Archive for the ‘Personal Journal’ Category
Homestead revelations
Realizing you’re becoming a homesteader comes in tiny revelations over time. You’d think that having a box full of chicks in your kitchen or writing a check for 10-bags of grain and 2-bales of hay would bring it home to you, but those grand gestures usually don’t. Perhaps it’s because they’re too obvious or your mind is so busy trying to figure out how to get the chickens from the kitchen to the coop or how all that hay and grain is getting to the barn when you’re only 5′3″?
No, it’s the little things. Like realizing you just tracked sheep crap all over the house because you’re used to a life of lawns, not paddocks. Or when you arrive at the office brushing hay off your clothes. Or when you’re watching a period movie with sheep running around the sets and yelling at the screen “What!? Why the hell do they have a modern Suffolk sheep living in 17t Century England?!! And then getting angry at the film crew for their obvious lack of sheep research.
That’s the moment. That’s when you realize you’ve crossed over…over to the dark side of the barn. That’s when you understand you’re becoming a homesteader.
I’ve had those moments…at the office, when co-workers chat about the colder-than-usual morning while sipping on a Starbucks latte. One saying to another “Weren’t you surprised when you walked outside this morning?! Hello Winter.” And I realize how completely unfazed I was. Did I even take notice of it? Or did I go about business as usual? But had this been a morning year’s back, I would have been shocked. Back before my life revolved around a garden and a barn full of livestock, I let the weather happen to me. I didn’t live a reactionary life towards it (unless you consider putting on a sweater reactionary.) But now I stalk the weather reports and haunt weather.com. With a garden full of veggies and pumpkins and sunflowers to keep going until harvest, I fear the early frosts, and plan how much outside work I can get done before 7AM. I check the weather report all the time.
I knew for over a week we were going to have a frost advisory last night. So after work and school Brianne and I did all the morning chores in advance. We topped off all the water buckets and the rabbit’s lick-its. We loaded fresh lay mash into the chicken feeders and pellets into the rabbit’s trough. We forked in bedding for the lambs and fluffed the shavings in the nesting boxes. Brianne set things up so she’d have an easier and more comfortable morning. So come the dark blue light of 6:40AM Brianne would only need to drop feeders into the sheep pen. Which is all she did need.
This morning we walked outside looking ridiculous – heavy fleece coats, knitted musher’s hats and thick brightly colored plaid flannel shirts, once worn by grandpa. We looked silly, but we were warm (and the sheep could are less how we’re dressed.) Work went quickly and by the time we were back in the house the tea was ready.
I was never surprised for a moment. Which comes with the wooly territory, I guess.
A Homesteading Christmas
How ever you celebrate this time of year…
SuburbanHomesteading.com wishes you all a…
Buon Natale e Felice Anno Nuovo
Frohe Weihnachten und Happy New Year
Merry Christmas agus Athbhliain Bliain
Feliz Navidad y Prospero Ano Nuevo
God Jul og Godt Nytt År
Veselé Vánoce a šťastný Nový rok
圣诞快乐，新年快乐
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
Can You See Us?
We are all around you, but we are not from here, we’re from some other place. Can you see us? We are your neighbors and co-workers; church friends and committee members, but our new life has taken us to another place that fits us well.
Our new place is not far. It’s not hard to get there. Perhaps you’ve seen us there, from time to time, while driving too fast on the way to work or piling your shopping cart with more pre-made dinners. You can’t see us from there, because we are not there.
We’re the ones that shop the isle’s you never see. We buy flour and cornmeal, sugar, spices, vegetables and fruits. We buy from Farmer’s Markets, farm stands and organic growers. We buy provisions, not groceries. We have learned that made from scratch tastes better when you grow your own. We started small, just a few simple recipes to get us started, then we learned to walk, and then run. Now, the idea of a frozen dinner or drive-thru makes us look twice. We’re not opposed to them, not at all. But, they don’t exist where we’re from. Maybe, at one time they did, but now they are forgotten. I don’t know. I can’t remember. It’s hard to remember those days when we now jump a fence to get to where we’re going. There just isn’t a whole lot of cellophane wrapped, pre-cooked, heat-and-eat here.
Can you see us?
In our other place? Read the rest of the story »
A Homestead Morning
Personal Journal – November 7, 2009
Rarely do I write about my personal experiences or life on my suburban homestead. That’s not what I wanted this blog to be. But, sometimes in life things happen that you just want to share. Not because they are overwhelmingly important or informative, but because they bring a certain insight into the life many of us are trying to live.
I woke suddenly this morning, unaware of the reason. When I got my bearings I rolled over to look at the clock. It was a little after four. I lay there for a while staring at the red numbers in the darkness, then took a deep breath and rolled over again trying to fall back to sleep. As I settled in my toasty, warm bed I listened to the rain. It’s been raining since yesterday – a slow and steady soft kind of rain. The kind that is quickly absorbed by the soil…the kind that nourishes the garden rather than drowning it. I lay their snuggled under layers of homemade quilts and down comforters listening to the pattern of the drops rolling off the eves. Plink…plink…plink, plink…plunk. It came down softly hitting something below.
As I laid there in my warm bed, I tried to figure out what the rain was hitting. I always try to move potential noisemakers before the rainy season starts, but I must have missed something. A splashing noise drew my attention to window on the other side of the room. It was a steady sound, like a brook bubbling and stumbling over rocks in a stream. It was my rain barrel filled to overflowing.
I had always wanted to collect rainwater, to use in the garden when the time between winter storms was long and spring and summer months provide almost nothing. I’m trying to offset using municipal water. It’s a crude set-up though, several large plastic trash cans connected with PVC pipe so the full barrels can flow into the empty ones. Any hardcore homesteader might laugh at the simplicity of it, but it works.
The rain still falls steadily.
It’s dark and quiet, the comforting time of the morning. Off in the distance I could hear the faint sounds of roosters crowing. It’s amazing how far off they sound at that time of the morning considering the barn is only 80-feet away. The sound was deep and throaty from a bird well seasoned at these early morning rituals. But, below him came a barely noticeable strange sound, ur…ur…ur. It was the sound of a roo just learning to crow.
Actually, it was cockerel, young male roster. But I never really bother with using correct terms. They sound so stuffy and unfriendly.
The chicks we hatched back in April would be old enough. But, my amusement gave way to disappointed as well. I have too many roos already, so any new ones will be put into the freezer. Life on a homestead, even a suburban one, isn’t always fair or kind, but it is necessary. The young roos always sound so funny, like they’re being interrupted in mid-crow or someone has nudged them to be quiet. In any event, it was much too early for them to be sounding off. When it’s daylight, I’ll have to figure out who our new crower is. Read the rest of the story »
Life is not all about work…
…and neither is homesteading.
Personal Journal - November 22, 2009
It’s a point I try to make often to my more skeptical town friends. Sometimes even we homesteaders have those quiet lazy days where little is thought about and even less is accomplished. Yesterday was one of those days. We woke up late, about 7:30 (a luxury that is not afforded us when there are sheep in the barn). I could hear a young rooster trying to master his crow. The hens were scratching, and fluffing themselves in the dirt, chattering as hens always do. The dogs were on patrol. I could hear them in the bushes, sniffing and prowling about, looking for treasures. These are the kinds of mornings that beg you to stay in bed and quietly listen to the sounds of the farm. You can learn so much by just listening.
By the time I stumbled through the house, Brianne was already laid out on the sofa, buried under a mound of quilts making friendship bracelets and watching a movie I found at a local book sale a few weeks ago. Dakota was at her feet begging for more room to stretch out. Last nights fire was gone, but you could still hear crackles and pops as the embers cooled and died. It was dark and lonely, but could easily be revived with a little encouragement and a few pieces of kindling.
Breakfast was a steaming bowl of porridge, topped with nuts and brown sugar, bananas and milk. By the time it’s ready I’m on my second cup of tea (i’m not a coffee person…so not a coffee person), Earl Gray with a splash of milk and a bit of sugar. From the kitchen I can hear the twitter of birds. I don’t know what type; we have become a kind of way station for passersby’s. Some have a sharp trill in their voice, while others chirp on and on for quite awhile. The crows are back, I can hear their caw, caw, caw, but no sight of the red tailed hawk that perches himself on the arbor.
No – life is not always about work. Sometimes it’s about quiet, easy mornings, warm and safe in a simple home. Oh, don’t get me wrong, there will be work done this weekend, but it will be slower, less rushed, with less urgency for completion than other days. I have a few errands to run in town, the truck needs gas for the coming week, Brianne’s birthday is next week and I need a card, the nesting boxes in the coop need to be refilled and the floor raked out. There’s mulch to lie out in the garden and I want to finish the quilt I’ve been working on. Yes, there will be lots of work this weekend. But there will also be time for sitting back and listening to the sounds of this farm. Time for a second (or third) cup of tea, time for snuggling with a mangy dog trying to hog the sofa and time to just relish what we’ve built with our own two hands. No – life isn’t all about work. A lot of life is about paying attention and enjoying what comes our way, the fruits of our labor. And, if we get a few bumps and bruises or have to tend animals in the rain so be it.
A Mother’s Hands
Personal Journal – November 16, 2009
A Mother’s Hands
Last night, while I finished cleaning the kitchen, I looked down at my hands and thought to myself, “my hands are not pretty.” In fact, they’re quite the opposite. The year’s of farming and raising livestock show clearly in the callouses and scars. Newer scratches and wrinkles are a testament to my love for what I do and how I live my life.
As I stood there staring at my hands, I see dirt embedded from days of working without gloves. My pinkie is cut; an encounter with a piece of fence wire and a piece of skin is missing from one of my knuckles. I notice long healed scars, one where I was bitten by a ewe I was trying to worm and another where I was accidently clipped with hoof trimmers instead of the sheep.
My nails are short and uneven, broken and chipped. My hands are strong, but my nails are not. They peel and chip at the slightest bit of work. They haven’t seen a manicurist in years. And, polish is a luxury in time I can’t afford. I use to go. Before the demands of work and family, farm and animals became my life.
I use to go.
But, that’s okay. These small not so pretty hands are a mother’s hands; hands that work hard and love deep. They are strong yet gentle. They might make most people cringe, but they built the barns that shelter our animals, plowed the gardens that fill our table and laid the pipes that water them all. They chop and stack the firewood that keeps us warm. They scoop grain, throw hay, plant seeds, pick fruit, bring new life to our little farm and care for a home and a child.
They are not pretty hands. They are a mother’s hands.
As I stood at my sink, soap suds dripping from my hands, I had to chuckle to myself. I gave up on pretty hands a long time ago. I traded them in for strong, caring hands; hands strong enough to sign the mortgage for our little farm, firm enough to raise a child alone and gentle enough to keep it all moving forward and balanced.
We make choices in our lives. And, sometimes those choices include sacrifices. I have paid a price for my years of working hard without protection – ugly hands.
But, I don’t care. I traded in my pretty hands for strong hands, a mother’s hands and that makes them beautiful hands.
photo credit: Tamara van Molken