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Sebastopol Geese
I want these geese!!!
Sebastopol Geese – the geese that wear a wedding dress.
I saw them at the state fair last week and immediately feel in love.
They are medium sized white geese that are known for their long curling feathers. Even the feathers on their neck have a slight curve to them. They originated in Europe along the Danube River and around the Black Sea.
They are beautiful. And, after a conversation this afternoon, with a breeder up north they will be a new addition to our homestead come spring.
We are excited!!
State Fair and Searing Heat
We’ve finally returned home from our hectic week at the state fair, so I thought I’d bring you all up to date on what’s been going on.
We arrived at the state fairgrounds about 7:30 last Tuesday morning, having left home at midnight. The drive up the I-5, through the center of California’s agricultural region, was easy and uneventful. It was oddly serene and calming being on the road in the middle of the night, just our truck and little trailer full of lambs sharing the open road with hundreds of semi trucks on their way to somewhere.
We hit Sacramento and its tangle of freeways. This country girl hates big cities and big city traffic even more! The spider web of interchanges coupled with rush hour traffic resulted in a few missed exits. But, after a short tour of town we finally made our way to the back of the fairgrounds where the livestock entrance is located.
Trailers had been arriving since daybreak, lining the small dirt road leading to the livestock barns. Areas were set up for each species so animals could be vet checked before entering the barn. It only took a few minutes before a group of vet students from a local university came to our trailer.
One…Two…Three…Four…Five, one at a time we unloaded lambs so the students could check them over for contagious livestock diseases or conditions. The final word – PASS – on all five. Brianne and I let out a huge sigh of relief. I think this is the most stressful part of the whole affair. Read the rest of the story »
State Fair
We spent our weekend under slightly stormy skies, unusual in Southern California this time of year, getting Brianne’s five show lambs ready for the State Fair. It always amazes me that after all these years and all the shows we’ve been to I can still spiral out of control with nerves and anxiety. The hardest part of the whole affair is just getting out the door so we can make the 9 hour drive with enough time to leisurely unload and set up. Once on the fairgrounds though all the tension seems to slip away and we fall into familiar routines. We all have our jobs and everyone gets to it with little or no nudging.
We have to be on the fairgrounds by 6PM Tuesday, but because the central valley of California can be so bloody hot (today’s temps hovered around 105) we leave Monday late night and drive straight through, hopefully arriving around 7 or 8AM, before the temperatures shoot back up to triple digits. Once we locate our pens on the barn chart we unload tack and feed and animals, arrange our grooming area and feed and water our road weary lambs. By mid-afternoon the barn will be abuzz with trucks and trailers of all shapes and sizes rolling in and off-loading tack and animals. It finally quiets down in the early evening as the arrival deadline nears.
Wednesday morning we’ll weigh-in and all the animals will be broken up into classes by their weight. It’s always fun to stand in line chatting and catching up with people we haven’t seen since our last weekend show in late April. Because the weather is so hot many of the shows take place in the late afternoon and evening when breezes coming off the Delta cool the barn to a respectable temperature.
By Thursday though it’s no holds bar, a rush of washing and shearing, fine-tuning each animal so they look their best for the judge. Thursday is Market Judging – the day when months of hard work and attention to detail; of early mornings and late evenings; of missed outings with friends all come together. This is the day the Champions are selected! Read the rest of the story »
Not Burning Daylight
There is a cool late afternoon breeze outside our little farmhouse as I type. It’s a welcome change compared to just a few short days ago, when the days were warm and summer seemed to break out into its normal weather patterns. Days are longer too. It’s light enough to work until almost 8:30PM.
After work I took time out to play with the dogs, water the garden, let the chickens out to run around and check the progress of Brianne’s market lambs. This has been an ambitious year for our little homestead. Between the garden, the animals, the shows, job, school…all of it feeling more intense than years past, more intense than I ever imagined when I first started this blog.
I had no idea my life would lead me to a homestead in suburbia, to raising sheep, rabbits, and chickens… Yet here I am, writing you fresh from a short nap on my back lawn. I fell asleep because I stopped moving. I have found this to be a common side effect of what are suppose to be the lazy days of summer.
I love our little farm, but this month has taught me a new kind of tired. I have never been this consistently sore and exhausted in my life. It’s the kind of work that leaves you aching, reeling, and hopeful at the end of every day. It is a lucky place to find yourself. To know you’re alive and healthy enough to take care of others, and make dinner rise out of the ground like Lazarus himself.
We use up every minute of daylight at the end of the day. There is so much to be done – plant, feed, water, tend. We’ve been doing battle with ground squirrels, rabbits and gophers that have wrecked havoc on our garden. Sometimes I feel that with the fairs coming up quickly it may be fruitless to replant. Literally. Fortunately we have a long growing season so there is still time to plant beds of root crops for winter canning. Over a long weekend I can replant squash and beans and maybe even a short harvest pumpkin patch. I do this all for the October that I love dearly.
Brianne’s show sheep are doing well and in just a few short weeks we’ll be off to the state fair. The chicks we hatched in March are getting bigger by the day and we finally identified the young roosters. Their adolescent crowing is a dead give away, a contorted combination of crooning and gagging. They’ll be taken to the feed store and given away. We’ve already made a winter’s batch of blueberry jam and we have a date with friends to make salsa and pickles next week. All is well here on our little homestead, and I know in my heart that all this work is not wasted. You pay it forward in this world, and I’m happy to shell out. Come fall we’ll be eaten like kings in spite of the four-legged varmints that mock our efforts.
Music seeps through the open windows, the dogs roll in the cool grass, there’s still a glint of daylight as I finally put dinner on the table. Fall is not far off, folks. Not far off at all.
Stealing the Day
I feel like I have stolen this day. I took off from work, so instead of the usual morning routine I really took my time with farm chores this morning. Nothing grand, just a few extra moments to check over the animals, water the plants on the porch and brew a pot of fresh tea, which I just pulled off the stove burbling and gerking as I pour it into the teapot. Oh, it’s shear decadence for an office farmer to have a day off work.
Moments ago, when I walked outside, the grass was damp from the early morning fog. In spite of its sogginess, the sun was out; the sky was a clear blue and bounced off every tiny droplet. I breathed deep, taking it all in, savoring the taste. It’s hard to feel Zen though when sheep are baaing, hens are cackling, dogs are barking and a lone rabbit is racing around in his hutch. They all want breakfast and they all want it now. You can see how that moment wasn’t quite serene. But, it was to me.
Brianne and I started our morning chores like we always do, in the sheep pen. They are the most eager and can cause the most trouble if not fed promptly, so off she went to fill grain buckets, top off the water trough and throw a few handfuls of hay. I fed and checked on the dogs then moved towards the chicken coop to make sure we hadn’t lost anyone in the night. With the headcount complete I lifted the latch on the gate and let the hens out into the barn. From there they can make their way into the garden and around the yard.
Every day we let the hens out of their coop, and give them a chance to feel the warm sun, scratch in the dirt looking for bugs and peck at the green grass. They’re sneaky beasts though. Clever enough to fly over fences and too curious to stay out of the garden, so I keep them away from the lettuce just to give myself peace of mind.
A load of laundry I washed last night is ready to hang on the line. The sun was barely over the tree tops as I clipped each piece of clothing to the line. Laundry is an oddly calming job, almost therapeutic.
By the time we came inside I felt oddly refreshed from our slow morning of chores.
Our weekend mostly involved transporting sheep (Brianne was involved with a showmanship workshop) and June gardening.
I’ve come to the conclusion that “June gardening” is just a romantic way of saying weeding. I spent hours down on my hands and knees pulling intruders from between the rows. This year’s garden started out to be the most diverse we’ve ever attempted, and we have the weeds to show for it, but we haven’t been without our troubles. And, the only things that seem to be thriving in the garden are the rabbits and squirrels. Our verdant young peach tree that was loaded has now been stripped bare. Not one peach is left. Oh, a few pits clung to the branches, but nothing that’s edible for us. I don’t mind part of my crops going to the wildlife, but when they get greedy that’s another matter entirely.
This is a strange place to be a homesteader. I have never lived or worked with so many people that stand on both sides of the farming fence. Nearly half my neighbors grow their own, while the other half has no use for gardening at all. I’m sometimes a telephone farmer as well. Just yesterday, my neighbor Fran called to talk about the new chicks we had given her and how they were too timid to go inside the coop, so spent the night under the ramp that leads to the coop. Seems like everyone’s working for their supper these days.
As I type things are pretty quiet outside, which is a rare occurrence. Their mouths must be full. From the kitchen door I can see the roosters strut around the yard guarding his girls. I see the sheep frolicking and chasing each other in their fenced yard. I know the rabbit is content and the dogs are napping after their morning meal. And me—the Queen of all this majesty¬—am enjoying a cup of tea smooth enough to calm any savage beast.
Not a bad way to start a stolen day. Not bad at all.
I am a Homebody
The past few weeks have been crazy busy with end of school finals, stock up trips and of course last months holiday. When life gets like this, and I’m away from my little homestead all I can think about is getting back to the quiet and peace of my oasis. Its times like these that make me realize - I am a homebody. I like the comfort of my homestead. Outside the sun is gleaming, the birds are singing and there’s a soft, cool breeze blowing that makes me want to snuggle up in a hammock with an old quilt, a glass of tea and a good book. Spring wants to linger here a while longer and we welcome her with open arms. Always.
Here on my homestead, in my little farmhouse, laundry hangs on the line. Fresh cut flowers adorn my tables and the scent of home cooked banana bread seasons the air. Autumn is far off and although we love the roaring fires that warm our home and the glint of candles that light up the dark corners of our rooms we are content with the months that allow us to dig in the dirt long into the evening.
Outside my window the sheep laze in the shade and chew their cuds, while the chickens send up clouds of brown dust while bathing in the soft dirt. The dogs, ever vigilant, are on the prowl for rabbits and squirrels that have been damaging the garden. Well fed and content, the animals make me feel even more comfortable. Come dinner time we will be well fed too. Home raised lamb thaws on the counter. Later tonight it will be sizzling on the grill along with fresh zucchini, onions and potatoes. A fine meal to be sure. After evening rounds and a blazing western sunset – I am ready for bed too. It’s because I am a homebody that I am happy to be tucked away in my little walled garden, away from the hectic outside world.
Cool damp fog hung for most of the morning, leaving the homestead looking like some mystical forest in a far-away land. It seemed gloomy. But, the only animal on the farm that seemed to feel it was me. The cool morning seemed to invigorate the livestock. The sheep raced and jumped in their corral. The chickens scurried and clucked as they found tidbits of grain on the barn floor.
I spent the cool morning weeding and planting winter squash and sunflowers to brighten our tables or give as gifts. Sunflowers make me happy. They remind me of fall, my favorite season. The mixture of seeds, black, striped, large and small, lay in a bed of soil rich in our rabbits’ leavings and our chickens’ old meals. In a few weeks they will have pushed through the soil, reaching for the sun and we’ll be on our way to having yellow lion, burgundy and gold in our vases. Sunflowers mean we’re that much closer to fall.
When the fog burned off and the temperature began to rise, making the weeding and planting too much of an effort I came inside to make the salad for tonight’s grilled dinner. The house smelled of honey-maple bacon and fresh cut broccoli when I went out to collect another batch of eggs. Here the work seems never ending (and it is) but it flows through our days as normal and steady as commuting to work or going to school does. It’s a common mean to a common goal.
Not everything is faultless here. I paint a picture of perfection, but only because I ignore the things that make homesteading so hard. I cheat hardship with ignorance. But know my body is always sore and sometimes I feel like I’m the most tired mom in America.
We rise before 6:00 most mornings, and sometimes don’t come inside for dinner till way after dusk (that’s 8:30 this time of year). When we shower at the end of a long day the damage of our life is evident. Brianne is bumped and bruised from working her lambs; there are cuts and scrapes from battles with fencing; blisters from hoeing or turning over another bed; bug bites and bad tan lines. Yah - really bad tan lines. Our homestead, as humble as it is, is a full time job. And it shares its life with people who already have a full time job, whether it be work or school. Its work and it’s hard. I’m not sure we should be envied or that people should live vicariously through us. Just a considerate warning.
BUT, I feel the same way about the dark side of this homestead as I do about learning any new skill. You pick it up for the first time and it sucks. You’re not good, the timing is off or your lines are not straight. Your muscles ache and your fingers throb. You get angry and frustrated. The learning comes slow, slower than you wish. But, at the end, when it’s over, you know there is the possibility of a finished product. You’ve seen it before, and know the appreciation it can render. So you shrug off the pain, forget about the bad things, and keep moving forward. Which, is what we do with every scar and sore arm. Collateral damage.
Farm Census
I was thinking about the census the other day, and thought it would be interesting (for you all) to read a census of my little homestead. I’m a huge proponent of doing what you can where you can. No matter how big or how small you think you’re place is there is always room for a bit of self-sufficiency.
Homestead Census 2010
5 – lambs
18 – chickens
1 – rabbit
6 – blueberries
7 – berries (1 black, 1 Logan, 1 red rasp, 4 yellow rasp)
6 – fruit trees
8 – 4’x8’ raised veggie beds
3 – 8’x10’ raised beds
2 – mangy mutts (just kidding)
1 – active kid, and
1 – tired mom
Foggy Morning, Sleeping Dogs
It’s a cold, foggy morning here on the farm. In a few minutes Brianne will be outside in the dusky morning feeding chickens and rabbits and sheep by the dim light of dawn, but right now I’m putting on the teapot and waking up the dogs. Dutch and Dakota are still curled up on their beds, not the least bit interested in my morning routine. I think they know it’s foggy and chilly outside and have no desire to rush out in it.
But dogs don’t feed sheep, nor do they collect eggs, so they can revel in the luxury of sleep for a little while longer. Brianne stumbles into the kitchen, bundled in a sweatshirt and warm pants, barely awake. She pulls the hood over her head so much that it buries her eyes. She grabs her gloves and out she goes. The routine of a farm, no matter what the size, goes on.
Enjoy your day folks, hope yours is warmer.
photo credit: gogoloopie
Farmheart
There’s a condition that inflicts some of us that I can only describe as Farmheart.
Farmheart is a sharp, targeted, unsettledness that affects certain people (myself included) as harsh and ugly as a pitchfork being shoved into your heart. It’s not recognized by any professionals or psychoanalysts (yet), but it’s only a matter of time before it’s a household diagnose. Hear me out folks. It goes like this:
Farmheart is that sudden downcast feeling that hits you while at work or in the middle of Wal-Mart checkout line. It’s unequivocally knowing you want to be a farmer—and for whatever personal circumstances—cannot be one just yet. So there you are, heartsick, confused, yearning in the passing lane of a crowded freeway, wondering why you cannot stop thinking about heritage turkeys or barns or rail fences. Do not be afraid though. You have what I have. You are not alone.
You are suffering from Farmheart.
This is a dreamer’s disease: a mix of hope and desire, determination and grit; targeted at those of us who wish to god we were outside with our flocks, feed bags, or hoes, instead of sitting in front of a computer screen. When a severe bout hits, it’s all you can do to sit still at all. The room closes in, your mind meanders, and you are overcome with a burning desire to be shearing sheep or feeding pigs instead of taking conference calls or answering emails. People at the water cooler will stare if you say these things out loud. If you find this happening, just segue into sports and you’ll be fine.
The symptoms are mild at first. You start glancing around the internet at homesteading forums and cheese making supply shops on your lunch break. You go home after work and instead of turning on the television—you bake a pie and read about chicken coop building plans. Then some how, somewhere, along the way – you realize you are happiest when in your garden or collecting eggs. When this happens, man oh man, it’s all down hill from there. When you accept the only way to a fulfilling life requires tractor attachments and septic tanks, it’s too late. You’ve already been infected. If you even suspect this, you may have early-onset Farmheart.
Not to panic though, folks. Our rural wishfulness has a cure! It’s a self-medication that can only be administered by direct, tangible, and intentional actions. If you find yourself overcome with the longings of Farmheart, simply step outside; get some sunshine and fresh air, and breathe. Go back to your desk and finish your work knowing that tonight you’ll peruse those seed catalogs and starting making those garden plans. Usually, simple, small actions in the direction of your own self-sufficiency can be the remedy. In worst-case scenarios you might find yourself resorting to extreme measures - calling in sick to do nothing but garden, muck out the chicken coop, collect fresh eggs or bake fresh bread. While that may seem extreme, understand that this disease is caused by inaction. It hits us the hardest when we are the farthest from our dreams. So to fight it we must simply have faith that some day 3:47 PM will mean grabbing a saddle instead of a spreadsheet. Believing this is even possible is halfway to healthy. I’m a high-functioning sufferer of Farmheart. I can keep a day job, raise a child and manage my adult world as long as I know my night job involves livestock and dirt under my fingernails.
Farmheart is a condition that needs the smells of fresh turned soil or lanolin, the touch of warm eggs or fuzzy chicks in the palm of our hand, and crisp cool air deep into our nostrils to heal. If you find yourself suffering from such things, make plans to visit an orchard, pick up that beat guitar and get to it or better yet take a farm related class. Busy hands will set you on the mend. Small measures, strong convictions, good coffee, and kind dogs will see you through. I am certain of it.
So when you find yourself sitting in your office, school, or café chair and your mind wanders to a life of personal freedom, know that feeling is our collective disease. If you can almost taste the bitter smells of manure and hay in the air and feel the sun on your bare arms, even on the metro, you are one of us and have hope for recovery. Like us, you try and straighten up in your ergonomic chair but really you want to be reclining in the bed of a pickup truck. We get that.
And hey, do not lose the faith or fret about the current circumstances. Everything changes. And if you need to stand in the light of an old barn to lift your spirits, perhaps some day you will. Every day. For some, surely this is the only cure.
We’ll get there. In the meantime, let us just take comfort in knowing we’re not alone. And maybe take turns standing up and admitting we have a problem.
Hello. My name is Jenn. And I have Farmheart.
So much going on
There’s so much going on right now, on this homestead. It would take thousand of words to explain it all, and although I’ve love it if that were my primary gig it’s just not in the cards right now.
In farm news: we’ve had a wacky spring so far; wind and cold and rain so late in the season I can’t even remember the last time we had late April showers. The fire roars at night while the days claw their way into the low-60’s. My seedlings are not liking the cold at all and some of my spring planting has been pushed back waiting for warmer soil temps.
On the chick front, I think we will lose two of our chicks hatched last months. They’ve developed what’s called Merrick’s Disease and there’s nothing that can be done. The others are healthy and growing like weeds after a good rain. We moved some of the bigger one’s out to an old rabbit hutch because they were flying out of the brooder. I think the one’s that remain in the brooder will join their friends by next weekend. I’ve already chased three around the garage today.
On the up side though, Brianne’s show lambs are on their way, and we are excited to see what our friend found in his travels. This is a busy time of year for us with gardens and chickens and lambs and livestock shows, not to mention school and work. Our plate is so full we sometimes feel like crazed lunatics and a Vegas buffet.
May is just around the corner and if we’re lucky enough to get back into our normal weather patterns it’ll be game on. We’ll be working harder than ever to catch up and get this farm back on track. I can’t wait.