Not for Naught

Not for Naught

I have been away from my blog for so long.

First, I will ask you to excuse any typos or strange wording, as my computer is kaput and I am posting by phone. Hopefully, my posts are understandable.

There is a lot to catch up on. Too much, actually. Our “family” grew larger this year with the addition of three more dogs that quickly became ten total when the abandoned stray we took in gave birth. We also have heritage turkeys, laying hens, and more cattle. Of course, that also means a lot of mouths to feed, vet bills to pay, and mucho muck in all sorts of vintages!

I started raising chickens last February in the house, where our wood stove could keep them and us warm during what we thought was winter’s last hurrah. Yes, the chicks were in the house caged, litter changed frequently, and in my estimation no difference from parakeets, parrots, and cockatoos. When the little balls of fuzz grew their real feathers in, they got a place of honor in the cow shed. By July ten beautiful little red and gold hens began laying elegant brown eggs and the two roosters, Dot and Not (named for the
Dot on top of their heads as tiny black Barred Rock chicks) split the flock between them. Nearly the size of the Royal Palm toms, they easily kept a tight rein on their respective portion.

Two nights ago, however, something made dinner out of two of Not’s girls and broke his neck in the melee. Mike found him, barely alive, in the middle of the pasture. There was no hope to save him. (Spoiler alert! Skip the next few paragraphs if you get queasy.)

Such is life on a farm with animals. You take care of them, treat them well, and give them the best possible life, but eventually a decision must be made regarding their welfare. Not (I now call him Naught) was doomed and we will enjoy our chicken and dumplings for tonight’s dinner.

He will also be part of dinner for the dogs for the next few days, either as protein or broth poured over their dry food. We will all be thankful for that brave little roo that saved the lives of most of his flock. Even traumatized, the girls all laid beautiful eggs this morning and were fed ground up shells from yesterday’s egg gathering. I deliberately marked and left two in the nest… Maybe there will be a Not, Jr.

Ach~ Ramblings About Heat!

Ah….my kingdom for a swimming pool!

I think everyone is aware of the awful heat the country experienced over the last several days. We are now told it will likely continue into next week and resemble the conditions that produced the Dust Bowl of the 1930s.  Uh-huh. That is precisely NOT what a farmer wants to hear as he or she looks out upon stunted soybean plants, crunchy brown pasture, dwarfed feed corn, droopy sweet corn, and wilted garden produce. It might be different if we grew cacti for market.

Mike had to open-up one pasture this week that he originally intended for winter hay. The other pastures are so dry there is little for the cattle to eat. We noticed a large increase in cattle sales reported at a nearby stockyard, so we are obviously not the only ones hit by the drought. He found some hay for sale and bought about 80 rolls at a bargain price…only about $1200 out of pocket…and he jumped at the chance because if the drought continues, he expects the price to sky rocket. We are also considering selling off some of the lesser valued cattle to cut food consumption. That means Spot, Brahma Mama, Pip and the Painted Ladies may be moving on to (hopefully) greener pastures. Of course, Pip and the Painteds will not bring much due to their small size and large appetites.

We had to feed the young calves hay, along with their feed, rather than the nice green clover they were becoming accustomed to. They are not thrilled with it and gladly come to me in a near-stampede to get any small morsels of clover I find and pass across the electric fence. They do not even mind the 105F temperatures baking down on them while they munch.  Mike noticed that the Charolais seem not to care about the heat, while the Angus tend to gather in the shade of the run in. He has been refilling water tanks three or four times per day, when normally he refills them every couple of days, so clearly the heat is dehydrating them a little.

Like the cattle, the three dogs seem to prefer the shade…the one inside with the air conditioning. It is hard to get them outside for potty breaks until evening when the sun begins to go down. Yep, we have the dog days of summer about two months early. The city girl in me would love, love, love a swimming pool right about now! We might wish we had one filled and waiting should water rationing be reinstated. In the meantime, we stay out of the heat as much as possible. Mike did fill his 200 gallon water tank six times and water the produce garden so we did not lose the produce scheduled for the local restaurant. After all, we got our foot in the door with them last year because their purveyor failed to show up with the summer squash he promised. Drought or not, we need to keep our word as far as possible, even if it means paying city water rates because the creek ran dry.

In fact, the creek bed is almost dry except in the deepest parts, but at least there is water available for the wild life. We have not seen our usual herd of deer, but a flock of turkeys with their young chicks still make forays into the yard. I think the dogs are just too hot to care. Even when a wild rabbit came up into the yard last evening and sat and stared at the house, they could not be bothered to move out of their respective cool spots to notice.

The raccoon that stole a large plastic food bowl and its contents off the deck a few days ago has not been around either. I suspect, he is munching the cat food from it like popcorn, from the shady shelter of his own abode. I can see it now, cradled in his left arm as he reaches into it with his right. Sure wish he would bring the bowl back. It was a good one, an extra large, heavy dog food bowl. Raccoons are little thieves, a fact I noticed since moving to the country. Little wonder so many despise their cute little fuzzy, bandit marked selves. Remember last year, when Mike planted a full acre of sweet corn and we only got four ears? A neighbor reported they already destroyed over one hundred watermelons from their farm.  Yeah…that’s raccoons for you! Poor things probably won’t get any corn this year, the drought took it toll on the plants. Gee, maybe they will move elsewhere, ya think?

So here we are, stuck in the house due to the heat (except for Mike’s usual and necessary chores), we and three dogs. Too much land to water, no water in the creek to pump, brown crunchy pastures and over-heated cattle who seem to delight in making their own swimming pool from their urine and standing in it to keep cool.  The urine pool makes for a smelly invitation for all sorts of flies that Mike has to deal with. That alone begs the question, why is it that cows will stand in the rain to eat, but freak out if sprayed with any sort of liquid?  In any case, I am wishing they had a small shallow pond near their run in to stand, instead of the pool they “built” inside the shed. As Bill Cosby once said in his story of Noah, “Who’s gonna clean up that mess?!”

So before you think that all I do is complain, let me add.,, This morning we woke up to somewhat cooler temperatures and the sound of thunder.  We go absolutely no rain, but it will be a balmy 98F today as the result of the brief cloud cover.  We will take it! It might even been a good day for a cook out in the shade of the wild cherry trees next to the house. Maybe I will fill Eddie’s pool for the dogs to romp in. Or maybe, we will do what we have done for the past several days and just vegetate in the living room with the slight breeze of the air conditioner and be thankful every minute that we have not lost the electrical power.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pride and Prada-ness

Photo courtesy: Neiman Marcus

Photo courtesy: Nordstroms

I arrived back in Kentucky from my latest trip last Tuesday evening. Funny, after three more weeks away from home, the farm felt strange. The deep green grass, now browned by a month long drought, mimicked the scrubby, sparse landscape I left behind in the Colorado countryside. But being home was not similar in any other way. Crickets, tree frogs, and coyote calls replaced traffic sounds, sirens, and door slamming upstairs neighbors. Tractor Supply, Lowes,  and Southern States return as my shopping places of choice, though they  hardly hold a candle to my forays into Neiman-Marcus, Dillards, Nordstroms, and Macys. My empty, dusty wallet, once again carried in the convenience my back pocket, no way approaches the $6,500 (yes, that is six thousand five hundred) ostrich leather Prada handbag I covetted. (Yes, gentlemen there are purses that expensive out there. Aren’t you thankful for your low-maintenance woman?) The clearance shoes priced at $400 in the “Needless Markup” store, I left behind in favor of my $35 muck boots.

_Mirror Mirror_ Photo courtesy: IMDb

For nearly six weeks (in two batches) I ate in real restaurants with real waiters and tablecloths, tipped far too much, and enjoyed the company of old and new friends. I shopped. I went to the movies (the first time in the US since the first Titanic was released). I won $1,000 at a casino (another first!)  I had a pedicure (another first, at least done by someone else), got new glasses and contact lenses, and had my teeth cleaned. I was invited to people’s houses for barbeques, participated in trivia contests, had grown-up conversations that involved more than “moo,” “ruff,” and “meow” interpretations. I met people from Wisconsin and New Jersey and other “exotic” places, ran into Wildcat fans everywhere (which someone told me is why they refer to the University of Kentucky fans as the Big Blue Nation), and refound the value of shopping as a female bonding activity. It was great.

Scratch that.

It was wonderful and horrible all at the same time. Wonderful because these are things I enjoy immensely but do rarely, and horrible because it left me wondering if the city girl in me still wanted to live in the city more than the country. Should I return to the city? Continue on this path? Face it. I LIKE traveling. I LIKE spending money. I LIKE nice stuff….yep champagne taste on a Koolaid pocketbook (I can’t afford beer).

So, I am back now. Back to chores and laundry, mowing and blogging, musing and wondering. Back to naming calves, fixing the house, eating dinners in front of the television, often alone and sometimes overwhelmed by all this…this…stuff…this…FARMING stuff! Will I ever be content again? What is the answer?

While mowing around the electric fence today, I came to the conclusion that I need one of two things to settle my enigmatic personality:

I need to win the lottery or I need a clone of myself.

Yeah, right. I will just run right out and win a few million and all my problems will be solved. Uh huh.

Instead, maybe I will just momentarily be happy that I have seen both sides of life and that I have a choice. Few in this world do. Many never see a mall let alone a department store or beautiful $3,000 earrings– priced per earring– let alone turn down the purchase because they are white, not yellow, gold. (Well, I had to give her some excuse! Choking would have been rude!) Many face outrageous medical bills like my brother and “sister.”

My brother is progressing in his healing and I understand his bills are more than $80,000. My friend received mixed news and will soon start chemo, reconstructive surgery, and radiation, and her bill just for tests ALONE was over $30,000 before the first of two surgeries. Everyone else I love is in a health holding pattern. Most people I know take daily prescriptions for everything from diabetes to high blood pressure, yet other than some odd fatigue thing that has plagued me for twenty years or more, I am healthy. I have no medical expenses, I take no medicines on a regular basis. In fact, I have few of the worries many people my age face. So altogether now, may I have a unified, “Geez!” with my whine?!

I may travel west again in the next few weeks as my friend begins her medical treatments; I might even take an actual vacation.. But as I mowed around the electric fence this morning I also realized wherever I am…I am blessed.

I guess I can pass on the $6,500  handbag, the $3,000 diamond studs, and the shoes priced for a steal at just $400 just this once. On the other hand…

Oh, Mi-ike! Can we raise ostriches next?!

Been Wondering Where I am?

Me too!  Ha!  Not really.  You see, a couple of months ago I got “itchy feet.” I love to travel and during the Spring when Mike is so busy with prepping, plowing, and planting, I get lonesome for human company. It seems to happen every year. It is then that I yearn to travel.

So I had the bug and called a dear friend of mine to see if there was “room at the inn.” It was then I found out she had just been diagnosed with cancer and faced surgery in the near future. I was in shock and in about a second my desire to travel for fun became a need to travel to her, to be by her side, to help however I could, to satisfy myself that in spite of the disease she was “healthy.” Afterall, she and I had been friends since last year, when we were seventh graders. (Of course I’m kidding…not about seventh grade, but it has been about 40 years since we were seventh graders!)

I began making plans to visit her the day of her surgery or soon thereafter. Meanwhile, my oldest brother had a heart attack and was to undergo a quadruple bypass. I made plans to fly in for that visit too. As it turns out, their surgeries fell within a few days of each other and I could make sure my brother was doing well before traveling on to be with my “sister” for her surgery. At this writing, both are doing quite well….although they might dispute the word “well” depending on their current pain level.

I am now back home, greeted by a fiance and the three dogs who apparently thought I was never coming back. I have never seen such excitement in this crew! The bad news for my blog readers is that my stay will only last about a week and I will fly off again to be with my “sister” for the next round in her several surgeries. I will be back, though, I promise. Just hang tight.

Mike got the garden mostly planted while I was gone and the soybeans are in the ground. He is now working on his hay baler, which apparently someone decided they needed parts off more than he. They stole so far adding  up to more than $1,000 to replace, not counting labor. I suspect it was a former field worker or the local kid that stole the timber off our land a few months ago. Nonetheless, if we are going to have hay for winter, it must be fixed. The corn he planted in April will not suffice for the cattle. Mike also plans to plant pumpkins for sale at the local farmers market.

Of themselves, none of these crops are sufficient for living income. The combination of all, however, we hope will allow us to at least break even this year– that is, if people would quit stealing from the farm.

By the way, for those wondering if the cows would remember me after being gone so long. Yes, they did. Mike drove me by the calf shed on my arrival home. Coco, Runner, and Ricky were in the field nearby and I called them as we passed. Ricky and Runner kicked up their heels and followed the truck in a trot while Coco, who turned into a black (not red) Jersey in the past three weeks, stared at me with a look that said, “You are coming to pet me, aren’t you?”

Ah, yes. I feel like I am home.

Spring…now stay!

I really hate to say it, because last time I did things changed in a bad way, but I think Spring really is here. Heavy frosts last week and one hard freeze kind of muted our jubilation over its early arrival, but this week things are warmer, rainier, and more like one would expect.

I took my coffee out to the front deck this morning while Mike misered away his last precious moments of glorious snoredom. Sleeping, in this house, is often a privilege granted only by the pets residing here. Normally, as soon as it begins to get light, at least one, if not three, ecstatic dogs pounce on the bed to wake us. It is as if they want to sing out, “Wake up! Wake up! The sun rose again!” Yeah, thanks. Oh, and thanks for washing my face for me with your tongue too. Where’s my coffee?

Yellow Iris

I did my morning routine: let dogs out, potty, shower, make coffee, water houseplants. It occurred to me, still in my early morning half-awake fog, when I watered the new potted petunia Mike bought me for my birthday that it really was warm out. Yay! Coffee outside this morning!

As you recall, we put a deck on the front of the house this year. Previously, there was none. Now I am not talking about replacing what was there…there was NONE. No deck, no porch, no steps, nothing. The front door from the inside was a door to no where– and that was about a five feet drop. The new deck is small, but I love it. There is a bistro set with a bright yellow umbrella where I can sit and recall taking espresso at Deux Garcons in Aix en Provence a few  years ago. There is a bench with bright Hawaiian floral printed pillows that remind me somehow of the mumus my mother used to wear as I grew up. And there are pots, lots of pots. Empty pots that await soil and flowers because it has been too cold to plant them up.

Ahhhh. My porch, my coffee, my new flowers from Mike, my dogs playing in the yard. (My, that sounds selfish. Still, they are my pleasure too.) Yes, we have a yard now too! Mike hired some local boys to clean out the cow shed a few days ago. He was busy, it needed to be done, and they made the mistake of asking if he had any work they could do for pay. That’ll teach ’em! It worked out great for the all, though. When they finished mucking the 16 X 58 calf shed, the three of them built the dogs a fenced in area at the front of the house. The structure is temporary, made from metal posts and cattle panels, but it provides a larger area for unsupervised fun. The two larger dogs, not being spoiled quite as much as Fritz, love it! I have to say, I do too.

Snowball bush (white hydrangea)

Sitting at the bistro table, on the porch, watching the dogs turn donuts in the yard in a mad game of chase is great, but not nearly as great as seeing the sea of green that now surrounds the house. I sat musing about which flowers I wanted to plant where, how to build a walkway to the drive that could be mowed rather than weeded, and even scolded myself for not yanking the morning-glory weed (yes, weed) that draped itself across the Japanese Barberry Mike hates. Yet as I sat there I also became acutely aware of the sounds of Spring around me. A wild turkey or two gobbled a mating call in the trees not 200 ft from the house and a little beyond that, two deer vocalized. Song birds chattered away in the branches above, happily rustling the branches as they jumped from place to place. Sammy the Cat meowed a greeting to the cows mooing in the distance and above all this clamour came another sound. A human sound.

Apparently Mr. Jones is planting his fields this morning, and even if it is only seven o’clock, it should be a welcome sound of Spring in the country. I had to remind the city girl in myself of that as I sipped my coffee and selfishly enjoyed the cool morning air, the scent of the honeysuckle and all those sounds around me. This is not a park refuge, I am not a weekend hermit on a religious retreat. This is a farm.

It is also planting season and Farmer Jones (or whoever it is) was on it this morning! The loud engine noise his tractor made echoed from the creek below us, its volume enhanced by the cliff walls. I actually had to stop to figure that out, because to me, for a moment, it sounded like the 405 freeway lined with semi tractor trailers on a workday morning. The juxtaposition of that sound, that motor driven, squeaking sound, against the backdrop of Nature actually disturbed me. That was a realization that surprised me, having grown up less than two blocks from a freeway interchange. I wanted the sound to go away. I wanted to listen to the birds and the deer and the cows and the dogs. That noise, that infuriating human-made noise, as Mike probably would tell me, was the necessary sound of money being made. It too is a sound of Spring.

Like Farmer Jones, Mike will climb on his own tractor again today and disturb Nature’s sounds too. He broke only a portion of the ground for pasture before the cold hit, though the sweet corn is not up yet. Hopefully the new pasture will provide hay in the late summer, so I am glad he finished that. He also broke a field for sunflowers and cucumbers– an experiment I convinced him to try near the asparagus field. He still needs to prep the fields for soybeans and there is field corn to plant and the produce garden to prepare. Unfortunately, a bearing is out on his plow and he feels rushed to fix it before we get too far into the season–  especially since the greenhouse plants are at a near perfect height for transplanting. Breaking the produce garden, to me, is the priority.  Mike would disagree. I would also like the garden closer to the house, Mike would disagree with that too.

This year the produce garden will be even further from the house than before due to the crop rotation Mike practices. It will be larger too, I think. It seems that for something like $2.60 more Mike picked up 150 lbs. of potatoes for planting instead of the 60 lbs. he originally intended. He also has seed potatoes for pink, golden, and purple fingerling types. Barring any disaster the potatoes should produce about 1500 lbs of potatoes…for two people, their friends, and a local restaurant. I think we will have potatoes coming out our ears, but a bargain is a bargain. For the price of a few of ten pound bags of Idaho potatoes we might purchase at the local grocery, we will have ample.

There will be kale, spinach, fifteen varieties of heirloom tomatoes, another fifteen varieties of peppers this year too, as well as okra, squash, zucchini,…. you name it. Hopefully, we won’t have a drought this year and buyers will line up for our morning-picked food. We are checking into starting or joining a CSA program, but for this year, the produce garden income will remain coming from the  farmers market, the restaurant, word of mouth, curbside, and friend sales.

As I mentioned, many of the plants we will move were started in float trays in the greenhouse back during the winter. In a few weeks we will spend days planting them by hand into the garden, and then constructing the Florida weave to support some of the plants, followed in the summer by hand harvesting. Mike uses his cultivator to clear weeds between the rows, but there simply is not time (nor energy) for hoeing around every single plant. A lack of a ready source for water other than rainfall disallows planting under plastic mulch. The result is lower production due to weeds, which frankly, given the amounts we plant and can, I am rather happy with. Again, Mike might disagree since he always likes a bumper crop. But, with labor intensive as it is in gardens such as this, and on produce farms in general, we Americans still do not like high food prices. Because of that, Mike expects to realize only about sixty to seventy-five cents a pound (wholesale) for our tomatoes. We will also have more than we can possibly eat, can or freeze for ourselves.

In fact, we are in that position now with asparagus. The asparagus came on a couple of weeks ago because of the warmer than usual weather. It has not hit its peak yet and I am already tired of it. I love asparagus…just not every day. With a thousand plants in the ground and a short season, that is exactly what it is. We will be canning and pickling and eating it in a thousand different ways until it finally pans out around June 1. Meanwhile, I am collecting asparagus recipes on Pinterest. Some sound wonderful; some, not very; some, curiosity inducing.

Photo courtesy tasteofhome.com

For example, I found an Asparagus Bundt Cake recipe the other day that intrigued me. Why not…carrot cake, zucchini bread, why not asparagus?  I never found any other dessert recipes for tall green spears and wonder why. So today, I am going to try to make a Chocolate Asparagus Cake. If it is edible, I’ll post the recipe I came up with. If not, we will all know why there are so few recipes for asparagus as a dessert.

Now I am wondering if cows can eat can chocolate cake…?  and will they eat asparagus? Hmmmm.

Mike moved Pip and the Painted Ladies over to the other farm and in with Big Mama Angus and Brahma Mama’s herd. The new availability of grass and clover on demand has apparently been good for Pip because he is in a growth spurt and now stands as tall as the Painteds and is heavier. Sam the Charolais finally matured sexually as did Spot the Jersey, so it won’t be long before we will sell Pip and Spot. Rhino the Angus is still king of his herd, though. In a dominance display, Spot tried to mount the huge bull a couple of weeks ago. Rhino head butted him off his feet and the young bull ended up on his back, feet in the air, looking like “what happened?” Rhino is our keeper bull, a fine-looking specimen for building our personal herd. The upstart will breed elsewhere and perhaps increase a local dairyman’s herd.

The babies in the calf shed are growing like weeds, even if they are afraid of the great outdoors. Because of the cold, we kept them inside all winter and now, even with their pen doors open, they hesitate to go outside. They must, because they too will one day join Rhino’s herd…after they are electric fence broke. For now, instead of kicking up their heels in joy at the prospect of “breathing room” they stand in a group, afraid to move for fear of that white thing that hurts (the electric fence ribbon). It is not the happy sight of Pip running wantonly from end to end seemingly smiling from ear to ear in the joy of his new and greater surroundings. He took right to it, while these have explored little in the two weeks their shed has been open. They will have to get used to being outside soon, because putting them to pasture saves the expense of feed and is healthier for them.

Besides, we have others critters to buy feed for.

Mike buys a bag or so of feed per week for the fast-growing turkeys. Since they are not yet outdoors ready, he also brings them clover, grass and herbs for their nutrition and fun. It is cute to listen to their gobbles turn to almost dove-like coos when the green food appears. They also do a sort of happy dance, flinging themselves across the pen like they were dive bombing an enemy.  I never expected to see such behavior and joy from a flock of birds

Perhaps utter joy is  the true sound and sight of Spring. I hope so and I am learning and watching. I also hope it does not turn cold again.

The Early Bird

Mmmmm.....coffee

I am up a little earlier this morning than I planned. It happens like that around here. Weather alerts, the wind, strange cat sounds, or a puppy whining at the hardness of bone she is chewing will do that to you. You probably surmised at this point that Val is still with us. After being sick for a week and hardly lifting my head off the pillow, I did not have the heart to send her away. It looks like she is now part of the family and even Eddie has become her doting alpha male to the chagrin of Fritz, who believes himself to be the top dog. They are all in a three way tie for who is the most spoiled.

Their day consists of rushing out the front door first thing in the morning to get a little play time. Stand back if you are between them and the door, because it is a little like watching elementary school kids in the old days when school dismissed. [Todays school are much more regimented.] They return to dog biscuits while we sip our coffee through a one-eyed haze. In about an hour they leave with Mike to ride along while he feeds the calves. It is the happiest time of day.

Patterdale Terrier Deutsch: Patterdale Terrier (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Lately, their rambunciousness means that Mike has to chase down three dogs running in three different directions at the same time and none coming to their name. Stop! Hee! Sit! …yeah, Mike’s learned those well– not so much the dogs. I hand it to old Fritz. He has never responded to voice. Never. He’s a Patterdale, though, and while other breeders bred for agility or looks or whatever, I think they bred Patterdales for stubbornness.  He does not mind…not in English, not in French, not in Spanish and not in Japanese. I know. We’ve tried. Looking at the Wiki picture, maybe we should have tried German. We have found that the only way to get him to mind is to fool him. If you want to get him to eat dinner, for example, and he’s hiding upstairs, “Fritzie! Wanna go for a ride? (jingle keys)” is the way to do it.

The good thing is that Fritz LOVES the calves. When the three tear off in a confused run with Mike trying to get them into the truck, Fritz usually makes a bee-line for the calf shed and often runs around to the run-in side to try to see the “baby cows.” This morning if the same scenario occurs, I wonder how he will respond to thirty turkey chicks, not calves, looking back at him. They are the newest arrivals to the calf shed, although separated completely away from the calves. I suspect his excitement will not make it easy for Mike to get him back into the truck.

Yesterday, you see, was move-in day for our soon-to-be free range turkeys. Mike, Caddyshack and City Guy spent the day before tranforming the run-in shed to a turkey coop, complete with roosts, feeders and manure box (for the want of a better word.) It looks sharp! Not as cute as some of the Victorian style chicken coops I have seen and admired on the internet, but certainly very functional.

Run-in shed converted to turkey coop...do they call it a coop for turkeys?

I imagined moving the turkeys from their brooder in the garage to the cowshed would be comical. I pictured the three amigos pitching squawking and flapping birds into the back end of Mike’s truck only for the flappers to escape when they opened the hatch to take one or two out. I pictured us chasing turkeys around at least five acres, which none of us is in the shape to handle. I even suggested rounding them onto a sheet then gathering the ends to tote them over, when met Mike’s sharp disapproval along with a bit of teasing. Nevertheless, as the time arrived for the men to transfer ability-to-fly birds, I quickly ran for my cell phone. I just knew there was a $10,000 prize for this on America’s Home Video or something.

I think I was disappointed when the transfer went off uneventfully. No. I know I was disappointed. I really wanted the $10,000! We just reached in, grabbed a bird or two, covered its head and carried them to the pen. They hardly peeped. Each was a little confused once they arrived, but you could tell from their chirps, their scratching, and their snuggling into the hay that they loved their new home. Even the little Royal Palm turkeys snuggled in under the heat lamp and went to sleep.

Which is what I think I am going to do for a little while. This getting up early stuff is for the birds…or the turkeys…or the dogs…or someone. It is not for me. Have a great day!

 

Royal Palm turkeys. They soon will get 'real' feathers. Until then, they like the heat lamp.

 

better shot of the turkey coop

 

The Bronzes checking out their new digs. See how much they grew?

Help Me Obi-wan Kanobe

Like Han Solo and Chewbaca racing to Alderon, Mike’s two Chicago partners, at this moment, are zipping lightspeed  to the farm with an unspecified plan of attack. I can tell Mike is getting excited that the  friend force will soon be with him. He nearly chattered about their arrival last night the entire time I watched how many times Randy Jackson called a woman “Dude,” and what kind of lecherous statement  Steven Tyler let drop out of his mouth. (Yes, I’m digressing again.) In any case, Mike hardly controls his  excited expectation and if I wasn’t sick (again) I might feel a bit like Yoda admonishing him, “Size matters not.”

Oh wait, that is for a Princess-Leia kind of excitement at some other time.

(Hey, I don’t know what I’m thinking…I’m feverish-ish.) Meanwhile, Mike Skywalker is out waiting for the dirt man to arrive with a load to fill in holes in the yard of one of the partners. I guess the last time the Emperor arrived the storm troopers had a little too much fun blasting the gophers or something. Good they will all have fun, though I question some priorities, since there are still a ton of necessary chores awaiting. Who am I to question it. Live here I do; a partner, I am not.

When the dirt is delivered, my big ole Jedi Knight will be out taking care of the cows and will have hopefully sheathed his ever-powerful light sabre  until the guys arrive. Once here the two will verbally joust with him almost constantly as dissing becomes the play of the day. There will be conversations about the University of Kentucky’s big championship win and which of the trio did his brackets the worst. They will spar over manly things like who is a wimp or not, who is stronger or not, who can perform better or not at farming activities. There will be jokes about Chewbaca’s receding hairline, and there will be the running jokes about other types of light sabers and cows and size comparisons that have nothing to do with either farming or Star Wars.

I love it when the guys come down– for the most part. There is a lot of laughter and you can see the brotherhood of this friendly force. Since I was the only girl in my family, there is a comfort in being included as “one of the guys” and I sometimes forget that I am but a mere female in terms of stamina, strength, and yarn-weaving abilities. My measuring tape, for example, is accurate and does not measure things in “light sabre inches,” an exaggerated size comparison. A two inch fish is still a two inch fish, not a keeper, no matter how well a story is told.

Which leaves me wondering. Caddyshack (Chewbaca in this analogy) emailed to say he was bringing a nine pound leg of lamb with him. NINE POUNDS! I’m thinking, he is already measuring in those light sabre inches or he thought he got lamb, but paid for mutton. See it, we shall. He is also bringing corned beef for the smoker for all of us to share. Unfortunately, I still have my bug and have not been to the grocery store.  I hope they like the aspargus Mike gathered while walking the four legged sand people this week before the storm and hard freezes hit. I think there might be a couple of pounds of potatoes left too…if the Jedi don’t decide to build another hair spray powered potato gun. (Last time they did, they discovered that walnuts still in their rinds shoot better than potatoes, in case you are interested. I hoped the walnuts would grow wherever they landed.)

By nightfall, regardless of side dishes, the house will feel like the Star Wars Cantina. Music, a movie, or Guitar Hero will loudly form the background noise for increasing conversation decibels and the men will recount their day, the old days, or the very old college days while tossing back the beers. Some will click the can to tap out the very last drop, others will leave half an inch in the bottom ‘because it got warm.’ I am amazed at their prowess. Two drinks of any kind gets me drunk, sick, or sleepy and beer is…well…awful. I am usually the most sober one in the room and it feels a bit like partying with your brothers, I suspect.  Fortunately, the Wookie and the Jedis leave their blasters elsewhere while they get blasted. George Lucas would be proud.

So while the Jedi have left their Princess Leias at home to seek out the counsel of Yoda and have a weekend of high adventure, join them or not, I will. It all depends on the force within me…the stomach flu.

I would say, “May the force be with you,” but I wouldn’t wish this one on anyone!

**Addendum: I came across this article that might interest you as it did me. I have mixed emotions about it. On the one hand, training for farming is needed. Should the state compete with small farmers like us, though? You decide.  http://prisonphotography.wordpress.com/2012/04/08/inmates-as-farmers-ashley-stinson-in-kentucky/

I wanted to…

The Picture of Dorian Gray, film 1945. Photo courtesy Wikipedia

I thought I would pass along some insight into my writing style. I write off the top of my head, just as I mentioned before. When I sit down to the white screen before me, I usually have no idea what I will write about until I finish. This is, afterall, not a formal paper requiring an outline and logical sequence. Nevertheless, it may explain to the reader why my blog entries sometimes take “a left turn at Cucamonga.” You probably noticed in reading the blog that things work a little differently in my brain. How one progresses from writing about illness to Easter is a prime example. It is the way I think.

I blame it one hundred percent on my parents. Hey, why not? Everything was their fault!

It was their “fault” that I learned to ask ‘if I do this what will happen?’ from a young age. It was their fault I learned to apologize if I did wrong, hurt someone, or stuck my foot in my mouth. It was their fault I learned compassion, empathy for others, concern for the less fortunate, and to think beyond myself– to have a true sense of altruism. It was their fault I learned that taking something without its owner’s permission is the same thing as stealing– it is NOT borrowing, nor is it acceptable because I think my own needs are greater than the owner’s needs. It was also their fault that I learned “I wanted to” was not a sufficient excuse for anything. My parents could not help teaching me those things, they learned it from their parents and the community around them.

Many today lack these moral tools because, in their pursuit of happiness, parents around the world shirked their reponsbilities for teaching moral behavior. In many cases, moral lessons taught were undermined by opposing practices. It certainly was not always intentional, but the results are the same. The Me Generation produced a society fraught with a whole lot of desire-motivated individuals who were incapable of responsible reasoning.   I mean, if a person decides to steal from someone, say copper wire, do they really stop and ask themselves what happens as the result of their actions? Hardly.  There is no necessity, empathy or forward thinking involved. A thief’s only lame justification in this country is always “I wanted to.”

A drug abuser epitomizes the selfish and self-centered individual. He is the face to “I wanted to.” Everything a doper does, from buying his first joint to stealing from his neighbors, or from sleeping with her boyfriend-supplier to selling her body for drug money emerges from narcissistic desires. “I wanted to”– with the emphasis always lying in the word “I”– becomes the sole motivation for all activities. As it grows like a cancer, “I wanted to” becomes the justification for any desire or action taken. Why did you steal? Why did you kill that man? Why did you beat your grandmother in the head with a hammer? Why did you abuse or neglect your children? Regardless of other excuses, the reality is “I wanted to” answers each question because the drive for self takes on the shape of animal instinct for those mesmerized by its power.

Empathetic, caring, loving, and giving people do not become drug abusers, period. Some will debate that statement, but while many people may try illegal drugs, not all become addicted. Their “If I do this what will happen” over-rules the temporary and base control of “I wanted to.”  They view with contempt the abandonment of responsibility for a short-lived ‘high.’ They abhor those that take it upon themselves to infringe on the personal space, freedom, and property of others. They find those that center their entertainment, non-working hours, and financial means at the exclusion of TRUE friends and family reprehensible and foolhardy. And in some cases, they feel extreme anger and resentment towards the drug addicts and their enablers who cry out like wimps, “He can’t help it. It’s the drugs.”

It is NOT the drugs…the drugs are not the diagnosis, but the primary symptom. Drugs feed and nourish the “I wanted to” mindset. They do not cause it.

If I sound angry here. I am. A day or two ago, Mike got a call from a friend who owns a small house locally but stays with a girlfriend in the city. Someone broke into his house, stole all the copper wiring and as the result, his chest freezer completely thawed and hundreds of dollars worth of meat nearly ruined. He invited Mike to go and get some of it, rather than it going to waste. Sadly, for the want of a few dollars, this man has lost thousands.

Now, this guy is not wealthy, in fact, his house is little more than a tar paper shack. I know many areas in this country, like California, where it would be condemned as uninhabitable. Did the copper thieves, whom the press is quick to tell us are drug abusers, think for a moment that a person living in those kinds of conditions probably doesn’t have the means to replace that wiring? No way. “I wanted to” got in the way of “if I do this what will happen.”

It seems to happen a lot around here. Someone stole old growth trees off our farm; the same someone stole a tractor from a neighbor, burned it and then sold it for scrap. His grandfather made the excuse, “It’s the drugs.” Stores go out of business because they cannot stand up to the numbers of petty thieves. “It’s the drugs.” People get shot standing in front of their apartment. “It’s the drugs.” A child is blungeoned to death at his grandfathers. “Its the drugs.”  It happens so frequently, I have often asked myself if by moving here I have suddenly stumbled across the most selfish regional culture in America. Afterall, we are bombarded daily about the rise in drug use in Appalachia, the geometrically expanding numbers of raided meth labs, the children taken in drug raids, and so forth. I wonder too, if selfish sufficiency is replacing self-sufficiency in Kentucky. What is the future for a covetous society destroying itself in the pursuit of the next high? Is something else going on?

I have no answers. But for every media-hyped example that makes the ‘good’ people of our state press for better laws, more guns, and more government intervention, an example of kindness, love, and caring quietly goes about changing its own little world without the media noticing. In the long run, it is the balance between the two that keeps humanity from completely destroying itself. This struggle is nothing new to human existence. If we take the Bible as an example, Eve definitely had a case of “I wanted to” when God told her she could have anything in the garden except the fruit of that one tree. She did not care; it was all about Eve.

I know someone like that. The woman is tall, well proportioned to her height, believes herself to be wealthy, has two beautiful sons that worship her, owns her own home, and boasts of lots of nice “stuff.” She is also perhaps the most evil person I have ever met in my life. Seriously…and I am old! She is a drug addict and DT-fighting alcoholic that could only work for her father because her extreme narcissism and demanding control-freak personality precludes her from keeping a ‘real’ job. She simply does not work well with others and prior to working for her dad, lost job after job for her laziness and poor attitude.

Yet as horrid a person as she is, life is good for her because her parents constantly take responsibility for cleaning up her screw ups. They avoid embarrassment and excuse her behavior by telling people, in essence, “She can’t help it. She is sick.” They also submit to her manipulations by actually believing her constant stream of lies and excuses. But her parents must bear the brunt of the blame for her lack of compassion, her physical and emotional abuse of others, and loss of her humanity. Somehow they taught her that greed, covetousness, and self are the most important elements of life.

On the other hand, she alone carries the shame of having sold her humanity for animalistic base instincts.  She bears the true mark of the Beast…no sense of desire for a better world, for helping her fellow man, or even for hard work towards those ends. You will not find her working for charity, helping the homeless, or even listening to a friend unless there is something in it for her. Everything must have a pay back to her.  She will not be seen giving any of her possessions to a needy friend let alone a stranger,unless by so doing she can control them. It is all about her and her own immediate desires. She is motivated only by a constant drive towards a consumerism focused not on taste or modesty, but quantity, expense, excess and self.

Even a so-called “user” would find himself manipulated, coerced, and controlled by this woman. The internet is her hunting ground.  A pretence of being monied serves as the self-satisfying power to control others. She uses her personal perversions to drawn in her victims, then flaunts the family’s material possessions and proclaims her father’s power when confronted by authorities. She is incapable of processing the whole notion of love, so she acts as she sees others act who are in love. Her act works for a short time, but ultimately she is left standing alone and wondering how she can better control the next victim.  If asked why she beats the men in her life, as indeed she does, in spite of all her excuses and lies to the contrary, she simply “wanted to.”  Because “I” is the center of her world, she prefers to be feared. Instead, she is to be pitied.

You may be sitting there thinking, “Wow! Tell us how you really feel about this woman!” Yet the woman I describe is an archetype. The reality is, we all know someone like her. More worrisome, each of us carries within us the possibility of molding ourselves in her image and must be ever vigilant to avoid that. “I wanted to” is her own Dorian Gray image, dark, wicked, repulsive, ever hungered, never quenched in her greed. We must not become like her.

It is not simply good enough to put a few coins in a kettle at Christmas, if at home we teach our children the poor somehow deserve to be poor. It is not enough to volunteer at a soup kitchen if at home we teach them that anything less than name-brand is beneath “people like us.” And it is not enough to drop a cash envelope in an offering plate on Sunday if from Monday to Saturday we maintain the “I wanted to” in all our personal and business interactions. And it is not enough to shout from our soapbox how uncharitable the world treats us, while refusing to practice charity at home.

Prisons and half-way houses are full of “I wanted to” individuals. Your local hospital, courthouse, and Congress is too. It is all a matter of degree.  Ah, you say, but the politicians “can’t help it, our system is sick. We only voted them into office because we wanted to.” Uh-huh.

On the farm, each day begins with a plan centered on weather, circumstances, seasons, and a myriad of other factors. One cannot plant seeds without breaking the soil; one cannot harvest without chopping weeds. It is not about taking a day off because “I wanted to.” Watching the seed rise from its darkened sleep to stretch towards the sun and produce its fruit is all about watching results in action. When we plant a seed, we are planting the question “if I do this what will happen?” At the end of the season, we have our answer for good or bad. We do not plant simply because we “wanted to” and walk away.  Each seed represents finding a life sufficient to ourselves without desparately searching for new avenues to fill otherwise empty spaces.  If we can find no other love but the love of the land, it is enough to thwart the effects caused by “I wanted to.”

Sadly, increasing number of country kids are grounded less in good moral lessons than the “I wanted to” culture in society around them. The loss is greater still when we realize how many will take on their own mark of the Beast like the deluded woman of “means.” May God help her and them.

 

Good Things About Being Sick

Easter eggs (Photo credit: StSaling)

I think I found out why I was moving slowly the other morning. The stomach flu hit me full force. At least, I think it is the stomach flu. Since it is Easter weekend I have not been to see anyone about the fever, chills, headache, light sensitivity, and gastrolintestinal upsets. But here I am day three (or four? or is it five?) on my couch watching the sunrise for reasons other than Eastertide.

I am trying to see a good side to being sick. There are plenty of bad results from it and they are compounded on a farm, so the good side can be like an Easter Egg hunt…without the pushing and tackles, but including the whining and crying, maybe. Ok. Think! Through this fever-headed foggy brain, THINK!

Here’s one. I got a LOT of sleep. One of the days I was sick, I believe I slept 24 hours, with only slight awakenings throughout the day and night by Mike or the pets. Val is still here and she thinks night time is for playing and daytime is for sleeping, so we’ll have to work on that when I am better. I did sleep though. Would fall asleep shivering under the comforter and wishing there were twelve more on top of me and wake up sweating like I was in the Amazon. But I slept! I slept more than I have since moving to the farm. That is a good thing, right?

Another good thing…ah, yes…that diet I planned to start but am about five years late on started itself. Since I got sick three days ago (or was it four? or five?), I have had exactly four spoonfuls of cream of asparagus soup and a bite of a grilled ham and cheese sandwich on day 1, two slices of french toast on day 3, and (proof that I am feeling a little better) a bowl of chicken noodle soup, a milkshake, and (drumroll please) a polish sausage…and the sausage stayed down! Ok…so I must have been sick four days now.

I helped our budget by being sick. Yep, that’s true. For one thing, I have not had a cup of coffee since that first morning. Not that I did not want one…well, actually, I did NOT want one, but I am on a gatorade or 7up sipping regimine and trying to keep hydrated. On a good day coffee is dehydrating, not to mention the cream and sugar we put in it, so avoiding it was probably a good thing. I did sort of miss “our time” over coffee in the morning, but Mike probably never noticed because I was passed out and snoring on the couch during most of it.

Another good thing about being sick was not being around when we lost three of our newest calves. Apparently, they caught Shipping Fever and died before the arrival of vaccine Mike ordered. The one that shocked us the most was Buddy, the newest Charolais, who was fine and ate breakfast without a problem, at two o’clock was still well, and dead by 5 p.m. By being sick on the couch, I did not help give boluses, hold the bag while Mike tubed them, hold them for injections, or love on them while they passed away. Their loss and all Mike went through alone, while I hugged the trashcan or ran to the restroom, does explain perhaps why when I asked for a blanket he brought it to me, still folded, and tossed it at me before heading out the door. He was full-up on nurturing for the moment.

The city girl in me wondered if what I saw as a lack of caring was purely a Mike thing or a country thing. I mean, if you are sick and take to your bed, aren’t the ones who love you supposed to dote on you a little? Check your fever? Make sure you have the medicines you need and the liquids to take them with? Aren’t they supposed to check your fevered brow with the back of their hands and look at you with compassion and caring? I was very hurt to have a blanket thrown at me with a huff…but I also did not know we had sick calves. On the other hand, Mike did run into town to pick up meds I needed, made a special trip for a milkshake just because it sounded good to me, and did extra around the house.

Somehow, it isn’t the same.

So maybe there is another good thing I learned about being sick. We cannot always expect every person to have the same compassion, empathy, or attentiveness that we have always known. Some people just don’t get it, for whatever reason and it is our job to teach them better. Seems to me that is what some anti-establishment dude in the Middle East died for about two thousand or so years ago and why today we celebrate his rising from the dead. His command was not to overthrow governments or to dominate other people, it was three simple words:

LOVE ONE ANOTHER

Funny thing…He healed the sick too.