{"id":4143,"date":"2018-09-03T19:14:24","date_gmt":"2018-09-03T19:14:24","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/blog.wabash.edu\/magazine\/?p=4143"},"modified":"2023-05-24T17:56:15","modified_gmt":"2023-05-24T17:56:15","slug":"camels-in-the-cornfield","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/blog.wabash.edu\/magazine\/2018\/09\/03\/camels-in-the-cornfield\/","title":{"rendered":"Camels in the Cornfield"},"content":{"rendered":"

A poet\u2019s venture into dairy farming becomes a journey of mud\u00a0and guts, faith and trust.
\n<\/em><\/h4>\n
by Luke Blakeslee \u201911<\/strong><\/h5>\n

Venus is<\/strong> autumn\u2019s morning star.<\/p>\n

I am not.<\/p>\n

In the first week of October the planet is dazzling the horizon, already three fingers up by the time I head out to the barn.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m half awake and a half-step behind\u00a0my wife, the early riser who convinced this poet to start a camel dairy. Fifty shades of brown matter now replace the graphite smears I used to wear on\u00a0the side of my left hand.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s no wonder Amber stays upwind of me. Unlike me, she\u2019s a picture of the world\u2019s most attractive natural grit. I\u2019ve seen her pull her hair back, tuck a clean button-up into fitted jeans, and squeeze five pints of milk from a camel in a minute and a half. She once impressed me by unclogging a manure pit drain with those same bare hands.<\/p>\n

Customers enjoy hearing this whenever they sniff her handmade camel milk soap and\u00a0sample our hand-churned ice cream. They want details that are easy to buy, hard to forget. So we fill our traveling shop with fresh hay and even fresher manure; a calf that bellows at babies; another camel that chews sideways in every selfie. A few people respond by approaching me with a game of blood-and-gutsmanship. They say something gnarly like, \u201cI heard camels can crush a man\u2019s skull,\u201d then pause for me to tell some near-death story they\u2019ll use to impress their friends back home.<\/p>\n

I get it. For them, farming isn\u2019t about the swish of cottonwoods or the smell of rain beaded on crisp leaves in the cornfield. It\u2019s about the crazy goat that breaks your brother\u2019s arm and gets eaten by coyotes, or the neighbor who dies when the auger catches his flannel shirt. Amber and I\u00a0hope our kids learn a different perspective, one involving less blood and guts and more milk and honey. So instead of exaggerating for manliness points I describe some picture of farm life recently planted in my mind, like feeding muskmelon rinds to the camels after supper: Priya and Lance standing barefoot at the top of the gate as five dark mountains stride through the pasture to greet them, great humps just visible at the edge of twilight.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

This morning our way<\/strong> to our camels is through a heavy sliding door stuck in its tracks. I meant to fix it last month but set it aside to replace a broken window\u00a0instead. The old glass couldn\u2019t hold out a month of La Nina storms. The camels seemed unfazed by the constant rain crashing like\u00a0pea gravel against the sides of the metal barn and cutting channels in the dirt floor like shallow wadis in desert soil. But milking in a pool of mud and calf\u00a0scours is not a dairyman\u2019s dream.<\/p>\n

The window is now mostly fixed. I tell Amber I\u2019ll work on the door when the Christmas rush is over. She laughs with the\u00a0sarcasm of Katherine Hepburn.<\/p>\n

That\u2019s the problem with being more poetic than practical on the farm. My best\u00a0plans tend to coddiwomple\u2014move with purpose toward a vague destination. I’ll pray over an idea and then hope the stars align to make it work. It’s a\u00a0good way to get whipped by Orion’s belt.<\/p>\n

A loud scraping rips through the morning as we wrestle open the jammed door. Scared camels can kick, bite, trample, smash, or throw a person by the\u00a0head with the right provocation, but we find ours inside lying in a circle on the loose dirt, necks bowed like palm trees bending toward water,\u00a0sculpted legs folded like collapsed columns of a four-poster bed.<\/p>\n

The calf stretches to sniff my pockets while Amber straddles Daisy\u2019s hump with the\u00a0confidence of Cleopatra. It\u2019s a new test for Daisy, our fifteen-year old with no riding experience. At 1,300 pounds, she would need a good four seconds\u00a0to lift her seven-foot frame skyward if she suddenly spooked, leaving Amber enough time but little room to jump out of the way.<\/p>\n

There is little risk of that.\u00a0Other than the mangled door, the barn is a sanctuary. There are no sharp edges, no blind spots, no dark corners. Mothers of all types are easygoing\u00a0when they don\u2019t have to worry about their environment, and only easygoing mothers will produce the milk our dairy needs.<\/p>\n

Using the calm tone of voice we\u2019ve mastered sending our toddlers to bed, Amber and I call everyone up. Ginger requires that I scratch her poufy head before she allows me to feel for her unborn calf. I fit my\u00a0hand beneath her ribcage and sway her belly side to side. Nothing yet. Amber inspects the sore on Jenny\u2019s leg and checks Journey\u2019s tail for signs of\u00a0lingering diarrhea.<\/p>\n

As we apply fly spray on bellies and legs and try to breathe through\u00a0the plumes of dust raised from brushing off their backs, we talk to the girls about the day ahead, about the weather, Cubs baseball, anything to embed\u00a0the sound of our voices deep into their memory. It\u2019s a routine as much about survival as it is affection. Camels will weep over the loss of a favorite handler; they might stampede a stranger.<\/p>\n

The ease with<\/strong> which we fell into these routines makes us forget that camels weren\u2019t in our blood to begin with.<\/p>\n

I wish we could hand down\u00a0traditions of camel husbandry passed through the family from the days of Solomon, when the Queen of Sheba first brought silk and incense to\u00a0Jerusalem by camelback. But our road to camels wasn\u2019t paved with myrrh; it was strewn with dandelions.<\/p>\n

A few years ago we no longer enjoyed mowing\u00a0our seven acres and set out to find a weed-eating animal to do the dirty work. Goats were too wily. Sheep were too stupid. Horses eat money and kill\u00a0more people than sharks, bears, and alligators combined.<\/p>\n

So the obvious choice was camels.<\/p>\n

To Amber, anyway. I was still tethered to my prairie upbringing, which means I thought she was insane. It took a Bedouin to convince me.<\/p>\n

We met Saleh at a cameleer training clinic in Michigan, smartly\u00a0covered in a headscarf while the rest of us swatted horseflies from our hair and blistered under the July sun. Saleh was a nomad who grew up in the Bedouin culture drinking milk straight\u00a0from the camel\u2019s teat, perhaps the only thing about him we wouldn\u2019t try to emulate. Each of his training sessions evoked an ancient ballet of man and\u00a0beast rising and falling, Saleh\u2019s quick movements dictated only by the camel\u2019s flicking tail, cautious breath, glaring\u00a0eye, or slight twitch.<\/p>\n

Amber and I attempted the same with an unwieldy female whose favorite step was directly\u00a0sideways, repeatedly penning us into a fence. We drove home bruised and sunburned, but completely hooked.<\/p>\n

Our goal for the next two years was to\u00a0pull all the best information from our new mentors without annoying them. A rugged Texan taught us that nothing kills camels faster than parasites. A wiry Australian who ropes feral camels in the Outback explained how to avoid a crushed skull\u00a0when catching a bull. Out of Michigan, Colorado, India, and\u00a0California an outpouring of knowledge filled a stack of notebooks piled on our dining room table.<\/p>\n

It was time to crank up a herd fund. Camels aren\u2019t cheap. A young camel costs the same as a small car; a milking camel is more like a large truck with the insurance policy of a tour bus. We wanted both. Restaurant tabs shrank. Water instead of Coke. Homemade\u00a0soap, homemade haircuts, garage floor alternator repairs.<\/p>\n

While I prepared the farm, Amber grew our bank account by selling soap and lotion that\u00a0she crafted with camel milk purchased from another dairy. Aromas like coconut lime verbena and yacht club began catching guests by surprise as they\u00a0entered our home; they started opening their wallets on the way out.<\/p>\n

Around this time our infant daughter was dealing with an allergy to cow\u2019s milk that wrecked her digestive system and left patches of eczema like ripe\u00a0strawberries on her punky legs. Camel milk and Amber\u2019s products soothed her body so effectively that other families\u00a0in similar situations began turning to our products for relief.<\/p>\n

The connection between autism and camel milk solidified our commitment. Rachel, Carl, and Jacob were teens Amber and I mentored years earlier in a local autism social club. Rachel was all about karaoke. Carl was a chess fiend who between each move would talk about Catholic monks. Jacob directed mystery plays and once brought seven different flavors of Mountain Dew to a party. They showed us that beyond the visible signs of autism lay a world of real, complex, and uplifting personal relationships that actually mentored us.<\/p>\n

When we discovered libraries of anecdotal evidence linking camel milk to autism reversal, we wondered: Could we build a farm that could help find a cure?<\/p>\n

With a full head of steam we prepared to launch.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Camels aren\u2019t cheap.<\/strong> A young camel costs about the same as a small car; a mature milking camel and\u00a0calf pair is the cost of a small car and large truck with the insurance policy of a tour bus. Restaurant tabs shrank. Water instead of Coke. Homemade\u00a0soap, homemade haircuts, curtains, dresses, alternator repairs. Amber and I set up a GoFund Me to bring friends and family on board.<\/p>\n

But at just the\u00a0wrong moment no bank would fund the rest of our business expansion. It seems the words \u201ccamel dairy\u201d can raise bankers\u2019 eyebrows an inch higher\u00a0than they\u2019d been raised before. To them it wasn\u2019t a question of return; our business plan was promising enough. It was more a\u00a0question of risk. Where we saw cutting edge they saw only exotic, i.e., quixotic. And with their hesitation, our plans blew away like the dried heads of dandelions we knew we\u2019d be mowing forever.<\/p>\n

I call the events that changed their minds \u201cthe three blessings,\u201d and they are another story altogether. Suffice it to say they changed our hearts and our future. We began to feel not resignation, but a bittersweet contentment. On our long walks Amber and I recalled a verse from Proverbs, \u201cA man\u2019s heart plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps,\u201d and from Isaiah: \u201cThey who wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength.\u201d We realized that we had been building a future based on our own imperfect timing\u2014none of this was going to go exactly as planned.<\/p>\n

Then came news that should have been a death blow\u2014our milk supplier closed up shop, effectively closing our soap business with it. We pushed the banks one last time, and a visionary lender finally understood our urgency to expand. In a few weeks we had a resurrected business plan lean enough for them to fund and practical enough for us to accomplish in the window of time they would give us.<\/p>\n

Reality dictated care in proceeding. Camels lactate for no more than 8 to 15 months after giving birth and drop their milk in small quantities under precise conditions. After that they remain dry until their next calf is born, 13 to 18 months later.<\/p>\n

Our accountant helped us process these figures by scribbling a heavy black dot on our books to show where our bottom line would need to be to pull this off. He didn\u2019t leave much room for coddiwompling.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

On some of<\/strong> these dark October mornings it\u2019s easy to let that black dot hang overhead like a pillar of storm cloud. With the girls awake we need to hurry with milking, not just because Jenny is impatient for the grain I poured when we entered the barn, but because her milk won\u2019t wait for\u00a0us to lollygag. Once it fills her udder we\u2019ll have 90 seconds before she pulls it back up.<\/p>\n

So this little sanctuary must remain a shrine of efficiency. I tow Jenny into the stanchion. Amber cleans the udder while I\u00a0weave Journey past the others into the parlor beside her mom. She dodges and weaves and finally leaps into place, leaning in under her mom\u2019s\u00a0warm belly. The whole operation depends on her instinctive tongue and rubbery lips triggering the udder for a full let down.<\/p>\n

Amber and I crouch to watch for signs of\u00a0oxytocin flowing through Jenny\u2019s body. Her shoulder stops twitching, her eyes fix forward, her feet shift slightly, then\u00a0freeze in place. Then the calf pulls with every muscle in her mouth like a kid sucking a thick milkshake up a straw.<\/p>\n

Amber whispers into the little one\u2019s ear and guides her away from the stanchion. With one hand I wipe the calf\u2019s tacky saliva from each teat and with the\u00a0other pop on the vacuum-powered milking equipment. The teats explode at once and warm milk cascades through a system of tubes and filters into our waiting bucket.<\/p>\n

Except for the steady thdope, thdope, thdope of the suction pump, the barn falls silent. There\u2019s nothing to do now but enjoy the stillness, my favorite part of the morning. For the first time since creeping out of bed, Amber and I can exhale fully. She gently works burrs from Jenny\u2019s beard. I sink one knee into the damp straw and let my mind wander.<\/p>\n

I think about how far we\u2019ve come, and how far we\u2019ve yet to go on this journey of faith. That\u2019s how I see the unfolding of our dream, not as some romping tale of bravado but a meditation on trust\u2014in each other, in God\u2019s promise to carry on a good work. Can Amber\u2019s craft continue to sell? Can I keep the farm functioning when winter slams us hard and deep? Can our kids be blessed as they see their parents carry on through the blood and guts, the milk and honey? I picture them in their light-up boots racing out to the barn. And I start to pray.<\/p>\n

Amber nudges me awake. The milk is down to a trickle, a heavy bucket telling us Jenny gave a good five or six pints. When we\u2019re done cleaning her up she\u2019ll let down several times more to feed\u00a0Journey before I lead her out to the pasture with the others. And when the world has turned over I\u2019ll bring her back in, a dark mountain heavy with milk\u00a0again.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n