A Very Different Christmas

This year for Christmas, I will be spending some time in my barn. I have forsaken the decorated tree, the trimmings, and all the trappings of a modern holiday in favor of a simpler, more meaningful experience. After all, isn't a barn where it all started, anyway?

I will take in the mustiness that lingers in the aisle; I will feel the cold as it flows through the wood siding; and I will listen. Yes, I will listen to the breath of the donkey, his exhales looking like smoke from a chimney in the crisp, cool air. I will listen to the soft sounds of the sheep as they work on a new bale of hay. The cows, I'm sure, will be lowing in the pasture, and the thundering hoofbeats of the horses racing one another in the cool early morning will resonate in my very core. I will watch as the wind whips through naked branches, causing downed leaves to dance across the yard, and I will wonder what it was like that first morning--a newborn baby in a dirty, cold barn. It is the epitome of humble beginnings, and a lesson in how they can turn into greatness.

There is a scripture that says, to paraphrase, do not despise humble beginnings. Perhaps Christmas should remind us of why.

I believe I am too far down the road to go back to the glittery, tinsel-filled holiday celebrations of times past. I am older and, hopefully, a bit wiser now. I want to remember and contemplate the essence of what Christmas is--or should be.

Fighting traffic in the city yesterday, watching the hoardes of tired people with unhappy expressions only underscores my conclusion that it isn't really about the gifts at all, but about THE gift.

Perhaps, this Christmas, we should take pause to remember just how simple and perfect that first Christmas morning was and appreciate the gift. I know that, sitting on a cold step in my barn surrounded by warm, furry animals crowding in for a gentle touch, I will.

Merry Christmas, all. May you be blessed with a vision of the beauty of simplicity.

Mice--the OTHER White Meat...

Two nights ago, my husband and I were returning from a quick-but-nice dinner out. Nothing fancy, just a trip down to the local Subway. We were full and satisfied, and the thought of a warm snuggly blanket and a good tv show sounded like the winning ticket for the evening.

Little did we know...

We arrived back at the farm just as twilight was falling. Yes, twilight...that time between day and night when the farm is settling down to go to sleep and the stars are coming out to shine. As we rounded the corner into the driveway, all seemed normal--the faint ribbons of peach, rose, and lavender fading from the sky. The noisy opening of the gate drew the attention of the yard beasts, and as we pulled our truck into its space and clicked the gate shut, we were greeted by a terrier, a sheep, and a deer. They knew. It was the blue and white styrofoam cup that gave it away. Each time we humans come home with that cup, it can only mean one thing: BISCUITS!! So I gingerly unwrapped the precious offering so as not to allow the napkins to be eaten as well, and divided the treat into three equal parts. With each beastie happily munching a mouthful of starch, we proceeded to the door.

Funny, I didn't remember the cat being a part of that raiding party.
Nonetheless, there he was, sitting at the threshold of the door not-so-quietly crunching on something. "Jaaaaaaack...?", I said with a question in my voice. He didn't move. He just continued to crunch--faster and faster so as not to miss anything should I shoo him away. Now, being a bit smarter than I look, I curbed the impulse to reach down and brush him out of the way to see what he had. No, I opted to use my foot to gently lift his chest out of the way.

Smart move.

As his fur cleared my line of sight, there it was in all its glory: a headless mouse. And NOT a small one, either. The cat looked up at me, meowed, licked his chops, and dove back in. Suddenly, I heard the theme music from the original movie, "Psycho", playing in my head. With visions of opening the door and the cat streaking in with mouse in jowls to hide just out of reach under the dining table to finish his banquet, I looked at my husband and said, "Gee, honey, why don't we go in the back door tonight." As we turned and rounded the end of the house, he wondered under his breath whether or not our cat was really a zombie disguised as a farm inhabitant. Probably not, he decided, or Jack would have been chewing on our heads long before this.

In my previous life, this sight would have caused me uncontrollable nausea and creeping flesh for hours. Now? Ha. It's a sight I take in stride. Farm cats, you see, provide a very valuable service. Had the cat not caught him, hat headless mouse could have made his way into my kitchen to hide in nooks and crannies and munch on any crumb we may have missed. I could have run onto him in the middle of the night as I stumbled in the darkness to find a sip of water. It's better that it happened this way. Cat doing his job, mouse losing the war.

It's all in a day's work for Jack, our farm cat.

Bottled Water is E-vil!

Allow me to first set the record straight. Although I am acutely aware of the need to recycle, our responsibility as stewards of the earth, and the aesthetic value of a clean environment, I am NOT an over-the-top eco-vigilante.

Now, I may not be, but that is not so much the case with at least one of our farm inhabitants.

You see, yesterday morning, in the early predawn hours as I finished loading my vehicle for the weekly trip to the farmer's market, I absent-mindedly set a case of bottled water onto the running board of our 1947 Chevy farm truck. "No harm, no foul," I thought.

Au contraire!

For, as my tail lights disappeared around the curve of the driveway, a figure stalked out of the shadows to right a grievous wrong. Seymour, it turns out, abhors cases of water bottles. They are evil, it seems, and I didn't know it. He, being such an insightful guardian, was ever-watchful--protecting us from the potential hazards of an all-out plastic attack.

So, with antlers in place, he proceeded to destroy the suspect plastic and cardboard packaging, scattering the individual bottles far and wide over the front yard. Not meaning to merely wound--but to kill the invader in its tracks--Seymour went so far as to skewer several of the bottles and leave them lying to bleed their precious contents onto the ground. Upon my return home early in the afternoon, I was greeted by the sight of the ever-vigilant deer lying in the front yard, watching to be sure none of the survivors made a break for it. And, while I quietly procured a couple of plastic shopping bags, Seymour was there at my heels to poke at the quickly-growing cargo, lest it escape and wreak havoc on our little hamlet.

What a guy.

We can always count on Seymour. Whether it be a wicked case of water bottles or a malevolent cardboard shipping box insidiously placed in his domain by the suspect UPS driver, he has our backs.

We can sleep soundly knowing that while "something wicked this way [may] come", Seymour will stop it before its foul agenda can be accomplished.

There's a Change in the Wind

Fifty-four degrees.

That is what the thermometer read this morning as I ventured out to begin my day, sipping on a piping-hot cup of steaming black coffee. What a welcome respite from the temperatures of late--nearly topping 100 degrees in the heat of the day while never venturing much below 75 at night! Isn't it amazing how quickly discomfort is forgotten in the face of an absolutely sublime morning?

A heavy dew on the grass, a light mist in the pasture, and a quickening in the steps of the Great Pyrenees as they return from their nightly rounds. The light this early in the day is a soft purple-blue, and the rays of the newly dawning sun slice through with pink and peach rays. The yard deer, Seymour, is shedding his summer hair in favor of a thick coat of soft darkness that envelopes his body. The velvet on his antlers is beginning to dry, a sure sign that his annual tree and post rubbing is about to begin. Of course, it is not unfathomable that a wayward leg be mistaken for a good rubbing post.

It has happened before, much to my chagrin.

His apology for such an oversight is a series soft, warm kisses on the forehead, his newly-acquired spires tapping me on the top of my head as he works his way across my eyebrows and down the bridge of my nose. It is his way of keeping me close in his herd, and I appreciate his efforts.

Out in the pasture, the horses awake, sleepily making their way--one by one--from their evening shelter to the troughs brimming with cool, fresh water. Each nods in greeting as he or she passes close by, some stopping for a scratch or a rub while others continue on , intent on being first to quench his thirst. The mares stand guard as the babies drink, then take their own sips. As I rub the side of one of the stragglers, the familiar smell of horse and hay mixes in my nostrils. It is a warm and comforting smell--one I wish I could bottle and keep with me always. The cows, with their sweet, grassy breath, moo a few yards away, anxious for the horses to finish their business and move on. Then, the donkey girls arrive, switching their tails and rotating their antenna-like ears in the direction of the slightest break in the silence.

Lily, a mini horse and year-round yard resident, moves in closer to investigate the goings-on at the fence, while Newman, our gracefully-aging Suffolk sheep blocks my way in a mock train robbery--waiting for me to scratch along his spine. This is a region that has been impossible for him to reach this past year as arthritis has set in, and he licks the air in sheer delight as I make my way from his neck to his hips...and back again. His deep, baritone "BAA!" coaxes me to continue with our arrangement--YOU scratch, I enjoy--for just a couple of moments more. My fingers sink deep into his growing wool, and the lanolin hidden deep within feels soft on my skin.

As the ducks and turkey hen noisily round the corner of the house looking for some leftover morsel of grain, I finish the last sip of coffee in my cup, and it is time to head back in for another. The mist is lifting now, but it will be hours before the dew burns off and the day warms. This is life on the farm, and as I make my way across the yard and up the steps, reaching the door that hides my next cup of liquid contentment, I am thankful for its simplicity.

Fifty-five degrees...

It's been a year, now...

It is difficult to imagine, but it has been a full year since I last wrote.

For quite a while, it seemed as if my writing muse had packed her bags and left on an east-bound train. So much has happened in the past twelve months that it would be far too long a read to detail it here, but suffice it to say that we have been running full-steam ahead. We have purchased and renovated a 2-house rental property here in West Tennessee, we have seen our two youngest children become more settled in their personal lives, and our cast of critters continues to change.

Perhaps two of the most difficult events of the year, though, have been the passing of a very dear friend and bright spot in the world, and the discovery that my mother has cancer. These two things have affected me deeply--to my core--and it is difficult to put into words exactly how this has changed me. It is my hope that I will be able to see God's hand in it all. To see how the greater good is served. But, at the moment, I see only feet into the foggy mist that we call the future. I don't know what the next weeks and months will bring. I only know that--with God's grace--I will make it through each moment as it presents itself.

And, I promise to write more.

For weeks, now, there have been "bubblings" in my soul. Those feelings of "gee, I really would like to comment", but I have been far too busy to sit down at the keyboard.

No longer.

There is far too much beauty in this gift we call life, and I intend on shining a light on as much of it as possible. So, consider this my recommittment to my posts, and know that I intend to live life out loud and to its fullest.

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.

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!