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Farm Inspired Software Remote Agile Scrum

Lessons for managing teams working at home

A jagged line of hills…

I’m usually an early riser, a habit that started when I was growing up on a farm where the day’s work started when the cows woke up. In early fall, I’m awake when the crests of the foothills begin to show as a faint silhouette on the horizon. One morning this week, looking out on the same jagged line between dark and light in the eastern sky that I have seen thousands of times and hope to see a thousand times more, I realized that habits I learned in the old farmhouse inspired the remote agile scrum I used to manage remote software development teams working from dispersed offices and homes.

Sixty years ago, working from home was common. My uncle Arn and several of the neighbors on Waschke Road worked out, which meant they had jobs off the farm, not that they exercised their muscles regularly. Avoiding exertion was more in vogue then.

Most ran their own farms, more or less independently. Farm cash came mainly from dairying. Milk checks were small in those days, very small if your bacteria counts were high and you were forced to ship milk to the ice cream, cheese, and powdered milk factories instead of the Seattle Grade A fresh milk market. Many of the jobs on the farm, like harvesting hay, thrashing grain, and filling silos were too big for a single family to handle by themselves and there was no money for hiring help. The answer was to work together.

Working together

You don’t see folks working together much now the way the used to. Today, folks who want to accomplish something big and complex hire a contractor. The contractor has an organization and a network of suppliers and subcontractors. Strike an agreement and the contractor gets the work done.

Even when someone acts as their own contractor, the process is based on money moving from person to person. If you don’t have ready money but you want the job done immediately, no problem. There’s an entire financial industry– banks, mortgage companies, credit cards, payday loans, and pawn shops– eager to supply you with whatever money you need. If that fails, there is always GoFundMe. But at the time and in the place where I grew up, those resources were rare and money was hard to come by.

No Gantt charts, critical paths, or milestones

In those days, work was often done without money. Hands showed up on the day they were needed. No Gantt charts, critical path analysis, or milestones, not even a crude schedule on the back of an envelope. Maybe a phone call or two, but mostly the word got around and the hands appeared. The crew knew exactly what to do. No boss ever ordered anyone around. I never saw a To Do List on the farm and yet all the work was finished. Never a word about job descriptions, pay grades, or equal pay for equal work. Then, it seemed effortless. Now, it seems more like magic or a miracle.

When I think back on what working together was like, I realize that it was a subtle and delicate process that took a demanding level of skill to execute. Human nature is, in my observation, constant. Offer too much, and you are taken advantage of, offer not enough and you freeze in isolation. The variables are subtle and elusive. What is egregious flattery today is mild social lubrication tomorrow. My parents knew their work group with greater precision than I knew the software development team I led.

Farm management and visiting

My parents always shipped Grade A milk, but money was still tight. For them, maintaining social ties among their work group was a way of life. Nearly every afternoon and many evenings after milking, a neighbor or relative stopped at our house or mom and dad visited someone at their house.

I used to think sharing a cup of coffee was recreation. My parents enjoyed visiting; sitting down for “coffee-and” was a few minutes of rest in a long and strenuous day that started at sunrise and ended long after sunset, but I realize now that they had no choice: the circuit of visits, cups of coffee, and plates of cookies and sandwiches were the essential cooperative fabric of farm life. Cooperative work was designed and planned in those sessions, sometimes in wordless agreement, only occasionally with explicit dates, times, and assignments.

Mutual obligation

The neighbors worked from home on their own farms, paid their own bills, and nursed their own wounds, but to cut, rake, bale, and load hay into the mows; bind and thrash grain; and fill silos with chopped grass and corn, they had to work together. Without their neighbors, very small farmers and pensioners like John Schaefer, Luther Johnson, Howard Fretz, and Art Coss as allies, my parents could not keep the farm running. My parents helped them and they helped my parents. They formed an alliance, a team, that could be counted on for the big jobs. I saw no accounting of quid pro quo, no balancing of the books, only a simple recognition of mutual obligation.

While managing software development, I used mutual obligation without explicit quid pro quo to keep remote teams working together, although I did not know where I learned the technique, certainly not from the books of self help and management strategies I read. But the remote agile scrum I used to run were based on mutual obligation.

The daily standup

I always insisted on a daily “stand up.” Although I seldom enforced the rule, a daily stand up meeting is a meeting in which no one is allowed to sit down, because when no one gets comfortable, meetings automatically stay short. In the agile programming paradigm, these meetings are intended to answer several specific questions: what is everyone doing today, what is blocking progress, and what help do you need? The questions do not have to be answered in the standup. It’s often more efficient to deal with them in smaller side conversations.

That’s how it works in theory. Practice is somewhat different. Dissembling, I won’t call it lying, is endemic to standups. Everyone says they are bounding forward and wildly successful; no one ever freely admits they are stymied. Management-speak encourages dissembling: the word “problem” must always be replaced with “challenge.” Hah. Progress comes in small steps littered with mistakes that no one wants or needs to hear about.

Mutual obligations on software teams

So why insist on daily standups? Because remote teams have to work together, just like the small farmers when I was a kid, and they can’t work together if they don’t understand each other and their work. Communication and cooperation may look spontaneous, but they seldom occur without cultivation. My parents visited, I ran standup meetings to ensure that every member of the work group understood the role they and their neighbors played in the web of mutual obligation that makes up a team.

Little of that communication occurred in standup meetings themselves; most happened in the side conversations that the daily standup started and continued through the day and night. Since software teams are often globally distributed and the workweek varies from place to place, any hour of my day or night could be in the middle of some member of the team’s workday. Consequently, the work of the team never stopped. Someone was moving the project ahead every hour of every day.

I considered a big part of my job was to make sure the team members kept talking after the daily standup ended. In those days, I had administrative assistants. One of their tasks was to keep a contact sheet up to date and distributed to every member of the extended team. My assistants knew I liked to see new contact sheets distributed within minutes of changes in phone extensions, chat room parameters, anything that was necessary for team members to keep in touch. Those contact sheets were as essential as my parents’ knowledge of who was farming in the sections surrounding the farm.

I kept a mental list of conversations that I would verify were taking place, dropping in on discussions, making phone calls, and trying not to be a pest while urging the team on.

The daily standup was the hub and mutual connections were the rim of the wheel

As I am ending this post, the sun is not yet up. No horizon is showing; soft white fog blankets the farm. The fence our son hired a contractor to put up last month is only fifty yards away and invisible in the mist, yet I am confident that the fields are still there. Some days are like this both on the farm and in software projects. You’re sure everything is okay, but you can’t see what’s ahead. A good day for visiting and reinforcing the ties that make the wheel of progress roll.

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Hog Butchering

Hog scrapers

Last week’s blog featured the old pear tree planted by my great grandfather, Gottlieb. The old tree and some welcome cool rain in Whatcom County reminds me of a several day fall affair that took place each year under the old pear tree— hog butchering. Usually in October or early November rather than September, hog butchering was both a job and a gathering of relatives and friends. The hog scrapers used for butchering were stored by hanging them in crotches in branches of the pear tree. The scrapers eventually were surrounded by the tree and grew into the trunk. They are still there, left from the last hog butchered on the farm in the mid-nineteen fifties.

The pear tree was close to the hog barn where Grandpa raised his pigs. See it in the real estate photo here. It is the building to the left of the barn. You can see the pear tree in the photo. If you look at the picture of the pear tree in last week’s blog, Remembering the Orchard, you can just see the remains of the old scalding trough.

Gathering

Hog butchering was a fall event in many cultures, including the north central Europe from which my great grandparents emigrated. The Waschkes must have carried the tradition of the community event over from Germany.

My grandfather, Gus, was at the center of the event, which occurred after the temperature began dipping into the lower forties overnight, cool enough that meat could be cooled without refrigeration before it began to spoil and early enough that cured bacon, ham, and sausage would be ready for the holidays.

Raising pigs

Pigs were fed on kitchen scraps, cull or spoiled fruit and vegetables, and skim milk, all by-products that Gus could not sell to his customers in Bellingham. Before refrigeration was common, whole milk was an unsaleable because it spoiled quickly. Dairy farmers any distance from markets sold only cream or butter. My grandparents, like most dairy farmers in the area, had a hand-cranked centrifugal cream separator. When electricity arrived, my grandpa attached an electric motor. He filled out the pigs’ diet when necessary with oats, wheat, corn, and barley he grew in the fields, but their critical role was to use the nutrients that could not be sold otherwise.

Hog salmon

My dad, Ted, told me that when he was a kid, Deer Creek used to be choked with spawning salmon in the fall. Grandpa would sometimes take a wheel barrow and pitch fork to the creek and return with a load of salmon to feed to the pigs. The wasting flesh of spawning salmon from the creek was not fit for humans, but the pigs did not mind. Feeding spawning salmon was a bit risky because pigs slaughtered too soon after feeding on salmon tasted fishy. That meant only the earliest runs supplied hog salmon.

Mash

My dad used to say that pigs eat almost anything, but their fussy digestion will slow their growth if their fodder disagrees with them. My grandpa, Gus, cooked the pigs’ rations to improve its digestability. Every few days Grandpa would cook up a batch of mash, a sloppy porridge of whatever was available, heated until the texture began to smooth out and become more digestible. Skim milk was often the liquid, but after refrigeration arrived, water was more common.

Hog mash was usually unappetizing, to say the least, but I remember fishing a cooked potato out of a batch of mash and eating it. The mash was just rough cull potatoes boiled in plain water with lots of dirt mixed in, which made an interesting seasoning. I could not have been more than five years old and I thought the potato was pretty good.

The scalding trough

Grandpa built a heated trough that he used both for cooking mash and scalding for butchering. The trough was about eight feet long and three feet wide. It was made from heavy galvanized sheet metal bent into an elongated U. The ends of the U were thick fine-grained first-growth cedar slabs that looked as if Grandpa had split them out with a froe and shaped them with an axe and draw knife. The sheet metal was nailed to the wooden ends and the joints sealed with tar. The trough sat on top of a concrete firebox with a low brick chimney for a draft at one end and an opening for stoking the fire at the other.

A few years ago, I demolished the old firebox. Dad had already salvaged the sheet metal of the trough to seal off a corner of a calf pen against the winter northeaster. The chimney bricks were held together with lime and sand mortar (no cement) and had fallen in a heap. The firebox itself was in fair shape. When I broke it up with the front loader on the tractor, I discovered that Grandpa had reinforced the fire box with steel water pipe, which held the concrete together in the heat from the fire.

Butchering day

On hog butchering day, Grandpa would fill the trough about half full of water and start a fire under it. Then butchering would begin. Pigs were scalded and scraped immediately after they were killed to remove the stiff and inedible bristles while preserving the skin which gives flavor to bacon and ham and breaks down into collagen that gives the characteristic taste and texture to many pork dishes.

Like most kids, I was a blood-thirsty little guy and I took in the butchering process with relish, but I won’t go into it here. My grandpa could kill and butcher a hog without flinching, but I saw him treat those same hogs with tenderness as he took care of them. He would suffer himself before he would allow the animals in his care to be hurt. Slaughtering was a fact for homesteaders and kindness and compassion in the face of gory necessity is both contradictory and endearing.

The organ meats and innards were divided up among the neighbors who helped with the slaughter. All together, there were often more than a dozen relatives and neighbors helping with butchering and sharing in the bounty.

The first day of hog butchering ended with the hog carcasses suspended head down from branches of the old pear tree. They hung on gambrels, wooden crosspieces with sharp iron hooks that secured the animal’s rear ankles,  They were left hanging over night to cool before the next step. I’ll write about that some other time.

 

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Leaving the Homestead

You may know that I live on a road named for my family and in a house that was built by my grandfather and that both I and my father grew up in. Every so often, I meet someone who is like me: stubborn, lacking in creativity, or otherwise inclined to remain sessile in a country where no one lives in the same place for long. All has changed. This spring, I left that motley clutch.

My wife Rebecca and I decided early this year that it was time for us to leave the Waschke homestead. The property has been in my family for well over a century, passed on from my grandfather, to my father, and finally to me. We have a deed tucked in a safe that has Ulysses S. Grant’s signature at the bottom, although I understand those deed signatures were all copies.

The decision was difficult and part of me still disagrees vehemently. Sadly, I am no farmer. I was raised on the farm, but my interests have ranged from mathematics, to classical Chinese history, developing and writing about computer systems, libraries, and writing mystery novels. Although I stayed on Waschke Road and the homestead my entire life, I never wanted to farm. Too much experience has dulled my appreciation for the work on the farm that many find renewing and fulfilling. In recent years, a congenital heart condition and diabetes have made maintaining the farm more difficult and my wife Rebecca had her third back surgery last summer. My city wife is the gardener on our team, but what she enjoyed and I dreaded as stoop labor, is now impossible for her. Our children are not interested in the farm. The inescapable conclusion was that we would live longer and happier if we relinquished the homestead.

We decided to sell the old place. Our first step was to buy a house in town, Ferndale where I went to high school. I move, but not far. Although we remodeled the old farmhouse ten years ago, we both much prefer this smaller and more easily maintained new house. I am happy to spend my days researching and writing instead of fretting over the aches and fatigue that almost put me to bed after a few hours on the tractor or maintaining the farm. We still live from packing boxes—the effort of moving from a house and grounds in which three generations lived without ever moving out was tremendous. We are sorting three generations of accumulation. We found a pair of trunks, which we think traveled to America from Germany when my great grandparents emigrated. One of the trunks contained the chrome plated name plaques from the coffins of my two aunts who died shortly after birth on the homestead before my father was born. The trunks now sit in our new foyer. We’ve cleaned them up and are thinking about whether to let the years show or to restore them.

The homestead is now on the market, waiting for the right buyer. I don’t expect the place to sell quickly. It is not for everyone. Only a certain person in the right circumstances will appreciate it. You can see pictures here.

From Prussia to Minnesota

My great grandfather, Gottlieb Waschke, was an orphan. His parents died when he was twelve, leaving him and his younger brother to fend for themselves. As orphans, Gottlieb and his brother John trained as a builders and craftsmen in the public vocational school system established by Otto Von Bismarck in 19th century in Prussia. He built sugar mills, which boomed in northern Europe after the American civil war interrupted the supply of sugar from the Gulf of Mexico. My great grandfather emigrated from Germany, I believe entering the U.S. through New Orleans. He went up the Mississippi and used his training and experience to become a railroad car builder in Detroit and later Stevens Point, Wisconsin, near Green Bay. Later, he brought his younger brother from Germany, who was also a craftsman. The younger brother was soon recruited to Whatcom County to help with the late 19th century Bellingham Bay real estate boom.

Arrival in Whatcom County

My great grandfather Gottlieb saved enough in the car yards to buy farm land near Wells, Minnesota. He apparently did well, but the frigid winters and broiling summers of the upper Midwest were not to his taste. His brother wrote about the mild climate and opportunities in Whatcom County. My great grandfather decided Washington would be a more hospitable to a family farming operation and made the move to Washington state.

Gottlieb leased a railroad stock car, loaded it with machinery and livestock and sent it to Bellingham with his two oldest sons riding along, tending the cattle, horses, and a few chickens. The railroad allowed only one rider to tend the livestock. My grandfather, only thirteen or fourteen, hid in the cattle bedding when the railroad officials came around. Gottlieb, his wife, daughters, and younger sons rode on a passenger train. On arrival, my great-grandfather bought a quarter section of land on the northeast corner of Aldrich and Smith roads in south east corner of Ferndale township.

The Matzkes, my grandmother’s family, were from Pomerania, near Prussia. They were also mill builders and had ties to my great-grandfather’s family. They also emigrated from Germany to Whatcom County, arriving a few years after my great-grandfather and settled on the west side of Aldrich Road close to my great-grandfather. Romance soon blossomed between my grandfather and grandmother. They married and planned to start their own family.

Buying the homestead

With the help of their parents, my grandparents, Gustave and Agnes Waschke, purchased forty logged acres in 1906. This plot became the Waschke homestead. Gus was born in Minnesota, but working on his father’s farm, he soon learned enough about Whatcom county to decide exactly the kind of land he wanted. The loggers who harvested the Nooksack plains in the late 19th and early 20th centuries took only prime timber— mostly Douglas Fir and Red Cedar—leaving behind brush and trees they considered trash like Big Leaf Maple, Alder, and Birch, and, perhaps surprisingly, a few firs and cedars too big to cut by hand. Gus’s father’s farm was part peat bog, plagued with bog iron, and uneven, which made cultivation difficult.

Gus looked for a parcel that was flat with rich, neither waterlogged nor, dry soil. Not too many cedars—that signaled wet ground that could not be planted until late in a wet year like his father’s bog ground. And not too few cedars either—that meant dry ground that would not yield a good crop in a dry year. He also looked for big fir stumps, tough to clear with a team of horses, but a sign of fertility that would yield abundant crops. He found the mellow loam he wanted on the high ground on the verge Silver and Deer Creek watersheds and north of the skid road that paralleled the Smith Road. In those days, oxen still trudged the skid road pulling strings of logs cut on the Deer and Silver Creeks to the Nooksack river at Ferndale.

Gus and Agnes built a one room cedar shack in the northeast corner of the property, close to Agnes’ parents’ house on the Aldrich Road, where they lived for their first ten years together. Early in their marriage, a dry August northeast wind blew a brush and forest fire through the area. Gus and Agnes defended their home, beating out the flames with wet burlap sacks and shovels. Agnes recalled that they fought the flames until dark. Then they went to bed. She shook her head when she told this story, wondering that they survived, but they were young and life was an adventure.

I plan to write more about the homestead and its history in later blogs.