An Amish farmer's struggle with drought

“We need the rain."

I’m talking with Eli, the Amish owner of a farm in northern New York, not far from where my grandfather was born. At 11 am, it’s already 88 degrees, with not a cloud in the sky. It’s been so dry this month that the entire county is under a no-burn order. The fields of corn look parched.

 Eli is in his late 30s. He looks like actor Jesse Plemons, except he’s wearing a blue work shirt and trousers and no shoes. Eli’s straw hat has seen a lot of use, and at one point was repaired with a squiggle of pink yarn.

The fruits and vegetables in his family’s roadside stand look fresh. A box of green beans and a cantaloupe cost $1 apiece. A pint container of pickling cucumbers is $2. I offer $3 for a dozen enormous eggs, but he’ll only take $2.50. He says if the melon isn’t good, to bring it back and he’ll give me another one.

I point at the other melons on the shelf. “Don’t those need a lot of water?” I ask.

“We fill up a tank from the well every day, so the water is warm,” Eli explains. “Then we water the front garden after dinner.”

Nearby, a ewe and her lambs urgently bleat from their small piece of shade, an open-sided loafing shed constructed of sheet metal. Beyond lies an old wooden barn. Ancient farm equipment is arrayed outside: a manure spreader, a stalk chopper, and wagons that might have been featured in the 1908 Sears catalogue. I spot two of Eli’s barefoot sons wrestling a giant bale off of a hay wain.

Eli and his family are living a life not much changed from the 1800s. Everyone reading this has parents or grandparents or ancestors further back in time who tilled the land. They would surely recognize the scene: a sprawling rural property with a farmhouse, barn, and a dozen outbuildings. Farm animals. Sturdy work clothes and dresses hanging from a clothesline off the porch. Horse-drawn farm equipment. A workshop to repair furniture and tools, and make things that can be resold.

Our ancestors paid close attention to the weather, and feared extended periods of dry weather. A lack of water could ruin a harvest, or even cause a farm to go bust. In the 1930s, the Dust Bowl led to millions of people migrating out of the Great Plains, mostly to California and other West Coast states. 

Eli is likes to chat, but there is concern in his voice. He and his wife have 7 mouths to feed. If the weather doesn’t cooperate, they will harvest less corn and hay. In recent years, there have been more hot days and long stretches without rain. Winters have been milder. 

Around Eli’s farm are yellowing fields. Selling produce and repairing furniture brings in a little cash, but it’s the crops and pastureland that are the foundation of the family’s income. Hay has been harvested early from one field. The stacks look shorter than usual. 

And then there is the land itself. “The soil is not deep here,” Eli complains. “My plow often hits rock.”

But it was cheap. Around here, farmland costs just $1,000 to $3,000 per acre. It’s not just because the soil sits on a shelf of rock 18 inches down. The population of northern New York has been in decline for decades, and few English families stick with farming.

Eli and many other local Amish were originally from Ohio. “There was no more land there,” Eli explains. “You needed millions of dollars to buy a farm.” Even if it were a sale within his Amish community in Ohio, the minimum price would be $6,000 per acre, he says.

I glance at my phone. “Forecast says a 65% chance of rain tomorrow,” I tell him.

“Really?”

“Yes, around midday,” 

“Let’s hope,” he says.