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Tales of a Night Table
I spent part of this evening cleaning my room. Nothing wildly exciting I know, but after two livestock auctions and three major sheep shows that sent us north five times in 6-weeks my sleeping place was beginning to look like – well – a shambles of laundry, suitcases, half completed quilting projects, shoes, and a pile of tax documents waiting to be organized, and, sadly, cobwebs. The bathroom was much, much worse.
I moved through my room with single minded determination, dusting, putting away, throwing away, organizing. When I reached my night table I stopped for a moment. Looking down at all that I keep close to me at night, it crossed my mind that you can tell a lot about a person and who they are by the contents of their night table.
My night table is not a night table at all, but a four foot long antique drop leaf table. Its top is smooth like tumbled glass from years of polishing; the claw feet are rugged and bold like some kind those of a mid evil cat. The urn shaped lamp glows through a sage green shade that sparkles with green and amber beads hanging from its rim. Its power illuminates my latest read. There’s a small floral notepad for jotting down things to do, items to buy, people to call, story ideas, phrases, quotes and projects that come to mind. A small vintage silver tray lined with a woven cloth napkin I found at a flea market in Vermont holds a warm cup of tea in winter and a cool drink in summer. A small Waterford vase holds seasonal flowers, whose fragrance fills the room. A picture of my daughter and I, taken for my parents 50th anniversary sits in the back reminding me of how far the two of us have come and how lucky we have been in our journeys. The radio is set to NPR, my go to station for morning news and interesting talk shows. Then there’s the pile of books at one end, at least eight, with titles like Goat Song, One Acre and Security, Amazing Rare Things, The Contrary Farmer, along with an array of Thoreau and Emerson thrown in for good measure. There are the magazines on farming, gardening, livestock and homesteading, too.
If a stranger came into my room they could tell at a glance that I am a mom, a gardener, a farmer, a homesteader, a reader who likes to educate herself and be informed, a traveler, an owner of livestock and a walker.
But, most of all it would tell them that I like serenity and tranquil surroundings. I like calm.
Rainy Saturday
I just heard on the radio it’s going to pour all weekend. Usually, this is good news; I am a big fan of rainy Saturday mornings. I get to wake up and face a wet and chilly farm then after all the animals are fed and I’m back inside my little house all is right with the world. I get to relax. I can leisurely cook the breakfast of champions (scrambled eggs with diced ham and cheese), start a fire in the living room, and curl up on the sofa with a dog and a good book or maybe watch a movie or work on my latest quilt project.
It could be a perfect morning, but not this Saturday. This weekend is a sheep show weekend. We leave Friday after Brianne gets out of school and will drive the three hours up the coast to the show grounds. We would never consider skipping a show on account of the weather. We’re not those kinds of people. Weather never gets in our way. We will unload and set up shop in our assigned pens. We’ll wash and groom four unwitting lambs who would rather be anywhere other than in a cement wash rack being doused with cold water, then sheared slick of all their warmth holding fleece. I have to admit it does take its toll, standing around in a cold damp show barn for hours on end.
But, come rain or shine it’s what we do, folks, show sheep, raise chickens, grow our own food, make our own way and deal with what ever Mother Nature throws our way. I’ll hope for the best or at least hope for a warm rain, but we’re ready for the worst; raingear, muck boots, hats and gloves. We’ll play it by ear, but personally I’m gonna take a move out of Gene Kelly’s playbook…
I’m singing in the rain
Just singing in the rain
What a glorious feelin’
I’m happy again
I’m laughing at clouds
So dark up above
The sun’s in my heart
And I’m ready for love
Let the stormy clouds chase
Everyone from the place
Come on with the rain
I’ve a smile on my face
I walk down the lane
With a happy refrain
Just singin’,
Singin’ in the rain
Think warm thoughts for us, folks, and, if you don’t mind have a hot toddy for us – we’ll need it.
photo credit: rustyfrank.com
Accidental Education
I’ve come to realize that most of my education on the farm has been as much a case of learning by chance then by deliberate study. Or should I say we learn just by living. For certain, the learning we gain through experience or by doing sticks with us long after the classroom fades. I may not remember anything about my statistics class, but I will not forget what happened when I was dumb enough to walk through the corral with a bucket full of grain or store my feed bins too close to the sheep pens.
I’ve learned by chance, for example, that a good way to start pumpkin seeds is to let the pumpkins rot in place. As the bottom of the pumpkin decays away the seeds start to sprout inside the shell, protected by winter cold. In spring all I have to do is transplant the tiny plants into individual containers until they are ready to plant out in the pumpkin patch.
Seeds dropped by birds or blown in on the wind can nestle themselves into friable debris piles near the barn and come to sprout in the warm composting material until ready to plant.
Another accidental discovery took place this past fall after the lambs had been sent off to the butcher. We left the remaining hay in its normal place on the barn floor instead of using it for mulch or composting material. As the weeks and months went by I noticed the remaining hay bales kept settling down and spreading out more than it should be doing naturally. What the heck was going on? Read the rest of the story »
It’s Thanksgiving!
Happy Thanksgiving from our little suburban homestead!
After celebrating Brianne’s birthday last weekend we’re here enjoying the rest of our quiet vacation with a few days respite from farm chores. Well – except for feeding. Yah, they all like to be fed too. Dutch and Dakota are enjoying the abundance of food falling on the kitchen floor from all the cooking activity going on. Our bird is soaking in its brine and I’m getting ready to bake a ham, cheese and mushroom quiche and fresh herbed bread. Later tonight I’ll bake my Harvest Pumpkin cakes and make our orange infused cranberry sauce. No one will go hungry this Thanksgiving, not human, nor dog, nor chicken, nor rabbit.
Sadly, no turkeys were raised on the farm this year. Our spring was so busy with travel to sheep shows that I thought it best not to bring new animals to the farm without the proper time to attend them. Hopefully next year will be different. With the success of raising our own meat chickens I’d love to take on turkeys. Incidentally, the bird we will fest on is from a batch we raised right here on the farm.
The evening will be spent by the fire, curled up on the sofa under layers of handmade quilts; doing what we do every year, a movie marathon. This year’s selection: Horatio Hornblower. This, of course, will be watched with copious amounts of cake. I’m excited.
It’s great to be surrounded by family, but I have to admit our decision to celebrate the holiday solo – just Brianne and I, has been a good one. She’s roaming around here somewhere, bouncing between the kitchen and texting friends.
Neighbors stop by throughout the day, concerned that we’re flying solo; seemingly unloved and unwanted. Nothing could be farther from the truth. I don’t miss the commotion, which sends momentary twinges of guilt through me…I think I’m needed in the kitchen, so I’ve gotta fly. But I wanted to check in and wish you all
Happy Thanksgiving!
From Suburban Homesteading.com
photo credit: Nancee_art
Changes From Within
We are a small suburban homestead here—a few cloven hooves, a few mixed breed chickens, a rabbit, a garden with fruit trees and berry canes, and two wandering dogs.
The posts that hold the arbor fences also hold the laundry line. The lamb I roast for Sunday dinner is also the lamb that is chopped and sprinkled over kibble. The shells from the eggs I crack into omelets end up in the compost, and scraps of fresh salad greens and veggies are feasts for our feathered ones. So what was once waste, to be thrown into the trash, is now feed for future eggs or chicken salad or turned into garden soil. The system we have is simple, but it serves us well.
There is work yet to be done though; I’d like to have a greenhouse to extend our growing season, a pond with geese and Thanksgiving turkeys. But, for now there is a garden to turn and meat chicks to raise. There are the chores of switching from one season to another, lamb to sell, firewood to lie in and workshops to attend. Without really knowing how, it all seems to fall into place. It all, somehow, gets done.
As I think back on all we have accomplished, I realize that the real work of this farm is not the food we’ve grown or the skills we’ve learned: it’s us. I say this will all sincerity.
When you build a place into your life purpose it changes you; changes how you understand yourself. It humbles you, but not at the mercy of the main intention. There’s no room for ego when there’s a barn full of shit waiting to be shoveled. When I think back over how we have slowly turned an overgrown suburban lot into what we want it to be, I see confidence in who we are, strength in who Brianne will become, but also worries. I never used to think about Brianne going off on her own, wanting to make her own way. I know she wants her own place one day, but I think about how and where and when. I worry about tasks that are beyond my strength, being alone and having time to myself. Certain things subside over time, but some stay raw and exposed.
Maybe that’s just the growing part. Or, maybe this place is teaching me to mind my priorities and let logic win over emotion. I’m not quite sure. I do know one thing I’m happy in this life, feel at home on our little farm with the animals and home cooked meals. I can close my eyes, click my heels three times and settle in.
Perhaps we never really settle down into our lives. Maybe we just have to give our lives time to settle into us.
Belonging is a State of Mind
The other day I walked into our local feed store needing to buy chick starter for our new batch of meat birds. As I strolled the isles looking over new arrivals and favorite old items I overheard a woman at the register asking Gary about raising chickens. They were the typical questions all new chicken raisers ask.
But this time was different. In the isle that stocks the horseshoeing supplies two men scoffed at the innocence of her questions. You know the tone. The one reserved for newbie livestock owners or out-of-towners who buy a few acres with the idea of growing their own food. I’m sure they meant nothing by it. When your family has raised cattle here for a hundred years and you spent your life on the back of a horse you might find it humorous not knowing how to raise a chicken, or any small livestock for that matter, but it struck a cord with me.
Once upon a time…a long time ago I too was that lady asking those very same questions. I smiled as I walked by them, but it has taken me a while to get to this point. For new farmers it can feel downright unsettling; thinking you’re the butt of all jokes or a worn out stereotype at the local café where the “ole timers” hang out.
It seems to be the old long-time local vs. the new beginner divide that makes so many new farmers or homesteaders feel out of place. Think about it…if you’re fresh out the back of beyond with city lights and pubs that stay open till dawn…you have good reason to feel separated from the locals. It took me years to crack the surface and even more before I felt like “one of them”. But I can tell you this with certainty – Don’t let it affect you. Do not let who you are now stop you from becoming who you want to be. Embrace the difference and let it be part of where you are heading. Read the rest of the story »
Keeping Poultry Warm during Colder Months
After months of silence I was awakened this morning by the sound of water dripping off the eves. Not just water, but – RAIN!!!
Finally, our long dry spell is broken. I stayed in bed longer than usual, nestled under layers of quilts and down comforters just listening to the soft – Ping…Ping…Plop…Kerplunk – of a steady rain as it hit whatever was below. It was a joyous sound. I laid there thinking about crockpots simmering hot with pot roasts or stews, the smell of home baked bread fresh from the oven, crackling fires casting a warm glow over our little farmhouse and days filled with much needed indoor chores.
As the sun rose, beaming just over the horizon through gray clouds, Blue (our Cochin rooster) began to sound off the coming dawn. I could hear him as he strutted around the coop. Soon the other boys chimed in and eventually the hens began cackling to be let out in the barn now devoid of lambs. (Did I mention the lambs went to the processor on Monday? No matter, we’ll have them back by weeks end nicely wrapped in freezer paper ready for whatever recipe strikes my fancy.) The farm is awake.
I’m up now, enjoying a steaming hot pot of tea and a piece of warm pumpkin bread smothered in butter. Yummy! It’s still raining – slow and steady – the kind that soaks in rather than runs off. It’s cold outside. The beginning of a cooler fall – I hope. But, the cold sends a message. It’s time to recheck the bedding in our nesting boxes and the level of litter on the coop floor. It’s time to make sure the coop is ready for what is predicted to be a colder than normal winter.
Chickens can handle remarkably cold temperatures. Some say the temperature doesn’t bother them until it gets down to -20 degrees, while others say as long as the coop is not damp or drafty they can handle even lower temps. But, I figure if I’m warm and snug why not them. So, we’ll clean out the nesting boxes and refill them with a thick layer of shavings from the stock trailer then a layer of fresh straw. It’s really not necessary to have both kinds of bedding; we just use the leftover shavings from the trailer so the hens can scratch in it all winter before it’s used for mulch or compost in the spring. The coop floor will get a nice thick layer of straw after any low spots have been filled in.
Damp or wet conditions in the coop can bring on illness. We’ll check the coop for drafty areas and shore them up; and we’ll minimize the ventilation to 1) lessen the amount of cold air entering the coop, and 2) reduce the openings that might appeal to predators fixed on an easy winter meal. Fox, weasel, raccoon and rodents can be surprisingly cunning if a free meal is to be had. A warming mat is set under the water trough so it won’t freeze over should the temps drop that low. And a few heat lamps will be hung just in case.
I rarely have to be concerned with frostbite, but many who live in really cold areas will. Combs, wattles and feet are susceptible to frostbite in extreme weather. A rooster whose comb freezes is not only in a lot of pain but may also be less fertile. An old-timers trick is to put petroleum jelly or Vaseline on the comb and waddles for protection. And, keeping outside poultry areas free from snow will also help. But, the number one way to keep a coop warm enough to weather most winters is a thick layer of straw because it helps hold the heat in.
On Saturday I’ll swing by the feed store and pick up a bag of corn based scratch. It won’t replace our regular chicken feed; it’s a treat the girls love, plus the added energy used to digest the corn helps keep them warm.
The seasons are a changing, folks! Fall is here. And, there’ll be pot roast and warm homemade bread for dinner tonight, a crackling fire in the fireplace and pumpkin spice candles flickering from every corner. I am one contented farmgirl.
Longing for Fall
It was barely dawn when I woke to a cool breeze floating through my window. A thin glimmer of light shone just over the horizon. Rather than roll over and sleep some more I got up, put on my jeans and a long sleeved shirt. Our weather is still warm during the day, but the mornings are brisk. I quietly left the house and walked around our little homestead. I love this time of morning, before the farm and the world has decided to rise and get on with their day.
When Dutch and Dakota finally realized I was outside they came running over to me, tails wagging wildly. They were still droopy eyed. Wondering what I was doing out so early, but loving the pre-dawn attention. I bent over and rubbed them vigorously and chuckled as they flopped on their backs begging for a belly rub. I am happy to have such contented farm dogs. They moaned and grinned and begged for more.
When Brianne came out I joined her in her morning routine of scooping grain and throwing hay to the lambs, and feeding the chickens. The baby chicks, now a good month old, have been moved to a spare rabbit hutch to get acquainted with barn life and life outside the brooder. No more do they have the warmth of their heat lamp, but a thickly packed nesting box seems to suit them just fine. Oreo (the rabbit) got his water bottle refilled and a fresh supply of pellets. We still have lambs left over from the state fair and our county fair. Fortunately they have all been sold. Now we wait for the butcher to have room in his locker before we can take them in. Not an ideal situation – waiting – but I know when our turn comes he will treat us right. Our county fair is just a few weeks gone, but it seems like a lifetime ago. Strange how we roll from one event to another with barely a look behind.
September has always marked the beginning of fall for me. I’ve been pining for it, longing for it since July, but it’s still a few weeks off. Fall is my time folks, when golden leaves float down from the sycamore tree in front of my house; when the fragrant smells of hearty stews fill the kitchen; and, when the pumpkins we planted back in spring start to change their color from green to brilliant burnt orange.
No – it’s not yet time, but soon. September paves the way for our hallowed fall. This is my time folks. I can’t wait.