The Life and Times of an Embattled Urban Farm
by Michael Ableman

For me, farming was like falling in love. My relationship with the land followed a classic course. Nature seduced me and I fell in love with the little farm on Fairview Avenue. I was in awe of the magic of emerging seeds, and enchanted by early morning harvests when beads of dew formed on taut squeaky cabbages reflecting the light of the world.

At some point, like all lovers, I fell out of love in the purely romantic sense of the word. When that intoxicating, blinding draw faded, a deeper relationship began.

Everyday was different, sometimes dramatically so. Usually the changes were nearly imperceptible. But there were always changes. A sudden heat spell made tiny green beans grow to harvest size in a matter of hours. In the waxing cycle of the moon, seeds germinated almost overnight; in the waning cycle, roots strengthened and took hold.

By trial and error I learned and relearned until the technique I aspired to was internalized and forgotten, as technique should be. I also learned its limits, and how difficult it is to outsmart nature. Farmers are eternally optimistic in this respect, as we try to ripen pumpkins just in time for Halloween, have the first tomatoes at the farmers' market, or grow tender salad greens among much stronger native weeds.

Within a few years of arriving at Fairview Gardens, I went from being a struggling peach farmer to a kind of ringmaster. When I decided to reduce the emphasis on peaches and turn Fairview Gardens into an all-purpose cornucopia, I couldn't stop. The catalogs that came from Stokes or Johnny's or Abundant Life tempted me to experiment with nearly 25 different tomato varieties.

I discovered the treasure hunt pleasures of growing potatoes, an invisible crop that at harvest reveals multi-colored tubers of Yukon Gold, Red Pontiac, Sangre and Yellow Finn. Peppers pushed me to the outer edges of sanity as I insisted on planting every color from golden yellow and lilac purple to chocolate, seeking the super sweet of the small red Lipstick and the dangerous hot of the golden orange Habanero.

Taking advantage of subtle micro-climates, we planted mandarin oranges at the highest point in a warm frost-free area; figs and lemons thrived in one of the hottest spots below the compost. Cold-loving apples grew well along the bottom of the land where cool air settles. To create screens from the road and habitat for birds and insects, hedgerows of pomegranate and nectarine went in along the northern border. Blackberry and sycamore filled in along a creek outflow.

This was as far from commercial agriculture as you could get. Instead of fields full of broccoli grown to supply supermarkets by the truck-full, Fairview was becoming a kind of supermarket in itself, diverse and ever changing like an agricultural botanic garden.

We were able to graze nearly the whole farm, snacking on carrots or nectarines, collecting our evening meal on a walk from the salad beds to vast tomato plantings to the asparagus patch, from long rows of basil and peppers in summer or cauliflower and kohlrabi in winter. Every summer evening, dinner included green beans and corn; the artichoke harvest eventually extended until we could eat them every day for months.

Wild Universe
Every farm or garden needs its wild spaces. Within and beneath the mixed stand of pine, oak, and eucalyptus that towers over the center of the farm are rodent- eating owls and insects that pollinate and protect crop plantings.

Fairview Gardens is just loaded with bugs. Depending on your perspective you might say that some are "good," and some "bad." Oriental fruit moths, aphids, slugs and snails, cabbage loopers, thrips of every kind, cucumber, flea, and asparagus beetles, cutworms, spider mites, scales, lygus and mealy bugs are all checked and balanced by mealy bug destroyers, lacewings, ladybugs, tachnid flies, trichogramma wasps, assassin bugs, hover flies, spined soldier bugs and tiny pirate bugs. Most of them have their place in the ecology of the farm, but there are times when we need to interfere. The trick is knowing when.

There is a collision of worlds on this small farm. Humans, crops, and domestic animals are thrown together with predators, insects and soil microbes, all operating in an enormous, interdependent matrix. It's like I'm always trying to merge in traffic, to make my goals and priorities slip into the stream of life that is balancing itself constantly in my fields.

Within the larger natural system of the farm, I am just one participant among millions of forms of life who cross paths, are born, die, eat crops, eat each other, and decompose into the ground. My influence in that world is limited. Only by observation and experience can gently tip the balance in favor of my crops.

Walking the Land
The most satisfying thing is to see the returning tilth and fertility of the soil, when I can grab a handful of dark, rich crumbly soil where before the ground had been hard and cloddy.

Long before I arrived at Fairview, the valuable topsoil on the front field had been scraped off and sold. In my first winter, I started on its renewal, planting a mix of peas, beans, and vetch that we mow under every year, just as they begin to flower. Legumes such as these fix nitrogen on their roots, and their leaves and stalks provide the essence of good soil - organic matter.

This three-acre front field remains Fairview's face to the world. When the cover crop gets to be about four feet high and taller, we can hear people as they walk by discussing how lazy we are for not controlling the "weeds." I've often thought about putting a sign on the road to identify those "weeds" as our most important crop of the year, the one we grow as a gift to nature for the bounty that she provides on that field during the rest of the year.

In time, this field would be filled with successions of corn and gradually an array of crops - in winter, brassicas and lettuces; in spring, onions, beets, and green garlic; in summer, tomatoes, peppers, basil, and eggplant; and in fall, pumpkins, popcorn, and squash. For much of the year, it is bordered along the road with 1300-foot beds of flowers - zinnias backed by tall sunflowers.

Working the rows just adjacent to the road it seems that I have grown a bumper crop of soda cans, napkins, Taco Bell salsa packets, and hubcaps. Sometimes, teenagers drive by in their parents' cars and yell "dirt farmer" out the window. I must be a strange sight to their suburban eyes, walking among my weeds.

A farm does not have walls, and the smells of' hamburgers, fries, and tacos waft in from the fast food outlets that are within walking distance.

Walking the perimeters of the farm, I pass my neighbors' illuminated windows, feeling like a voyeur. Families prepare their children for bed, babies cry, the grayish-blue glow of television flickers, and students pore over their homework. The farm reveals another reality. Small animals scurry, owls screech, a slight breeze rustles the leaves on the trees. Air temperatures change as I enter and leave different air currents, and smells of citrus and avocado in bloom come into focus and mix with the rich smell of recovering soil.

The Incredible Shrinking Farm
For two months in 1984, unrelenting noise pulsed from huge machines that arrived to remove the last agricultural holding that bordered the farm. Though Fairview had grown and flourished, our neighbor had given-in years before. His lemon orchard was a wild, derelict remnant.

A certain beauty emerged from this neglect, as nature reclaimed the land. Twenty-six acres were regaining their wildness and the land was full of life. Deer, raccoons, possum, hawks, and coyote passed through a bustling society of birds, small rodents and insects.

I fought the demise of that land, feeling feeble standing in the city council chambers with a few other locals facing off against the developers' highly paid lawyers.

We protested the sacrifice of the richest topsoil on the entire west coast. We cited the agricultural history of this valley, our perfect Mediterranean growing climate, the loss of farmland everywhere, and the importance of small farms and local food for our children. Our voices were drowned out by housing statistics, traffic studies, and promises for parks and tennis courts, all supported by sophisticated maps and graphs.

"Progress Hangs Concrete Shroud on Goleta Farm," the local paper solemnly confirmed. The neighbor who sold the land was quoted, predicting, "farming is a dying profession." (I had to wonder where his food came from.) For 58 days, an army of 300-horsepower Caterpillars, carryalls and dump trucks moved and buried and leveled and graded hundreds of tons of topsoil. The bone- rattling noise started each day at seven each morning and didn't stop until evening. Clouds of dust floated into the farm and covered everything.

We complained, and the atmosphere of war seemed only to increase. The line was drawn where the lush green of our avocado orchards met the red flags that marked the roads of the new development. But the battle was about more than just noise and dust, and we were losing.

With each day the farm was becoming more like an island. All around us, the once fertile and agrarian valley had become a sea of tract homes and shopping centers. The sense of complete isolation was the hardest to take. With this last development, the farm would be surrounded by suburbia. We were now completely out of context.

The land next door was subdued, and nature was more or less contained. Construction began and several hundred look-alike tract-home condominiums popped up on the Mars-like landscape. They were given names such as Village Terrace. Unlike any village I have ever visited, they lack any commons, and any real sense of identity or place. The developers who designed and built those homes did not concern themselves with incorporating elements of nature, with creating space for children to play, or with providing for community interaction. The automobile proved to be the most important design priority, as most of the open space was given over to roads and driveways.

The Crow and the Crowd
One evening as the produce stand was closing, one of my new neighbors rushed in unannounced and angry. The newly built home he had just purchased was near our compost piles. He wanted the piles removed.

This neighbor filed his complaint with the county health department. I ignored the complaint. Compost was not just a central part of our natural soil fertility program; it also allowed us to recycle hundreds of tons of green waste that would otherwise clog the local landfills. Today, recycling and composting have become a popular way to ease the guilt of unbridled consumption. Back then we had some explaining to do.

The next year, a county officer tramped onto our peach orchard carrying a six-page Public Nuisance document commanding me to restrict the listed nuisance. The public nuisance was my roosters.

These roosters had run free for many years, fulfilling their part in the balance of the farm, and crowing about it most mornings.

Soon Fairview Gardens was caught in the eye of a major local controversy heralded by headlines reading "Rooster Riots," and "Rooster's Reveille Stirs Flap."

I responded with an editorial that ran in the local newspaper on Mother's Day about the archetypal cry of the rooster and our lost connection to the land. The district attorney eventually withdrew his charges and the county backed down.

But the issue was not as the media presented it - just about roosters or compost. Seen as isolated occurrences, those situations appeared ridiculous, my attitude simply stubborn and uncompromising. The real story had to do with the loss of our relation to the natural world.

The crow of the rooster is symbolic. It has been the call of natural rhythm since the beginnings of recorded history. That people wanted to silence that sound was also symbolic. It was one of the last natural sounds left in this valley, even though it could barely be heard over the constant hum of Highway 101 and the roar of jet planes from the nearby airport.

The internal battle that raged inside me swung to extremes. I considered holing up on the farm, building fences, guarding our borders, acting as if an alien force had surrounded us. I could keep fighting or begin to educate. I chose the latter. The neighborhood was changing - it was time to change the goals of the farm.

A Schoolroom Built of Soil
People were beginning to think about food in a new way. Food safety issues were surfacing in the media, as were environmental issues about agriculture. After decades of suburban expansion, people were looking to rediscover their relationship to the land. Parents and teachers wanted new ways to educate their children. Reaching people through their kids and their stomachs seemed the most powerful and direct approach.

The grand and stately avocado trees are the old men of the farm. They stand 30 feet tall and spread their limbs to create a large, enclosed, expansive cavern we call the cathedral. One of Fairview's former owners, Mr. Harms, came to visit before he died. He said he had planted the avocado trees in August 1954, the month and year I was born.

Over their 44 years, these great trees have come to be more like a forest than a commercial orchard. During tours of the farm, we always stop here and sit in a circle in the dappled light. I ask my visitors to close their eyes, cup their hands, and, as if receiving communion, accept some of the moist, rich topsoil scooped up from beneath the trees. Some of them look skeptical or squirm when they encounter an earthworm. "This is where our food comes from," I say, asking them to examine the soil closely and smell it deeply. One pinch of living soil contains millions of forms of life, and the vitality of all living things is directly and inextricably tied to the health of the soil.

This lesson is the most important one for the young people who come to visit here. It was the lesson I learned through years of trial and error. At first, every time there was a problem with a crop, I searched for reasons and solutions from the outside, as if the world of plants was full of foreign invaders. Later, when I discovered that everything followed from the condition and fertility of the soil, I understood why some cultures call it the earth's placenta. This simple understanding dictates everything I do on this piece of land.

Sidebar: Fairview Farms: A Cast of Thousands
Sidebar: The Art of Pruning

Michael Ableman is a farmer, executive director of The Center For Urban Agriculture at Fairview Gardens, and the author of From The Good Earth (Abrams 1993). Excerpted with permission from On Good Land: The Autobiography of an Urban Farm (Chronicle Books, 1998).