn down by the parkservice in the late ’80s. The debris had to be hauled away andthe soil nursed back to health. Alan has added nutrients andcompost, put in cover crops — buckwheat in summer, clover forwinter, rye in fall — that he turns under to supply nitrogen, andhas rotated what and when he plants among three fields. “It’s along, slow process,” says Alan. “I’ve got another acre I can’teven use yet.”

There are times, he confesses, that he’s glad he’s notresponsible for moreland. Other days, hewishes he had anotherfew acres. “I’d like to putin raspberries, a smallorchard.”

Sometimes in the earlyspring, he likes to stopthe tractor up on a smallrise just as the sun issetting. He turns off themotor, and there’snothing to hear but birdssinging their goodnightsongs. Sitting up on theold, blue Ford 4000, helooks out over his newlyplowed field. It’s just arectangle of brown dirt.Nothing’s even plantedyet, but to him it’sbeautiful and full ofpromise. He forgetsabout all that could gowrong and everything thatneeds to be done. “Iknow not everyone wouldbe happy doing this. Iam, and it feels good,feels right.”

His wife doesn’t exactlyshare his passion — although she does her share of chores.But the 48-year-old from Russell knew this was what Alanwanted when she said “I do” 12 years ago.

“Why couldn’t he go for a fast car like other men,” she asks ofAlan’s midlife agricultural crisis. “He’s the kind of guy who’salways talking about what could be, not what is, and he has thisway of convincing you to come along for the ride.”The shadow of failure is always one storm front, one buginfestation, one uncontrollable act of nature away. For farmers,it’s a daily roll of the dice and the odds were not good this pastspring and summer. It was dry when it should be wet,scorching when it should be balmy.

NOTE: 2,000 word limit submitted to judges endedhere, but the story goes on. See next pages.

The Farmer in the Dell Cleveland Magazine 4

In February, the Halkos’ tiny parlor becomes a potting shed.After helping Sarah with her homework and getting Seth bathedand to sleep, Sue spends evenings hunched over a foldingtable, wearing magnifying glasses, picking up single seedswith tweezers.

She places them, one by one, in plastic starter flats filled with aspecial growing medium. Certain seeds sit just on the surface,others are buried a mere eighth of an inch into the dirt. This iswhere her flower garden begins.

In the first round, she’ll do petunias, snapdragons, viningbrown-eyed Susans for hanging baskets, and then a fewweeks later, she sows perennials such as yarrow, veronica andbutterfly bush. When she’s finished, she’ll have around 50 flats,or about 4,700 “starts.” In March and April, they do the vegetableseeds.

The starts germinateunder grow lights in thebasement. Although thecentury house has beenupdated — there’s alaundry room and anenclosed porch thatserves as the familyroom — the cellar is partof the original structure.It’s tiny and cramped witha low ceiling. Theentrance was outsideuntil a very steep, narrowinterior staircase wasbuilt. Sue navigates thesteps carefully each dayto check the plants’progress and waterthem. All their hopes for asuccessful season are inthese spindly little greenshoots.

By late March, Alan is stillwaiting for a mild,windless day to get thepropane-heated hoop-house ready for them. Itserves as a way stationbetween the basementand the fields, where themature plants will go once all danger of frost has passed. Alanbuilt the 22-by-48-foot frame for this inexpensive version of agreenhouse three years ago — in the winter, working on itwhenever the temperature was above 20 degrees. Eachseason he must cover the curved metal ribs with a skin ofheavy-duty polyethylene film. On March 31, the temperaturereaches 58 degrees and although there’s rain in the forecast,he decides to get it done. The mercury hit 65 the day before —better for making the plastic stretchy and pliable — but he hadto be at his other job.

Because a new roll is expensive, Halko is making due with theplastic he has, despite a few rips. It takes more than oneperson to slide the huge sheet up and over the struts, so Alanrecruits Sue and their neighbor Bob Hall. These days, farmersrely on cell phones just like everybody else — when it’s time toget started Hall, out in his own field, gets a call to come over.

It’s not an easy task. The slightest wind gust can turn the hugepiece of plastic into a giant sail. Once it’s in position, Sue andBob must hold it taut, but not so tight that it tears, while Alantucks the edges into channels inch by inch and secures themwith strips of wire pressed into the grooves. To reach the peak,he climbs an old, rickety wooden ladder that belonged to hisfather. “My inheritance,” he announces with a chuckle.

Seth, wearing pink, hand-me-down rubber boots from hissister, hangs around, sometimes watching and then wanderingoff to poke in the dirt or run around with the dogs. He’s used toamusing himself while his parents are busy.

With the job almost done, Alan sends Bob on his way,promising to come over in a couple of hours to take a look at afinicky piece of machinery.

“There’s only oneguarantee on a farm,”says Alan.

“That something will gowrong,” Sue chimes in.They recite a list of theirown woes — constantequipment breakdowns,marauding groundhogsthat devoured an entirepumpkin patch overnight,and the loss of most oftheir heirloom tomatocrop to disease lastsummer.

“Nothing ever goesaccording to plan,” Suesays.

“You don’t just turn on thetractor,” Alan explains.“You turn it on, it stallsout, and you spend half aday fixing it, half a day youwere going to use forplanting.” “That’s why we’re alwaysbehind,” Sue comments.“It could be worse,” hereplies.

“Oh yeah, how’s that?”

“We could have 20 things waiting to get done instead of 10.”

When the last hole in the plastic is patched, Alan, beaming withpleasure, says, “Hot dog, we just saved $300.”

“That’s great,” says Sue without missing a beat, “cause there’sa sale at JC Penney’s that starts tomorrow.”

Alan reminds her that it’s expensive to keep the hoop housewarm, $570 for a tank of propane. With a sense of humor thatbelies his anxiety, he makes a prediction. “If I fire up the heaterand bring the plants out here, it’s sure to snow. But if I wait, Icould miss some good growing time.”

The Farmer in the Dell Cleveland Magazine 5

Sure enough, flakes started falling on April 3. The cold snapcontinued for weeks. By the end of the month, he had almostrun out of fuel. If that happened, the thousands of seedlingswould have died. “When the delivery guy showed up,” herecounts, “it was like the cavalry arriving.”Three inches of snow fall on the farm in April. May is even moreextreme: the low is 37, the high 88. Alan fears a frost will killwhat is already planted. Then he worries the hoop house willturn into an oven, even with a shade cloth slung over the top.

The Halkos’ small white house, the henhouse and a barn inneed of major repairs sit on one side of Riverview Road, thefields and the equipment shed on the other. Small workingfarmsteads like this, once a common sight, are disappearingfast, and with them away of life. SoSpringhill Farm issomething of a touristdestination, a kind ofa window into thepast.

“People pull over,explain what’s goingon to their children,take pictures of thechickens pecking inthe yard.”

Halko, like everyoneaccepted into theCountryside Initiativeprogram, mustcombine the pursuitof profit withstewardship of theland and socialresponsibility. Hedoesn’t use harmfulherbicides,pesticides orchemical fertilizers.

His hens are notcaged and eat anatural, certified-organic and drug-freediet. Instead offocusing on one crop, like modern commodity farmers, Halkogrows a variety of things. And by selling his vegetables at amarket just six miles up the road, he’s burning a lot less fossilfuel to bring them to shoppers than the big commercialgrowers that truck produce across the country.

Cuyahoga Valley National Park superintendent John Debo hasbeen an advocate of recapturing the rural quality of the valleyever since he visited England’s National Trust parks in 1996.There, as elsewhere in Europe, traditional family farms are anintegral part of efforts to preserve and manage greenspace.

Not everyone is a supporter of the farm program, however.Some believe that national parks should be wilderness areas,not places where people live. Others are concerned with thefor-profit character of the undertaking. “Public land should notbe used for private enterprise,” says David Dvorak Jr. of the

Northeast Ohio Chapter of the Sierra Club. “As an organization,we support the goals of the conservancy and the idea ofpreserving small family farms, but not in the park.”

There’s evidence that Native Americans raised food in this spot1,000 years ago. Europeans arrived in the 1800s, clearedforested tracts, grew wheat, oats and corn, and kept sheep anddairy cows. Truck gardens flourished in the early years of the20th century.

These old ways still make sense for the 21st century. Industrial-scale agriculture has created a roster of ecological problems.Small, diversified family farms serving their communities arean alternative. And the public is hungry for locally grown foodlike Alan’s. Between 2002 and 2006, there was a 40 percent

growth in the numberof farmers’ marketsnationwide. It’s a foodrevolution, and AlanHalko, his bushelbaskets of freshlypicked pattypansquash and all thefolks who wait in lineto get some are a partof it.

“Farmers feed us,”says Darwin Kelsey,executive director ofthe CountrysideConservancy and oneof the driving forcesbehind the farmers-in-the-park program.“We owe our lives tothem, but people nolonger have aconnection to wheretheir food comesfrom.”

He’s betting theprogram can re-engage the public “inthis fundamentallyimportant activity” andshow how biggerissues such as cleanair, soil and water,

and healthy animals, plants and people are all linked.

It’s why, on a Saturday in May, Greg Embry and his wife, JannFilion, work side by side with the Halkos, digging holes,nestling a seedling in each one, and walking up and down thenew rows of cucumbers, peppers and eggplants with wateringcans. While little Sarah and Seth Halko make mudpies at the edge ofthe field, the Akron couple, regular customers of Alan’s at thefarmers’ market in Peninsula, don’t stop for lunch. “We dependon the food he grows,” says Jann, who is committed to eatingan organic diet. “It makes sense to be part of the process.”

Greg and Jann finally call it a day around 3 p.m. “Since we don’tpay you,” Sue jokes, “you’re free to leave whenever you want.”

The Farmer in the Dell Cleveland Magazine 6

Yet knowing that her husband won’t waste a moment ofdaylight, she turns back to him and asks, “What’s next, boss?” “Rain was predicted for the Fourth of July,” Alan says, “and I wasso excited. Then it suddenly cleared up, and I knew we werescrewed again. Seems like even when we get storms in thearea, they pass us by.” He is forced to do so much watering thathis cistern can’t keep up with the demand and he has to haveadditional water trucked in. What hasn’t shriveled up and diedhas gone dormant.It’s 9:30 a.m. and already almost 80 degrees on this Julymorning. The Saturday farmers’ market in Peninsula has onlybeen open for half an hour, but Alan has just about soldeverything he brought. That’s no surprise since there wasn’tmuch to load into the family minivan, which does double dutyhauling kids and crops.

“I had about 50 heads of broccoli, plus some cucumbers andhot peppers. Glad I decided to try broccoli this year,” he says.“It’s held up real well and gives me something to sell.”

Night after night he’s been hauling the hose up the hill to fill a55-gallon drum that sits by the field. Then he dips a can in andwaters all the tomatoes and peppers by hand. It usually takeshim 2 1/2 hours. “I can keep them alive this way, but they are notthriving. I think I’m gonna lose the pumpkins.”

Sue’s bouquets are the money-maker this week. She can makeabout five an hour, and each one is a unique mix of whatever’sblooming: daisies, zinnias, Chinese forget-me-nots,delphinium and asters. It takes her a full day just to gather theflowers. Then after supper, she sits in the yard most of thenight, under a canopy with a light that Alan rigs up for her,assembling them into eye-catching arrangements. Usually shedrinks coffee to keep herself going. Sue had 41 bouquets readyfor today’s market by the time she went to bed at 3 a.m.

Craig Gordon is hanging around Alan’s stand, keeping himcompany. The 51-year-old from Berea is considering a careerchange — from mental health to growing vegetables. He mighteven apply for one of the Countryside Initiative properties. First,he wants to know more. He chose Halko as his mentor andhas been coming out to Springhill Farm to work beside him.Alan can’t afford to pay for help so Gordon is a godsend.

A week or so later in mid-July, it’s official: Northeast Ohio, likemost of the state, is experiencing a moderate drought. “I’mfrustrated. I did some cursing. But it’s not like you get a choice,”Alan says. “So I just keep doing whatever I can. No matter whathappens, at least I’ll know I gave it everything I had. And myeggplants are looking good. I been weeding and watering likecrazy to give them a boost, and they rebounded.”

He’s cutting flowers with Sue today because he finishedharvesting vegetables early. The sky is a brilliant blue. Yellowand black butterflies flit through the air. It seems peaceful,idyllic.

Unless you’re a farmer, desperate for rain.

“I should’ve put in more water lines like I planned, but we didn’thave the money,” Alan says. He’d already gotten approval fromthe park — no small thing. One of the challenges of farminghere is the bureaucracy. Even simple things like sinkingpostholes require mountains of paperwork. “Maybe I’ll get to itthis fall.”

Letter to the Editor after article appeared:Land lover

Laura Taxel’s in-depth article “A Farmer in the Dell” (October2007) lets us better understand the hardships and the rewardsof choosing a lifestyle that takes a family back to the land. Wethe consumers benefit from their toils. It was interesting to learnhow land can be brought back to farming, albeit with muchbureaucracy. While the thought of using Cleveland’s vacantland for developing mini farms has been suggested before, itbears repeating. Thank you for the inspiring article.

Anda Suna Cook, Cleveland

The rows of sunflowers in shades of orange, yellow andmagenta are stunning viewed from afar. But on closerinspection, it’s easy to see the toll the weather has taken. Theirbig heads droop and the petals are browning and falling off.They’re also being devoured by Japanese beetles. Gordon’s offby himself, snipping stalks of purple salvia. Few are perfect andmany are too damaged to use. Others aren’t open yet.“Flowers don’t bloom on schedule,” says Sue. “I’ll have thingsthat are gorgeous on Tuesday, past their prime by Friday.”

Still, by 4 p.m., every bucket they own is filled with flowers.Rain finally comes in August. With a vengeance. Springhill Farmgets 5 inches in a week, more than in the preceding threemonths.“We needed it,” Alan comments wryly, “just not so much, so fast.It would’ve been nice if it was spread out a little.”

On a scale of one to 10, Friday, Aug. 17 is a 12. Withtemperatures in the 70s, breezy, and not a trace of humidity, it’sperfect picking weather. Alan is out in the big field by 8 a.m.where he’s got zucchini, pattypan squash, peppers and RosaBianca eggplant. Everything looks lush now. The tomatoes arejungle-thick, and he has to crouch down and push the tangle ofleaves aside to find the ripe fruit hiding underneath. “Ow! Ow, again,” he shouts. Thorny nettles growing betweenthe plants prick his bare hands, tinted brown from the dirt inevery crack and crevice.

Gathering all this bounty is slow going, a backbreaking, knee-straining day of squatting and bending. And it’s only the firststep. Before he goes to bed, Alan will cart it back to the house inthe minivan, sort and wash everything, and pack it up for themarket. If he’s lucky, he’ll be finished before midnight.

He’s got lots of tomatoes, so many varieties that he has to readthe tags to remember all their names: sweet olive, pink pingpongs, sun sugar, ava purple balls, Kellogg’s breakfast. Butmany are splitting open and others are already rotting on theground.

“Only one out five is still good. Getting all that water so fastmade them blow up. Some types are more susceptible thanothers. It’s a sad sight.”

He plucks a “garden peach” off the vine. It’s a yellow tomatowith a pink blush and a slightly fuzzy skin. He bites into the juicy,sun-warmed flesh and savors the flavor.

“It’s hard, harder than I expected,” he says. “We haven’t had areally good year yet. But out here, on a day like today, when Ipop one of these in my mouth, it all makes sense, and Iremember why I want to do this.”

The Farmer in the Dell Cleveland Magazine 7

Honorable Mention page 1.pdfMFK Fisher Honorable Mention.pdf