Saoirse sits at the table and watches me review the figures that Larry has presented for the final stages of the cafe.  We are adding up each bit of work carefully, trying to figure out what parts of the project can go on hold until we see more cash flow, what parts are absolutely essential in order to get our doors open, what parts Bob, the kids, some friends and I can do ourselves.  She watches as I suck in my breath.  We’re still short $15,000.

It doesn’t occur to me to hide this shortfall from my kid.  She was dreaming of opening a cafe long before Bob and I ever came up with the idea.  I want her to understand all the inner workings of what it takes to launch a new business venture. She has risen to the challenge and  spent hours in the kitchen working on recipes; her slim twelve-year-old fingers have pulled countless shots from an espresso machine as part of her self-training; and she has begged and pleaded to  accompany me to every possible meeting where we’ve discussed layout, design and budget.

“We’re so close,” I assure her as her eyes grow wide with worry.  “We’ll find a way.”

I don’t tell her about the raw state of my nerves, about my fears of draining the last of our cushion.  I only tap my pencil and press buttons on my calculator, adding and re-adding, then doing the painful subtraction.  But Saoirse watches.  She sees everything.  Finally, I look up at her and smile.  “This is all part of the game you know.  We’ll just have to start looking under rocks.”

I don’t consider what I’ll do if I find nothing under any of the rocks.

She’s with me in the car the morning I drive to our bank, looking under one of those possible rocks.  She’s with me at the loan officer’s desk as I ask questions about personal and home equity loans.  She holds my hand when I choose not to sign any papers, unable to accept debt as a solution at this point.  I don’t tell her my doubts that our income isn’t even high enough to get approval.

I’m walking slowly, my head in the financial clouds when she starts pulling on my sleeve.  “Mom!  Eric and his kids are out in the parking lot!  Let’s go see them”

Eric is one of my surrogate brothers, a talented butcher our family adopted long ago.  We’ve passed countless hours in the cutting room together, sharing ideas, telling stories, swapping meat recipes.  He’s driving a beat-up car that I suspect he keeps on the road with chewing gum and duct tape.  I’m not sure he could afford much else right now.  He smiles broadly.  “Just who I wanted to see!”

Eric has a project.  He wants to teach a class for farmers on butchering.  He asks if I would help him out in the cutting room, if he can use Sap Bush Hollow as the site for the program.   He’s a talented instructor.  I know a lot of farmers who could benefit from the class.  I’m thrilled to agree.

When I get home, I am walking past the computer when an email blips in.  One of our customers is writing a grant to help the historical society in the next town over work on their agricultural archives.  Could I offer a letter of support?  I’m so thrilled to know she’s tackling the project.  I agree.

A second email comes in, this one from a new author who is writing a book about maternal feminism and socially responsible politics.  Would I be willing to write a review for her?  I’m thrilled someone is giving more thought to those subjects.  I agree.

Later that night, as I’m getting supper ready, I receive another message.  My friend Rachel Gilker, one of the co-creators of On Pasture, a website that offers resources and articles for other pasture farmers, asks me to call.  I pick up the phone and dial.  “I need your help,” she says when she answers.  She and her business partner need to raise funds.  On Pasture is Dad’s and Kate’s go-to resource for new ideas about working with the herd, about managing the fields.  I hold my breath.  She needs funds.  I don’t have funds.  “Will you donate books for our readers who give to the site?  And some articles?”  And I realize, I have that.  We agree to a certain number of books, to a certain number of articles.  But Rachel doesn’t leave it there.  “Do you know the dollar value of how much you’re giving?” she asks.  She pushes me to add it up.  I’ve made a three year commitment.  And over that time, we calculate the value of the pledge at over $30,000.

I hang up.  Rather than feeling despair at my own lack of funds, I feel elated at what I am able to still give.  Saoirse is with me for that, too.  I take her hand.  “You know, every time I’ve thought of myself as poor, someone steps forward to let me know how much more I have to give.”  She squeezes it back.  I think about the rocks I’ve told her that I’ll turn over.  And I see that looking under them isn’t where the answer lies.  I should be looking at them, because the answer lies in the rocks themselves.  It’s time to make stone soup.

I need cash.  But I’m not poor.   I can still give my words.  And with those words, I can help teach farmers new skills, I can help communities tell the story of farming, I can help mothers think more clearly about their role in our culture, I can help families consider what it means to commit to one place, to center their lives around community and each other.

As many of you know, other than the sale of my books and occasional speaking engagements, I rarely charge for my words.  I decided long ago to make them freely available through this website.  But last year, I began asking for readers’ financial support.  I don’t need to collect money from every reader.  I know there are many of you, like me, who are rich in other ways.  If I can have your good wishes, your cheers of support, I am thankful.   If you can make it out to the cafe in the coming week and help us paint walls, that’s great, too  (just write and let me know and I’ll send you the schedule)…. And some of you do have a few extra dollars.  It thrills me to no end that you stop in each week, read the stories, share them, think about them.  If you feel you can send me a donation as a thank you for the words, I can put those dollars into the cafe.  And when the cafe is finished, I can put a pot on the stove, and know that it wasn’t debt, but my words  that went into the first bowl of soup I served.  Your contribution gives me the joy of knowing that the time I put into this site has value for you, and Saoirse can learn the most important rule of conducting family business within a community:  Everyone has something of value to offer.

Thank you so much for the weekly gift of your readership.  If you are able to offer some cash to help us finish out this project, you can do it here:

If you’d like to learn more about how donating on this website works, as well as some of the thank-you gifts I’m offering, you can do that here: