Archive for the ‘Personal Journal’ Category
A Homesteaders Dozen
12 weeks before State Fair
11 vegetable beds ready to plant
10 yellow raspberries potted and ready to sell
9 pints of blackberry jam made
8 new chicks in the brooder
7 friends spending time at the beach
6 pounds of pork shoulder turned into sausage
5 dozen farm fresh eggs sold today
4 market lambs gaining steadily
3 roosters processed and made into soup base
2 farm dogs lazing around
1 gosling growing fat
0 complaints on this beautiful spring day
Did You Know… A baker’s dozen is (maybe) 13, but a shepherds dozen is 11.
Starting Where You Live
With much of the country shaking off the last remnants of winter it looks forward to the opening of Farmer’s Markets; the burst of colorful vegetables, the smell of fresh produce and the variety of foods that can be found. But, with these new beginnings I can’t help but think back a few years to when I was working on a nutrition program with a local youth organization. The goal of the program was to encourage kids to eat a more healthy diet full of fruits and vegetables.
My goal was to get the kids to try fruits and vegetables, grown in our county, that they may have never eaten before. The primary teacher of the program encouraged the kids to dip their veggies in Ranch Dressing or sour cream based vegetable dips and their fruit slices in a sweet cream sauce or caramel. Not exactly what I would call healthful eating. Were our goals at odds? Were we at cross purposes?
When I was growing up my mom always insisted that food was best eaten plain or almost plain so the natural flavors and goodness could shine through. There was never any reason to drown carrots or celery in Ranch Dressing or slices of apple, pear or peach in sweetened sauces. Their freshness and natural sweetness was their own dressing.
Over the next few weeks the class grew. More and more kids joined us for the daily lecture on nutrition. But, more importantly, each day those kids sat down at the table and “ate” the fruits and vegetables we put in front of them. Most of what we served was locally grown, but not much of it was out of the ordinary.
Still, I think there is a greater point to this story:
Like Sails in the Wind
The wind this week has been like a gale blowing in off an angry east coast sea. The kind of gusts that make you think your house (or barn) will lift off and fly away like some kind of surreal scene from The Wizard of Oz. The temperatures though have been oddly warm, mid-50’s on some days, which sends contradictions through my brain. Every structure on the farm was swaying and bowing to the winds force. In the dark still of night you could hear the wind howling through our valley. Far in east, then through distant trees until it came closer and louder…sending shivers through you as the sound of branches breaking rang out like gunfire. When you’re out in it each blast of wind comes at you like an angry wave, ready to bowl you over. Your face feels chapped and your hair blows every which direction. Lips chapped from previous winter storms are chapped even more.
Over and over the wind rolled down onto the farm like this. We were in full batten down the hatches mode, making sure everyone was inside their barn abode. The dogs do not go out on nights like these. Instead we all ate our dinners indoors, listening to the wind race over a jet black sky, trees casting eerie shadows that swayed like ghosts with every gust. What a show.
Feeding the animals in wind like this is hard and time consuming. Buckets of grain seem heavier, water seems to run slower and just moving animals is complicated and labor intensive. They seem out of sorts and unsure of where to go. So instead, of feeding grain first then hay as a second course, the lambs are all feed together with grain piled high on a bed of hay. The hens will get a second trough for mash that will tide them over for several days and every water bucket will be filled to overflowing. Hopefully, the wind will be gone by then.
The hens will get another layer of straw in their nesting boxes and as litter on the coop floor. I wanted the barn as comfortable as possible, as the wind whipped at us all through the little 12×24 building. I prayed the roof wouldn’t lift off like an Apollo spacecraft or the weathervane, now spinning wildly, would fly through the air like some kind of Ninja Worrier weapon. All around me the lambs, chickens, even the rabbit seemed quite content and calm in their domesticated dwelling, while I checked for the hundredth time that the structure was solid and secure. Read the rest of the story »
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 »
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Aenean nonummy hendrerit mauris. Phasellus porta.