Giving Thanks

Well, Thanksgiving has come and gone here at the farm.

It was a delightful day filled with memories that will last a lifetime. This year, we invited our friends and had a "down home", bring-a-dish celebration of each other and all the blessings we continue to enjoy. Nineteen people in all, twenty, if you count our neighbor poking the nose of his truck around the corner and into the driveway to acknowledge the pie wedges we'd slipped onto his counter while he was out. And, we were elbow to elbow!

That didn't matter, though.

New friends, old friends, family. Zak is home, now, and we were ready to celebrate! The food was delicious--a beautifully browned turkey, a wonderful ham, traditional side dishes and guilty desserts. The day was beautiful, albeit cold, and we elected to dine indoors, turning our living and dining areas into one LARGE table. The crowd ebbed and flowed throughout the day, visiting the nursery to sneak a treat or two to its occupants, or to gaze over the fence into the main pasture, enjoying the view and the interaction of the farm's inhabitants.

One tradition we enjoy at our Thanksgiving meal, as the dinner gets underway, is for each and every guest to reflect on the year that has past and announce at least one thing he or she is thankful for. This year, with all its struggles, posed a challenge in my mind. But, as I was pleasantly surprised, our guests poured out their hearts and showed just how grateful a people we can be. We have all faced challenges--some of us seemingly unsurmountable ones. Yet these very ones were the most adamant in their thankfulness! I am honored and humbled to be included in such a group of thanks-givers.

My early-morning e-mail summed it all up:

May you, like us, pause for a moment today to consider the innumerable,
yet undeserved, blessings that we are so privileged to enjoy.
May we focus on the bounty we have and give God thanks for it.

Sunday on the Farm

Can I tell you about my Sunday?

Yesterday started like any other day. Up at 4:30--because of the time change, of course. Made coffee, fed little Anabel her bottle. Got my first cup of steaming hot coffee and began my trek through the foggy pre-dawn to the office to read the news on the internet. Peaceful.

I went in the house and got a second cup of coffee. Made a "Buster Sandwich", consisting of a slice of white bread, some maple syrup, and a huge, crushed phenylbutazone tablet, and went out to feed the crew. The nursery was a piece-o'-cake. Little horses, little goat. Little deer and turkeys galore! Fed the donkey and fed the ducks. Man, oh man, I have great luck!...wait...I'm waxing poetic...

Got a scoop of dog food for Skooter and a whole bucket of grain for the preggie mini girls and Buster, who you know by my previous post is sequestered in the arena barn to hopefully heal his leg/foot. All is right with the world. Started off across the yard with the golf cart and decided to feed Skooter and the mini girls before heading out to the pasture to feed Buster. I put the Buster sandwich in the dash cubby of the golf cart just long enough to dump Skooter's grain. I turned back around just in time to hear Bob swallow hard and belch. Nothing new...he always gets into the livestock grain for a nice change of menu.

Then I realized...

...the Buster sandwich was gone!! I knew, for sure, that Bob would die. He'd just consumed enough Bute to medicate a 1000 pound bull in less time than it took to turn around in a circle. After sticking my finger all the way down Bob's throat at least a dozen times trying to make him puke, I rushed in to the internet to google an antidote, but much to my chagrin, there is none. "They", the great and mysterious powers that be, suggested giving the animal milk or egg whites and rushing them to the vet. "Do not induce vomiting," the advice read. "Great!" I thought, "he didn't puke, anyway!" So, taking the wonderful mystery medical advice, I rushed into the house, cracked an egg into a bowl, added a healthy dose of milk, and mixed. My reasoning was that, with the addition of the egg yolk, he'd be more likely to eat it.

Out of the house I went, bowl in hand, to present Bob with what would hopefully overfill his little tummy and cause him to surrender the potential poison he'd just swallowed a few minutes before. Interestingly, Bob polished off the egg mixture in less than a minute, licking the remnants off his little moustache. Hoping against hope, and not having $300 to $500 to sink into a stray dog for an emergency-weekend-vet-call, we hoped and prayed. Now, the Good Book says, to paraphrase, having done all, stand.

So, we stood. And, we waited...and waited...

One hour passed. Another hour passed. Soon, the morning was gone, and Bob was still his spry little self. Albeit a bit calmer, he was none the worse for wear. The day continued to pass, and Bob didn't even show signs of halucinating. Nothing! No salivating, no quivering, no poos, no coma. Absolutely nothing.

We pronounced him safe around mid-afternoon.

Then, as we worked on the Cottage's gardens, readying them for a fall dressing of mulch, we heard a commotion in the corner of our yard, inside the fence near the nursery. It was Anabel--playing in the leaves that had fallen from the great oak in front of the gate. She buried her nose into the leaves, jumped into the air, twirled, rolled, and started all over again...at least until those awful turkeys came walking through and ruined all her fun.

It was a nice ending to a stressful day. Thankfully, the ending was a good one.

One Cow Down

Meet "Buster", the bull.

He's Anabel's dad--a Lowline Angus, and therefore classified as a miniature. Well, miniature is subjective, as was underscored yesterday afternoon...

It seems that Buster has injured his left rear foot and has been down a lot the past month or so. He's lost a whole lot of weight, too. I guess not being up and around tends to shed a few pounds--if you're a cow. The worst was that he had isolated himself in the farthest corner of the main pasture, far away from food or water. We carted it out to him, but it just wasn't enough. We were really getting concerned that we may lose him before his foot could heal. So, we had an idea...

At this point, there was nothing we could do but TRY to get him over to the arena barn and in a stall where we could readily supply him with much-needed water, hay, and grain. Although he doesn't normally get grain--he's grass-fed--this is an emergency and the extra nutrition would be helpful. The problem? The journey to the stall was at least 200 yards across the pasture. Granted, this doesn't sound like a long journey in the grand scheme of everyday life, but when you're a bull who's still weighing in around 12-1300 pounds with a foot/leg that is out of commission, it is an undertaking. We thought, "Hey, why not take the horse trailer out there, load him up, transport him the distance, and off-load him into the stall...SIMPLE!!" ...NOT!

Unfortunately, Buster couldn't make the step up into the trailer. He was certainly willing, and he was so agreeable and in a terrific mood, but he just couldn't navigate the step. He sure wanted the bucket of grain, however.

So, we had another idea... I would tease Buster with the grain and get him to walk the distance to the stall....SIMPLE!! OK, at this point, you're probably thinking, "Is she stupid? TEASING a BULL with a bucket of grain?!? IS SHE CRAZY?!?!?" Well, you really have to know Buster. Lowlines, by their very nature and breeding are docile creatures. Buster, it seems, is the most gentlemanly bull on the face of the earth. Yes, he's still a bull, and we give him that respect--you know, the gee-this-massive-guy-could-crush-you-in-one-move respect. But we know our limits with him. So, we embarked on the looooooooooong, arduous journey across the pasture--one step at a time.

It took over two and a half hours. Zak was on the golf cart with horse whip in hand to keep any curious onlookers away from the bucket of grain. Buster got tired three times and needed to lay down and rest. But, as I said, he was in a great mood and very willing. He seemed to sense that we were doing something for his greater good, so he worked...and worked....SO HARD...and worked some more.

We were finally within twenty feet of the stall door, when he decided he should go back to the pasture's edge where the love of his life, Scarlett, stood watching. I'm sure you can imagine that keeping Buster from doing what he wants is almost impossible for us mere mortals. But, with the aid of a bale of hay, a red feed bucket, a couple of path railings (4"x6"'s laid out to visually block his path away, we finally were able to get Mr. Bigstuff into his new quarters and shut the gate behind him. WHEW!!! We were exhausted!

We then busied ourselves getting him comfortable with all the water and hay he could handle. At least now, he's out of the rain and hot sun, he can be easily fed and watered, and I don't mind going out and spending a little time with him now and then to scratch his knobby head and ears.

He really likes that.

Success!

Though the crowds were very light and the weather iffy--with a huge competing arts and crafts show located just two hours to our north, this past weekend's Chickasaw Arts & Crafts Festival was well worth attending for us. With my son's patient help, we set up shop early Saturday morning, barely ready for the 9:00 a.m. start time. Our booth was full, and you could smell us just walking by--and that was a GOOD thing! The candle and soap scents wafted on the breeze, calling in shoppers to look through our wares.

We had a wonderful time, and we met folks from all over--some from Tennessee; others from Arkansas, Ohio, Florida. And our products' reception was fantastic!

We're really happy with the results, and we are looking forward to the next one!

Lessons from a Car Show

The party's over, and the fans are all gone. We've packed up, cleaned up, and gone home with our goods--tired but happy.

The weekend car show at the Chester Country BBQ Fest was on Saturday, and the weather cooperated very well. Sunny, 70 degrees, light breeze...PERFECT for sitting a booth! And sit we did. Five hours spent answering questions, plugging the farm, and hocking our wares, and we have come to the conclusion that it was time well-spent. We sold items, we introduced the farm, we met new people, and we laughed a lot. The exposure, in itself, was well worth the time invested, but we got so much more out of it. We discovered that there are a lot of local folks out there who a) didn't know we existed and b) really would like to come spend some time at a real farm rather than an attraction. WooooHOOOO!!! We DO matter! Our message IS valid! We're doing a GOOD thing!

Affirmation is ALWAYS good. Good for the soul, good for the psyche, and good for business.

Next weekend? We'll be at the Chickasaw Arts & Crafts Festival. Weather permitting, it should be a great time. Stop by and see us, if you get a chance!

All's FAIR...

The State Fair is over, and the midway is all packed up and gone.

Even the remnants from the crowds have been cleaned up. And I have reclaimed my entries in the photography competition this year. There was some stiff competition, too. Amateur photographers from all over West Tennessee were represented. I met one teacher, while in line to register, who had brought photos from some of her students at a high school over two hours away. Local people entering just a picture or two, and maniacs like me who entered in every category imaginable. And my reward for my efforts? Two second place ribbons and a check for four dollars. In this age of over-the-top sensationalism and extraordinary reward, it may not seem like much. But, in my estimation, two second place ribbons and a check for four dollars means that my photography spoke to someone, and that means a lot to me.

And the winning photos? Well, you see 'em here. One is a shot of my husband and a friend working on Ol' Lena, our 1947 1-Ton Chevy. The other is a shot of our farm that I use as a logo of sorts for my soaps and other farm craft.

I'll continue to enter the State Fair every year--with its stiff competition and overwhelming number of entries. It's good, clean fun, and the rewards are far beyond what you could put a price tag on.

Through the Garden Gate

I am SO sore this morning.

I can barely lift my arms, and don't EVEN ask me to bend over to pick something up off the floor!

Why, you ask?

Well, yesterday, I tackled my long-neglected veggie garden. 1850 square feet of raised beds brimming with overgrown tomato plants, long-wasted corn stalks, and an unimaginable amount of just-plain-weeds. Heck, we even had four small willow trees starting to grow in the aisles! However, with a lot of grit and determination, I started at the west end gate and began to hack, yank, and rip until I could see bare soil. It was shaping up to be a long and arduous process when, thankfully, my son decided to help his ol' mom out by lending his muscles to the project.

The two of us worked, side by side, most of the day. We were joined by Anabel, the calf, who flitted from one garden bed to another, munching on the tender grasses that had begun to take over. As she was happily exploring one of the beds, it happened--FIRE ANTS! At the time, we didn't have a clue why this docile little cow jumped and then took off as if a rocket had been ignited in her bum. She raced around inside the garden. She ran through the gate and out into the yard. She barrelled, full steam, around and around the garden fence and under the deck, kicking and twisting and mooing. We were at a loss as to what, exactly, we could do to help her, since we couldn't begin to catch her, but, after a bit, she calmed down and rejoined us amongst the raised beds, contentedly munching far away from the site of the "attack".

All the while, Snowman (one of the Great Pyrs) watched from the shade of the silo. Bob, the JRT, busied himself waiting on the golf cart for a ride to the burn pile. Seymour watched from the nursery gate--hoping we'd bring him a few rose petals. Rocky would happen by, occasionally, peeking in to see what we were up to. However, he and the minis in the yard were more entertained by being able to walk through the equipment barn--which usually remains off limits to most critters. The thrum of the tractor, as my husband mowed in the main pasture, provided appropriate background noise.

At the end of the day, we weren't finished. We still have much to haul to the burn pile. We still have the herb garden to tackle. I have to spray the garden beds for weeds and squash bugs, and I'll attempt to start some spinach, beets, and lettuce. But, it was a good start. And today promises to be much cooler for the work. Maybe I can even work out some of this soreness in the process...one can dream.

Mornin' on the Farm

So I woke up this morning at around six o'clock...

...an innocent enough beginning to the day. As I look out the windows, I see a deer nestled in the nursery barn awaiting breakfast; a weanling colt wedged between the '47 Chevy and the wall in the carport, dozing in the quiet beginning of the day; and a cow lying on my front landing, right between the doormat and the Great Pyrenees asleep underneath the bench.

Yep, definitely MY farm.

Seymour has settled back down in the nursery and is, for the most part, business as usual. That is, except when that...that....COW THING comes near the fence! Anabel, though loathed by the deer, has taken to her life in the yard with her brothers Rocky and Gus (a maxi and a mini Paint), Snowman and Gianni, and daddy Bandit (all Great Pyrs). Now that she's mastered the art of ascending and descending the steps to the front landing, Anabel is a nightly fixture on the front doormat. It's a quiet spot with a great view, and she never has to sleep alone. I guess if you're a little gal finding your way in the world, that's a pretty safe spot.

We'll roll with it for now. Can't imagine, though, the scene when she's 500 pounds...

He's BAAAAaaaaaak!

OK, just when I was getting used to the fact that my "deer rearing" days had come to an end, everything changed.

It was Saturday around lunchtime, and I was in the office/studio working on candles for an upcoming show. All of a sudden, both my husband and son burst through the door, and with breathless excitement announced that Seymour was "at the gate!" Since we live in the middle of about 1,000 acres, it could have been ANY deer at the back gate, but Seymour is so easy to identify...most of the hair scraped off in a line down the middle of his back from going UNDER the stall gate for dog food time. I stress the word "under", as it is not in a deer's nature to go "under" things. They always go "over". Not Seymour, our Great Deerenees! He learned the dog way of doing things--and that's UNDER. Period.

I dropped what I was doing--thankfully remembering to turn the burner off under the melting wax--and rushed out the door. There, pacing at the gate waiting to be let in, was Seymour. So as not to frighten him further, I calmly walked to the gate, talking to him all the while, and opened it. He rushed in and immediately was surrounded by his Pyr brothers and sisters...and dad. It was a joyous reunion with lots of butt sniffing, fur chewing, and whining. I took advantage of the momentary distraction to slip into the house and grab the one thing in the kitchen that I knew he loved: an apple.

When I returned, apple in hand, Seymour dove in, teeth first, like he hadn't eaten a thing since he left. I walked him--and his entire entourage--to the nursery gate, opened it up, and they all followed me in. It was at that point that I noticed Seymour's battered condition. He looked like he'd been on the losing end of a major prize fight. A large, semi-circular cut under his right eye, a small cut across the bridge of his nose, and various scrapes and patches of missing hair all over his body. Did he get beat up by a world-wise buck in the woods, or did he have an encounter with a coyote? We may never know.

Since his return, we've had to move Anabel out of the nursery. Seymour is deathly afraid of her. And, he's been very easily spooked at the least noise or smell. However, I am pleased to report that, as each day passes, he is closer and closer to the old Seymour we know and love. I think with time and understanding, he'll be back in top form--healed from all his wounds and ready to face life again. Until then, doctor's orders are plenty of rest...and dog food. It nourishes the soul, if you're a deer.

Will he leave again? Probably. But we'll enjoy the time he's with us, expecting full well for the call of nature to eventually win. Just not now.

And then...he was gone.

We all knew this day would arrive.

You just can't prepare yourself for it, though. While you know in your bones that it is the way it should be, your heart still gets broken.

What am I talking about, you ask? Seymour, the yearling buck. Today was his day to fly. I've been trying to come to terms with the inevitable for days, now, as I watched him grow more and more restless in the nursery. He was isolating himself from the others--not at all like the Seymour we know and love--and he paced the fenceline, looking into the yard, the pasture, the world beyond his little world. He is a year and three months old, now; a juvenile buckling with features that change every day as he matures into a beautiful and graceful adult. An adult that needs room to run. To fly. To be free.

My last interaction with Seymour was yesterday. As I was leaving the nursery with some very dear friends, Seymour came up to the fence, and with some urgency, stuck his head through the fence and licked me right on the nose--the sweetest of deer kisses. Then he went back to doing what he did best--rest in the nursery with his charges: Abby, Gracie, Mia, and the newly added Anabel. This morning when I went to give Anabel her bottle, I assumed that Seymour was, perhaps, lying in the dog stall waiting for breakfast.

So, I gave the little calf her bottle and went on with my morning ritual of drinking a nice, hot cup of coffee and reading the internet news. Bob, the foundling Jack Russell terrier's barks broke the peaceful morning, and I looked out the window of the office to see what he was up to. About then, I saw a beautiful deer in the front pasture, gracefully leaping along the fenceline toward the back. It headed straight for the mixed herd of horses and donkeys gathered along the cart path, and as it approached, the herd parted like the Red Sea. After hesitating a moment, the deer continued on toward the back gate and the freedom of the back 100 acres of our farm. "Hmmm", I thought to myself. What a pretty deer." I didn't realize until a half an hour later when I went to feed that I'd just witnessed Seymour's flight to freedom. No heartfelt goodbyes, no fanfare--just a quiet exit as his white tail bobbed toward the gate.

And then, he was gone.

I know in my "knower" that this is as it should be. We did a good job raising him. He's fully capable of foraging on his own, making his way in this great world around him. But still, my heart is broken. Such a gift this last year has been! I have learned and experienced things I never thought I'd have the opportunity to, thanks to this precious little gift of a baby deer. And I must say, I am the richer for it. My heart will mend--as I dive into the harried schedule of bottle feeding our new little calf. But, as the days grow shorter, I will spend time reflecting on the precious memories I have of a beautiful deer named Seymour.

Godspeed, my friend.

A NEW Meaning for "Labor" Day

How is it the old Cat Stevens song goes?

Morning has broken, like the first....newborn-calf-in-the-field...

Well, not exactly. But our morning started out with a bang. Or, rather, a bellow...a continuous strain of bellows, to be exact. Buster Brown, our three-year old son of Buster the Lowline Angus bull, broke the cool of the morning with a continuous string of bellows that would ice over any activity with a thick coating of fear. These bellows were L-O-U-D. And, while we couldn't see him, we KNEW something was wrong.

I sprang into action, throwing down the scoops in the middle of the morning feed and hopping on the golf cart, intent on finding out what was causing such a commotion. As I flew over the wet ground, the bellows got louder and louder, until I could see this hefty boy bouncing on all fours "pogo stick" style, flinging his head and strings of bull slime with it. He whirled and twirled--bellowing all the while. I didn't see anything amiss except for a few flies buzzing him, so I figured he'd happened upon a wasp's nest and got the worse end of it. He calmed a little, so I went back to finish breakfast in the nursery.

The peace didn't last long.

The bellows rose again, louder than before. So, hoping there wasn't a snake chasing him or that some other awful fate hadn't befallen him, I mounted the golf cart and back I went. This time, I saw Scarlett, our Scottish Highland cow. Her udders were filled beyond all capacity, and she was showing obvious signs of labor. So, I looked a little closer.

There, in the taller grass between where Buster Brown was acting up and the perimeter fence, I saw it...a hairy log. Well, not REALLY a hairy log. It was a newborn calf lying motionless in the shadows. My heart sank. NOT AGAIN! Last year, Scarlett's first calf, Rusty, died in my arms. I couldn't bear the thought of that happening again. With the goft cart between me and the unusually upset bull, I peered closer and noticed a breath. Then, another one. And, another. This one was still alive and kickin', and I knew if I didn't get it out of there quickly, Buster Brown was intent on making it a doormat. Obviously, by the smell, he could tell it was his daddy's calf and not his. In his mind, this would not do, and he was doing all he could to keep Scarlett away from the newborn. Buster was actively posting himself between his son and his love--keeping her safe and sound.

Seeing my opportunity and before Buster Brown had time to react, I jumped off the cart, grabbed the baby, and sped away to the gate and the safety of the yard. As I approached, my husband opened the gate and joined me in assessing the little rescuee. SHE was beautiful. The color of chocolate milk and perfect in every way. About 25 pounds and still very weak, she appeared to be unharmed by the fracas going on around her. In the span of about five minutes, I mixed up the only bag of colostrum we had and got two pints down her. Then, she nodded off to sleep as I toweled her off completely.

As the day has progressed, this yet-to-be-named little heifer has napped several times, gained the use of her still-wobbly legs, and mastered the art of the "moo". Her systems seem to be functioning normally, so we're hopeful that she'll be welcomed by mom again this evening when we will attempt to get her into one of our birthing stalls. That remains to be seen. If so, then we'll consider this day a success. If not, well, then we have yet another bottle baby to contend with. After all, three months isn't such a long time, is it?

Weanie, weanie, weechie...

Weaning time has come. That dreaded day when an innocent baby is torn from his mother's flanks--shrieking all the way--to begin life as an independent soul.

Well, that's not how things happen at our farm, anyway.

On Friday, September 4--just two days shy of his 3-month birthday, Rocky waltzed right into the nursery, and as the gate clicked behind him, he didn't even look back. I thought I saw a tear in Falcon's eye and her lip quiver slightly, but that was it. No muss, no fuss. I've since let the little Rock Star into the yard with Gus, the yearling mini colt. And, aside from getting his (Rocky's) backside kicked over a bucket of grain, all is well. Mama's contentedly grazing in the pasture, waiting for her turn in the stud pen for another honeymoon. Rocky is contentedly grazing in the yard, napping here and there, whiling away his time with his new buddy, Gus.

I'm not quite sure what I did to deserve such a smooth time with weaning, but I'll take it. Easy breaks are so far and few between on the farm.

Semour's First Day Out

It was a day like many other days. The sun was shining, a light breeze was blowing, and the inhabitants of the farm were lazing away another unseasonably nice summer day...until Billy strolled up to the nursery, that is. It seems that Billy, our Boer goat buck, just can't let "sleeping dogs", er, "goats" lie. He has his two women in the pasture with him, but that was not enough. You see, Billy is also in love with Clemmie, Suzy, and Emmie. You should note--Clemmie, Suzy, and Emmie are miniature donkey jennets, and they are in for breeding with their man, Cisco. Billy couldn't stand it.

So, in a midday rescue attempt, Billy smashed the walk-through nursery gate open, and proceeded to find his missing loves. Unfortunately for us, this allowed the nursery dwellers--goat babies, mini mares, sheep, and Seymour--access to the big pasture. You would think that they'd all rush the gate to fly into "freedom", but it didn't quite happen that way. Actually, we're not really sure how or why things ended up as they did, but at around one thirty, we were on our nifty new back deck talking with a visitor, when my husband turned to me and raised the alarm, "Honey, the deer's in the pasture!"

Now for most people who live on a farm, deer in the pasture is a fact of life. It is on our farm, but this was no generic deer. It was Seymour, our Great Deerenees. Seymour is a yearling buck who was rescued at around a day old on June 17, 2008, by our Great Pyrenees dogs, Gianni and Huggy Bear. Seymour has lived in our nursery since then, bonding with the guard dogs and learning all there is to learn about becoming the best darned Great Deerenees he can be. While he could leave us at any moment with an effortless leap into the pasture, he elects to while away his days guarding Abby and Gracie, our 6-month old goat babies.

Upon hearing my husband's words, I raced to the pasture gate leading from our yard. Sure enough, there was Seymour--panicked and desperately searching for a way in. As I neared, I called to him and he stuck his little nose in the crack between the gate and the post. I later learned that our guest leaned over and asked my husband, "Will that deer REALLY come when she calls it?" to which my husband replied, "Just watch." Eager to assist, our son ran to the barn and grabbed a handful of dog food, bringing it to me as I let Seymour into the yard. A few dozen little deer steps later, Seymour was back in the safety of the nursery, his panic subsiding with each passing moment.

I looked around the nursery, and noticed that I had some housekeeping to do while I was there. Billy was lying in front of the nursery barn, as if he belonged there, the two minis from the pasture--Jasper and Lily--were roaming around inside the barn, and Seymour, it seems, was the only escapee. With everyone back in their proper place, I applied a nice chain to secure the gate and went in for a well-deserved shower.

Ahhhhh....life on the farm!