The ANTecdote
Harvest
These past few weeks I have been thinking about the harvest, turning to our gardens, farms, and fields for some grounding. On recent visits with friends I have been sent away with ripened tomatoes, onions and potatoes just pulled from the ground, pumpkins still on the vine. I have been able to spread my modest bounty of plump plums and crisp pears from my backyard orchard (…and yes, I use that word ‘orchard’ very generously). And driving across our rural spaces it is always something to behold, the great swaths of wheat, lentils, alfalfa. Corn and soybeans stretch as far as I can see while I’m bucking the sun heading East. Hoop houses, grain trucks, and combines with headers wider than my house. The amber waves of grain. Truly, a beautiful thing. In downtown White Sulphur you can hear the cows bawling in the stockyards as their calves have been recently weaned off for shipping. 4-H steers, hogs, and meat birds have been well raised, sold to the highest bidder at the local fair, and sent off for processing. Bow hunters have enjoyed a good harvest, and upland bird hunters have been sending their dogs across coulees to flush the pheasants and grouse. It’s a good season all around. How lucky we are to live in places where we can access this bounty. Where we have public land, water, and resources to be self reliant in our food systems. A huge thank you to all the farmers, ranchers, and gardeners out there keeping us well nourished. In the week since I first drafted this, a foot and a half of snow and -10˚ below temps haven’t crept in but blasted forth. Reminding us that we are still in Montana. And we still can’t control the weather. And that is a good thing. Rifle opener for deer and elk was on Saturday and the tracks are fresh. We hope your firewood stacks are deep, your hunting rifles are sighted in, and your harvest has been rich.
Learn moreA Letter To Our Community
A Letter To Our Community Dear Red Ants Pants Community, Years ago when I was an Outward Bound instructor I led several courses where I was the only white person, and the only female. On one particular course with a group of Black students from Philadelphia, we had a storm in the middle of the night. Once the lightning ceased, I went out to make the rounds. Not used to seeing me in form fitting long johns, one of the 12-year-old boys goes, “Ms. Sarah! You got a Black girl’s booty!” Fast forward to a Tour de Pants stop in downtown LA for a Women in the Trades show in 2009. A lovely curvaceous Black woman tried on Red Ants Pants for the first time. She exclaimed, “Damn! They even fit my booty!” Red Ants Pants fit Black women. They fit white women. They fit gay women. They fit straight women. They fit Asian, Hispanic, and Native American women. They fit farmers and ranchers. They fit gardeners and carpenters. They fit union pipe fitters and welders. They fit mothers, daughters, and grandmothers. They even fit men. Here at Red Ants Pants, integrity and courage are core values in our mission. The time has come to lean even further into these values. We stand in solidarity with Black and Indigenous people, and with all communities of color. It is time to work harder, for we have much learning to do.We commit to doing the work, doing the listening, doing the learning. We commit to partnering, supporting, and amplifying voices of color. We encourage our Red Ants Pants community to join us. In love and gratitude always, Sarah
Learn moreSkids
Skids This week I learned the difference between a pallet and a skid. A pallet can be moved with a fork lift from all four sides, a skid just from two sides. A skid is a simpler design, although not quite as strong. The skid is the original version of a pallet. Yes, I had to look it up. Yesterday I reached out to several freight companies to get 2,800 yards of ripstop nylon trucked from California to our partner’s cut and sew facility in Billings. This shipment consists of 22 rolls of fabric approved for Level 1 and 2 hospital gowns. One full skid. To be clear, not all freight companies deliver to Montana. And not all freight companies are created equal. So, after reaching out to a few of them without luck, the shop phone rang. Daniela is on the other end, from Chicago. I let her know I needed to set up a new account to get some freight moving for PPE. She immediately launched into a string of gratitudes for companies like us who are pausing our usual production and pitching in to manufacture PPE for our front line workers. I was taken aback from this rush of talking, then the line went quiet. And then I realize that she is crying. Daniela then tells me she lost her sister to COVID-19 last week. Choked up, we connected about the emotional and very real challenge of all this. We then collected ourselves, got the account set up, and got the freight moving. And that seems to be the thing that helps…keep the freight moving. Each day, each hour even, seems to have such variable emotional, mental, and physical challenges. I am fortunate to have a distraction to keep my mind busy. But it is not easy. Sleep evades me. Concern for delivery timelines, wash tests, price points, wanting to please everyone while trying not to over promise and under deliver. These concerns keep me wide awake at the darkest hours before dawn. This is the new reality. It is not a sustainable one, for any of us. But we must keep moving forward. We must keep the freight moving. Onward. xoxo, Sarah
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A Crowded Table
A Crowded Table Carpentry 101 instructors Heidi Rogers and Anna Baker This past weekend, we held another Carpentry Course, one of our programs of the Red Ants Pants Foundation. Taught by women, for women. Beginning carpentry was the focus, learning everything from pounding nails to running table saws. It’s a grand time filled with really strong women, expanding comfort zones, sawdust, empowering moments, and perhaps most importantly, really, really good food. Our dear friend Claudia is the chef and she’ll be the first to tell you in her sing-song Colombian accent “Ladies, the most important ingredient in all my cooking is love!” And she is never wrong. We hold this course 20 miles west of White Sulphur on the Camas Creek Cattle and Sheep Co., better known as the Doggett Ranch. Jamie and Jock Doggett, longtime friends and community pillars, host us at their place, camping in the pasture and teaching in the barn. Typically, we have our chainsaw course taking place concurrently, but this year we had a smaller group. So, Jamie insisted on inviting us to eat inside their home rather than on our dusty picnic tables. Our Crowded Table It is worth mentioning that Jamie stops short at nothing shy of 100%. There were new tablecloths and themes for each meal. Wine glasses and individual salt and pepper shakers graced each place. Saturday night she insisted on bringing out her Grandmother’s china, as well as her high heels (which lasted roughly seven minutes on her feet). Jock in his humble, quiet way, after donning a fresh pair of suspenders, poured wine for the ladies. Toasts were made. Bellies and hearts were full. They in fact, still are. Reflecting around the bonfire we were all so touched by the generosity, the humor, the intimate transition of strangers quickly turning into family. “If it’s love that we give, it’s love that we reap.” – The Highwomen If you have not heard this song yet, please take a listen. It hits home in all the right places. “I want a house with a crowded table. And a place by the fire for everyone. Let us take on the world while we’re young and able. And bring us back together when the day is done.” – The Highwomen Thank you, Jamie and Jock for the home. Thank you, Claudia for the meals. Thank you, instructors for the teaching. Thank you, ladies for building the chairs. And to all of us for making it a crowded table. 2019 Timberskills Carpentry 101 participants
Learn moreOn Song Writing
On Song Writing Earlier this winter, I had an interesting experience at a songwriters festival down South. We were at a brunch venue on the Gulf Coast. It was a packed house, yet still intimate enough to view the performer from the bar, where we had managed to snag grapefruit mimosas and just enough standing room. The songwriter was Stephen Kellogg, a heartfelt musician from New England who I very randomly remembered seeing some twenty years ago back at my college coffee house. It was one of those chapters in life where I was going through some challenging personal stuff, and was fully thrilled to be day drinking with good girl friends, taking in a show. Then Stephen had to sing some song about objects in the mirror, reflecting on losing parents, celebrating family and big life moments…you know where this is going. Suddenly and unexpectedly I found myself fighting back tears with every ounce of strength I could scrape together. And it was not enough. The song ended. Then dear Stephen Kellogg, who was watching my emotional response to his song says to the entire crowd, “You! You there, in the brown. Yes, you. You are the reason I was put on this earth to play music.” My friends turned to me, wide eyed, followed by the entire crowd. I turned and looked behind me, hoping…nope, he was indeed talking to me. Songwriters are the story-tellers of our generation. They have the power. The power to draw the tears out, even if we aren’t ready for them. The power to remind us of some truths. To make us feel all the feels. They can move us in ways we don’t know we need to be moved. So this is my plea. Buy the record. Go to the live show. Host a house concert. Get these songwriters into your lives, your ears, and your hearts. I first dabbled into the music world by simply hosting traveling bands in my little pants shop. It takes no money to bring music alive in a town. It literally requires a few calls, a potluck supper, and a hat passed around so the band can make it to the next gig. There are stories being told, let’s give them a listen. And I should add that both my parents are in good health! Stephen Kellogg, Objects in the Mirror:
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On Letter Writing
On Letter Writing A friend recently wrote me a letter, typed on an actual typewriter. These days when we text way more often than write, this felt like a treasure. He mentioned that he gave his 9-year-old daughter a typewriter of her own for Christmas. He told her, “There, now you can text all you want.” Best parenting ever. Thanks JF. I used to write letters all the time. They are such a joy to write, to receive and to keep as a record of our lives. I would write from my tent on trail crews, from farms in Belize, from aspen stands in the Rockies. I wrote to old college buddies, Outward Bound instructors, and occasional fellas on whom I had crushes. More recently, my letters are from mentors, festival fans, and even the late and great Ivan Doig. Talk about a keepsake. And yes, I framed that one. It certainly takes time and a shift of priorities to sit down and write a letter. Something about knowing that the writer touched the paper with ink and penmanship brings a connectedness that is unsurpassed by most means of communication. For me, putting pen to paper unlocks a part of myself that allows me to process, reflect, and record. It is an attempt to understand where I am in my own life. Although, I’ll admit I do often write through a rose-colored lens. It was Hemingway who said, “I was trying to write then (speaking of his apprenticeship) and I found the greatest difficulty, aside from knowing truly what you really felt, rather than what you were supposed to feel, and had been taught to feel, was to put down what really happened.” In the late 1990’s, my father was going through his parents’ attic cleaning out the farm house. He came upon a trunk that contained piles and piles of letters written between my great, great, great, great grandparents, their children, and extended family. All 831 letters were bundled by ribbon and bits of string, organized chronologically. It was an incredible primary documentation of life in New England between 1820-1879. Dad spent over 13 years reading, interpreting, and transcribing these letters. To be fair, his typing skills involve a lot of ‘hunt and peck,’ but he succeeded and even had it bound into a book. What a gift. So, here’s to more letter writing, more letter receiving, and more life recording. More honesty about what we actually feel, not what we are supposed to feel. More catching up with friends and family, old and new. More penmanship, and even more typewriters.
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On Ancestors and the Future
On Ancestors and the Future It is the Monday eve of Thanksgiving. I am digging through a recipe box searching for my Mom’s pecan pie recipe. It calls for both bourbon and maple syrup, so you can see why it’s a good one. I sat down to write a piece about shopping local and using our powerful dollars wisely this holiday season, for they truly do count. And as much as I believe in supporting our small businesses, the thing that brings me to tears is this recipe box. It used to be my grandfather’s Guernsey cow record box, back on the dairy farm in Connecticut. I found an old recipe clipped from our hometown newspaper, faded to yellow. It was for my grandmother’s holiday sweet rolls, which had been so popular that it made it into the paper. Frank Calhoun was a Republican, and a state legislator. Polly was a staunch Democrat. They were both pillars in the church and the community. Thanksgiving was a huge event with a minimum of 65 guests at the table. Everyone who needed a place to go came to the Calhouns’. It was a lovely and important tradition, one which I sorely miss. I have been thinking a lot about whose shoulders we have stood upon to get where we are today. I so wish I could sit down at their old farm table by the wood stove and get some advice and perspective about how we move forward in this world. I imagine Polly and Frank would say keep working hard. Keep taking care of the land. Keep an open place at the table for anyone who needs it. Keep loving a Republican. Keep loving a Democrat. Keep baking sweet rolls and share them with everyone you know. Oh, and spend your hard-earned dollars wisely. Happy Thanksgiving to all.
Learn moreOn Neighboring
On Neighboring When I was ten years old, a tornado came through and wrecked our farm. The three-hundred-year-old Cathedral Pines crashed down all around us, ruining fence lines and clipping the barn. I remember seeing the apple trees my great grandfather planted get uprooted and fly horizontally through the air. No lives were lost, human or livestock, but it took months and months to get back on our feet. Friends and neighbors pitched in all summer long helping with cleanup. That tornado taught me some valuable things about rural, small town living. When you need help, your neighbors pitch in. When your neighbors need help, you pitch in. Last week I had the honor of meeting a pretty phenomenal group of women in Jordan, Montana. Last year, Northeastern Montana got hit with one of the worst and largest wildfires this state has ever seen. Farms and ranches, homes and communities were devastated. The entire county has a population of around 1,200. All hands were on deck in attempts to save what they could. Every able-bodied human was working the fire line, fueling trucks, fixing meals, looking after the neighbor’s kids…ten-year-old children were literally driving trucks to help out. Farmers and ranchers from all across the state and even as far away as Oklahoma organized convoys of semis loaded with hay and fencing supplies, feed and fuel, donating necessities to the fire victims. I was in Jordan to award these ladies a $5,000 grant from the Red Ants Pants Foundation to the Garfield County Fire Foundation. There was one line in their grant application that struck me so hard and true that I still cannot speak it out loud without getting choked up. “Jordan, where ‘neighbor’ is a verb.” This describes the heart of rural living pretty darn well. It resonates with my experience growing up, as well as my thirteen years spent in White Sulphur Springs. Whether it is the rancher who organizes a team roping to raise money for his neighbor who has cancer, or the bake sale that raises enough money for the widow who needs help with funeral expenses. We as neighbors help each other out. We need each other. And it makes us a lot stronger together. So, a big thank you to the community of Jordan for redefining ‘neighbor’ for us. And may we continue ‘neighboring’ in all of our communities, large or small.
Learn moreOn Learning
On Learning My goal before this snowy, icy, windy, miserable winter was over was to learn how to do a donut. A real one like the high school kids do, with a rear wheel drive car. Not sure how I managed to get through my teens without learning this right of passage. But it was time. Last week, in the dark of the night at my friend’s ranch, we went out and did donuts in his side by side. A little tippier than a car, but man, were they fun! Yes, even this tiny ounce of letting go of control was a rarity and a damn fine experience that I recommend for everyone. Here’s to learning, regularly.
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