A Piece of My Heart

It has been far too long.

In all honesty, dread has overcome me every time I started to write. But, there is none more deserving of a heartfelt tribute, so I should muster the courage and write. What could possibly have derailed someone as verbose as I, you ask?

On June 22, 2010, the guard was passed at Stillwaters Farm. At the age of 12 and a half, Skooter, our faithful and much-beloved rottweiller, passed quietly in his sleep. Being the original animal of our family, Skooter has held a place of high esteem and adoration in our hearts and minds for the majority of the time that we've been a family.

Skooter's day started like most days--a barkfest over his morning breakfast. Biscuit, his paddock mate, always delighted in aggravating a good half-hour's worth of barks out of Skooter as he threatened to take away the dish of leftovers that Skooter had grown accustomed to in his old age. The leftovers, you see, were much easier to eat for an old fellow left with little more than reminders of where his teeth had once been. With breakfast finished, the dish licked clean, and Biscuit reminded that he is not entitled to savory steak bits and chicken scraps, Skooter embarked on his morning's activity--scooting his "stick". The 4"x4" piece of wood, more than two and a half feet in length, was the object of Skooter's obsession for the rest of the morning. Inside his house, Skooter scooted the stick hard into the walls--an activity that necessitated the rebuilding of the dog house at least three times over his lifetime. Outside on the dirt, the scooting continued, much to the chagrin of grass and weeds--or any ankles--lurking in the vicinity. Nothing could deter Skooter from his task--to scoot the stick and bark at it if it went astray.

Once the heat of the day had built, it was time for Skooter to settle down and find a cool spot in the dirt to lay his head. An old fellow is entitled to his daily nap. And, there it was--between his dog house and the fence in the shadows of early afternoon, that Skooter drew his final breath. Always the gentleman, Skooter made no fuss. He garnered no attention. He just quietly slipped away in his peaceful slumber and left us with fond memories. I know this was the case, as it was always the case with Skooter. No great fanfare, no drama, no fuss. Just a simple dog, with his simple stick, happy in his simple life. Oh, that we could all be like him! Satisfied with the simplest of things.

On June 23, 2010, a piece of my heart was buried in the warm Tennessee soil along with Skooter. And while Bandit is doing a very nice job stepping in as the leader of the dog band, there will never be another Skooter. And it is right that there never should be.

We miss you, sweet and faithful friend.

What's all the buzz about?

On Friday, we were blessed with a rare occurrence at the farm. It seems that a colony of wild honeybees that live on property outgrew their "digs", and swarmed to find and settle a new colony. To his shock, Mr. P. witnessed the settling of the swarm into one of our apple trees, and not knowing what it was, sounded the alarm that we were being invaded by dangerous insects. A little internet research and a couple of pictures later, we knew what we were dealing with--and it wasn't something out of science fiction or a B-grade horror flick. It was merely a natural occurrence in a healthy ecosystem.

By late afternoon, the "glob" of bees had disappeared from the apple branch--hopefully finding their new permanent home. And we, much the wiser, could sit and reflect on our good fortune to have a thriving population of wild bees to pollinate our fruits, vegetables, and flowers. What a great event to witness--first-hand!

Also, this past week, we were blessed with a whole troupe of baby ducks. Our Rouen momma has spent the greater part of the last month sitting a nest in the nursery barn. On May 12, the little hatchlings began to emerge, and by the 13th, there were a full dozen healthy little peepers. On the 14th, when Mama Duck was sure there were no more arriving, she led the parade of ducklings into the yard. They busied themselves learning to eat bugs--poo piles are GREAT sources, you know--grazing the clover, and playing in a puddle of water, courtesy of the water hose. They are, in fact, adorable, and we look forward to watching them grow into healthy, adult tick-eatin' machines!

Finally, in an occurrence that can only be described as "Biblical", our oldest goat doe, Mia, gave birth to her very first baby at the ripe old age of somewhere between 12 and 14 years old. Quite appropriately, we have named the healthy baby boy "Isaac". Mom and kid are doing well.

UPDATE 5-24-10: Our second mama duck brought us a full brood of babies four days ago. Seems she is an excellent brooder, as all but two of her eggs hatched. That means she successfully hatched 14--yes, that's FOURTEEN--babies! A weak one has disappeared, so now she's down to 13. However, that's a bunch o' babies to look after! Mom is keeping her distance from Mama #1, but I suspect that, evenutally, all the babies will mingle in the soon-to-be-constructed mini duck pond in our yard. It's amazing what one can do with a little black plastic, a few well-placed rocks, and a water hose...

Spring has Sprung!

Chocolate tomatoes?!?
Wow--I've never heard of them, but they sound really interesting! A member of an internet group that I'm a part of says she has planted "chocolate tomatoes" in her garden this year.

As somewhat of a "tomato connesseur", ;o) I love the not-so-mainstream types. I've put out Cherokee Purple, Goliath Beefsteak, Oxheart, and Indian River--all heirlooms. I threw in a few Romas just for grins and giggles. Aside from that, I'm growing some Habanero and Caribbean Red HOT HOT HOT peppers to take to the Farmer's Market with me this summer. Soap, soy candles, and...hot peppers? What a combo! But, our local farmer's market coordinator is fine with it, so why not?

Since my last post, I've been up to my eyeballs in spring weeds in my gardens. Seems like we went straight from winter to early summer here in West Tennessee. We've got hairy vetch up to our waists--just in a week! Signed on my first "Tennessee Farm Chick" volunteer, a new friend's daughter, to come help me weed the raised-bed veggie garden in exchange for a candle. When it was all said and done, believe it or not, she elected to take three bars of soap instead of the candle! A nine-year old wanting bars of farm-made soap? Voluntarily clean kids? Oh my gosh, what's this world coming to?!? ;o)

We still have to tackle the perennial gardens at our Cottage farm stay. While I did get the roses all cut back just in time for new sprouts, and the English varities are starting to set buds, the weeds are creeping in there, too. My bleeding hearts, columbines, and creeping phlox are all in bloom right now, and the echinecea, hyssop, buddleia, and asters will not be far behind. My wisteria put on quite a show for the first time, this spring, and I believe I'll keep it trimmed into a small bush rather than allow it to take hold of my board fence.

Babies, babies, babies around the farm, too. We've had five sets of twin baby goats this spring, two pregnant Paint mares, a pregnant mini mare, a pregnant mini cow, and three donkey girls of whom we can't decide if they're expecting or not. This aside from a disappeared soon-to-be mama duck, on a nest in the barn, and a disappeared Bourbon Red turkey hen, probably on a nest somewhere in the neighboring woods. We'll see the trail of poults when she finally hatches them. And, finally, we have a desperate goose who is faithfully sitting a nest of rather large, unfertilized goose eggs in the stud pen. We can't convince her to come off the nest, so we'll allow her to realize on her own. Mental note to self--find a mate for her this year...

We've also added three new full-sized horses to our herd--Geronimo, Ebony, and, of course, Doc Holliday. Geronimo and Ebony are unregistered quarter horses, and they have all blended in quite well with the existing members. Falcon, of course, still insists on being top mare, and Rocky is content with napping in the wet grass in the warm spring sun. All is well.

And, that's about it from the farm. What's everyone else up to this fine spring?

A Beautiful Day

It was, for all practical purposes, a beautiful day.

The sun was shining, the breeze was blowing through my hair, and there was a new horse in my pasture. Spring fever had taken over, and I just HAD to get out of the house. "Perhaps," I thought, "I'll take him for an inaugural ride in the back."

This was my first mistake.

I loaded the golf cart with saddle and bridle, reins and leads. Brushes, picks, saddle pads, and sunglasses--all the tools I'd need for the afternoon. I swung the saddle over the front of the cart, heavy stirrups making a thud as they smacked its floor. Barn doors wide open, I raced out into the sunshine and through the pasture gate. I quickly jumped off to close the gate, then back on to continue the short journey to the pasture barn. I pressed the pedal to the floor, but there was nothing. No zoom, no click. No rattle; no beep; not even a little smoke. Nothing. I should have taken note of the warnings.

But I didn't.

Off to the barn I walked, calling my son to fix whatever was broken. I'd groom our new guy at the barn, then walk him back to the cart to saddle up. However, Zak was most helpful in turning the key to the "on" position so the cart would move again. Seems the saddle had covertly knocked it almost to the off position, and the bump out the gate finished the task. So, I mounted the cart and set out again.

Grooming and tacking were pretty uneventful, although our new guy, nicknamed Doc, did seem a bit antsy. I put it off to being in new surrounding with used tack--still smelling of horses past.

Second mistake.

Once dressed, we ran circles and lounged a bit to make sure all was fitted and brains were engaged. After about five minutes, Doc began licking his lips, a sure sign we were ready to begin. With a sigh of relief that the warm-up didn't take too long, we set out on foot to the back pasture gate. Better safe than sorry in the front pasture, I reasoned, since the mares were on the loose. However, they didn't give us a second glance. Lazily grazing on the remnants of last year's grass, the mares delighted in the fair weathered day.

Through the back gate and into the front hay field, we were finally ready to begin our "get to know each other" ride. At this point, Doc began to dance a bit. Now, I must interject, here, that most new horses will try the new owner on; that is to say--try to get away with a little mischievousness. So, I moved him to a different place and attempted to mount. With foot in stirrup, he side-stepped and moved away. I tried again...with the same result. Finally, I moved him about 20 feet, stuck my foot in the stirrup, and started to swing my other leg over him when...

WHOOSH!!!

Something spooked our normally calm guy and he took off at a full gallop. Lightning speed across the pasture. Normally, one would ride it out until the horse calmed down.

Not this time.

You see, I didn't have time to get my leg completely over him before he bolted, and it only took one four-beat of his hooves to rattle my other foot free. No stirrups... I'd still had ahold of his mane and the back of the saddle when he took off, so the reins jogged and jiggled around his neck, just out of reach. Here I sat--or bounced--an afterthought at the mercy of a frightened, 1200 pound prey animal streaking across a field, littered with little holes here and there. I had a very important decision to make: a) stay on, try to regain control, and ride it out, taking the chance that he'd trip on the reins and kill us both, or b) bail off and take whatever punishment the hard Tennessee clay ground could muster.

I chose "B".

Regardless of how accomplished the rider, there will someday be a time when the decision must be made--fight or flee. This was my day. I hit the ground with a dull "thud", rolled a bit, and came to rest looking up into the beautiful blue sky. My whole body was numb. I lifted my head just in time to see the dust as Doc disappeared at the far end of the field. I tried to stand up, but I collapsed back down onto the ground, still reeling from the sudden jolt. I heard hoof beats rapidly approaching, and I knew Doc was on his way back by me. I couldn't scramble to my feet fast enough to get out of harm's way, so without thinking, I threw my legs up in the air to show him where I was.

It worked.

He raced past, turning and snorting as he reached the other side of the field. By this time, I had collected myself enough to stand, unsteadily, mind you, but I was still upright. In a vain effort, I called Doc, clapped my hands, and clicked my tongue. To my amazement, he trotted right to me, bent his neck, and buried his head in my chest. I praised him for coming straightaway, half leaning on him for some composure. It wouldn't have profited anything to scold him, as horses' memories in matters of fear are short-lived at best.

Instead, we collected ourselves, took a deep breath, and embarked on a six-footed walk through the hay fields, past the woods and ponds, around the gates, and back to the pasture again. We passed possums and birds, empty hay cribs and silent paths. Ever faithful, Bob scurried along side, occasionally darting out to sniff out a trail. What should have taken us 20 minutes wound up lasting an hour and a half. And, while I was bruised and battered from one end to the other, no permanent damage was done. We--Doc and I--spent the afternoon not riding, but, rather, learning one another on a much more intimate level. Out of our fear and pain gleamed a small, but discernible, spark of trust.

Like I said, it was a beautiful day.

A Good Day to Die

Cold winds blow across the pasture, whipping through an empty barn. All is quiet there now. No activity, no visitors, no occupants. Today, there is no reason to hurry morning rituals to trek a bucket of feed there. It is the first time since that barn was built early last fall that it has been standing alone and quiet. Its stillness belies the tragedy of yesterday.

Sunday, January 3, 2010, was the end of an age here at the farm. Our beloved bull, Buster, was put down and laid to rest beside his good friend Red near the pond that edges the front hay field. Our friend and neighbor kindly undertook the task, as it was just too much for us. Rich bore witness, as I, I hid in the house, crying. Two loud rifle cracks, and it was finished. It was humane and quick—no suffering for Buster. And, with a tummy full of grain and a banana—his favorite food in the world—we said goodbye to our gentle friend.

Buster’s end was brought on, not by disease or malice, but by a single act of chivalry that defined him. On Labor Day, when Anabel, his daughter, was born, Buster used his own body as a shield to protect both Anabel and her mom, Scarlett, from the rampages of his own son, Buster Brown. Buster Brown, you see, was quite at odds with the birth of a calf that wasn’t his, and he was intent on fixing the situation. Buster didn’t allow that. And, during the battle that ensued between father and son, and according to what we can gather from the vet’s vast experience with these things, Buster Brown rammed Buster, and with a lucky hit, broke his femur near the ball at the hip joint.

For weeks, and then months, we watched as Buster’s condition slowly edged downhill. We stalled him in that arena barn in the pasture, faithfully watering him, feeding him, and making sure he had plenty of hay. But, it just wasn’t enough. Buster was unable to use that back leg again, and was forced to hobble around the stall, muscles in atrophy and the strain of moving his bulky body more than he could endure. We wrestled with what needed to be done, not wanting to undertake such a task during the holidays. Instead, we made Buster as comfortable as we possibly could until yesterday. Then, with his breakfast finished, we opened the stall door, and he slowly hobbled out. He found a nice, grassy, sunny spot not far from the stall door. He managed to lay down in the cool grass with the sun shining on his face to enjoy his morning. You see, Buster’s gentle nature and sweet personality never changed, not even during the intense suffering he must have endured with an injury like that. Not once did he ever strike out or show an ill temper. During his last hours, he was joined by a herd of goats, Rocky, the paint colt, and his long-time pasture mate, Newman, while Falcon and Dixie stood watch in the distance.

In the words of Crazy Horse, it was a good day to die.

Now, in our grief, we have one bright hope. When we finally do make it to heaven, our farm will be well stocked. Along with Red, Two Socks, and Sophie, we look forward to seeing Buster there, grazing, happy, and whole again.

I love you, my friend.