Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Observations From the Log

All the kiddos are in town this evening for various church, scout, and piano activities. Mike's at work. I have no trueborn kids to feed or care for at the moment. Finding myself at loose ends, I wandered down to the chicken yard for a bit.

Here's what I observed while sitting on a log outside the chicken pen:

  • Mia the Pregnant Dog spotted a little white cheeper who had managed to wander into the former hog pen that adjoins the chicken yard. Mia's tail stump went up, her ears raised a fraction, then she hesitantly scooched under the fence and approached the chick. I wasn't quite sure what she was up to. She began walking behind the chick, urging it forward and staying close on its heels until she had it safely back in the pen. There was only one moment of concern: when Mia was trying to wedge herself back under the fence to get to our side of the hog pen she looked at me with alarm when she got stuck. Apparently, she wasn't aware until that moment just how impressive her girth has become in this late stage of her pregnancy. Still, she perservered with getting the chick back to its flock. Nice to see her maternal instincts kicking in.
  • Rooster Boy rules the roost. As I sat there quietly and dusk began to settle around us, he stood up tall in the chicken yard and crowed a distinctive, well, crow. He was eyeballing Lone Hen, who had wandered over to the garden. His message was clear: "Hey, woman, get your feathered behind back over here. Night's falling." She gave him a look over her shoulder, made a little cluck in reply, scratched around for a moment or two more to show him she was her own woman, then sauntered back over to the pen at a leisurely pace. To his credit, Rooster Boy was not tapping his foot at the pen door awaiting her arrival. About 10 minutes later, as the sun sunk a bit lower, he went into the coop and hopped up on a perch. Again, he stretched himself as tall as he could and let out another crow. This time, all of the chicks - big and small - who were still milling around in the chicken yard, filed into the coop. Oh, there were a few unruly youngins who decided to take one more turn around the yard. They were acting casual and unperturbed, but they picked up the pace a little bit right there at the end and hopped up into the coop. Yep, Rooster Boy is the man.
  • Gertie is trying to make up after her petulant behavior of the other night. As I was sitting there on the stump, she sauntered over and nibbled at my pants leg. When I said hello, she butted me gently on the knee with her head. I nudged her back and we sat there for a few minutes butting and nudging, but she never broke contact with my knee. Then, for good measure, she nibbled my pants once more. We're friends again.
  • Now, here was the most curious thing of all that transpired down by the barn. I noticed Mia looking tense and on point, standing over next to the two new rolls of fencing we have waiting to encircle the new chicken yard. She looked like she was guarding it. Struck me as a little weird. Then, Gertie walked over and began rubbing her horns against the wire, hooking the edges with her horns and butting it. Mia went berserk, barking and raising her fur. I figured there must be some little rodent cowering under the wire that Mia was afraid Gertie planned to abscond with. I hollered at them to hush then turned my attention back to the chicken yard.Out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the cats acting odd. I glanced at him and saw he was stalking something. I looked to see what held his interest and the only thing I could see in his range of vision was...another roll of wire. Not the same kind of wire that Gertie and Mia were freaking out over. No, this was a whole different type of wire. So, here's what I surmise was going on: Sometime today, a vicious roll of wire attacked some innocent in the barnyard. Details were likely sketchy, but word must have gotten around that wire was involved and was to be feared. Could be that the farmyard authorities issued a warning on the heels of the frightening and unwarranted incident and now the critters are suspect of any wire they see - no matter whether the wire they're encountering is of the same variety, let alone, political persuasion as the offending attackers. What we have here is some profiling going on. I'm not saying the attack didn't happen and that there isn't reason to be nervous. But, I do feel a little sorry for the new fencing for getting such a chilly reception, and for that other old roll of fence that's been right here in our barnyard all this time, never hurt a soul, who the critters are now eyeing with suspicion. Let's hope the fear and alarm blows over soon, so everything will just settle down, down around the chicken yard.

Keeping the peace on the farm,


My Adam

Neither Adam nor I felt too hot last night. I sat there on the chair, he was sprawled on the couch. I turned to him and said, "Would you mind helping me get dinner ready? I'm just feeling lousy." He groaned, but I could tell he would help me out.

So, I got the rice cooking on the stove top; rubbed the fish with herbs; drizzled them with butter, and popped them in the oven; then stuck the spinach in the microwave. When everything was just about done, Adam hauled himself off the couch and went into the kitchen to rig up a double boiler and make the hollandaise sauce. It was the crowning touch of the meal; what took us from a savory fish dinner to scrumptious and WOW.

And, that's Adam in a nutshell. His distinctive touch in every situation elevates us from just the norm to something special.

It's in the way he digs in with his younger brother and sisters and makes them laugh as they're doing chores, while he laughs right along with them. The way he introduces them to what's cool right now - the music, the entertainer, the book, the song, and demands that they get right on board. And you can see them puff up a little because he's treating them as if they're on his level. He doesn't just entertain them, he engages them. He's 18; they're 9, 11 and 12. They probably have no idea what an unusually great big brother he is, because it's all they've ever known. They don't know what it's like to have the disinterested, aloof older brother who's outgrown them. No, Adam's the guy that dances like a freak in the kitchen when they're doing dishes; nothing aloof or sneeringly above it all about that.

There are the tender moments, too: when I've looked down the pew at church and seen Tanner, weak and pale, with bruised little eyes, leaning his head on Adam's shoulder during the sacrament service. The time when two different women sought me out separately to tell me they'd been driving down the road together and were moved when they saw Adam and Macy, walking down the road, holding hands and talking as they went along. "He seems like such a tender brother and a confident kid," one of them told me. He is.

This kid keeps me in my place - and the place he thinks I should be in is fun. I may think I'm just picking the little toads up from school, but find out that really the plan is to have a raucous jam fest in the car. He'll crank the radio and holler, "Come on, Mama, you gotta dance!" Next thing I know we're all shaking the car with our wild gyrations, bellowing the lyrics at the top of our lungs, with lots of extra "woop woops" and Prince shrieks thrown in at inappropriate places. When Mike's working nights and the little ones are in bed, it's Adam who says, "Ok, Mama, it is time to par-tay!" and throws in the Pink DVD or some goofy movie that he's currently obsessed with. (Oh, the obsessions wear on you, I can't lie. I was about to beat Julia Child with her own rubber chicken during the "Julie/Julia" phase, and don't get me started on "Baby Mama" - it's fine the first 3 times, but after that, when the kid's quoting it as we go along, I'm ready to throw the "Baby" out with the bathwater! A rift in our relationship that may never heal, I fear, was the moment he learned I tossed our 10-volume set of Friends because. much as I loved that silly show, it just wasn't appropriate for the little ones. That revelation dimmed the evening festivities for awhile, I'll tell you.)

Adam is content to hang out with us a lot. He has great friends who he spends time with here and there, but he likes us (and his Aunt Lynda, his Grandma & Grandpa Fraley and his Aunt Carol) and logs most of his time among us. Mike and I sometimes push him to go with friends more, but he assures us he's not worried. When he wants to hang with them, he does; when he wants to be with family, he is. He's not holed up in his room, walled off with a computer or PDA all the time. He mingles. He simply likes us and chooses to be around. We like him too.

Adam tries to teach me the current lingo and has no problem with reminding me just how old and white I am, when I butcher some current phrase that apparently is supposed to be spoken with an ethnic twist. He manages to put just the right spin on it; I falter. Terribly. He shakes his head and shushes me in public, with wild eyes beseeching me not to embarrass him, whenever I unwittingly misspeak a phrase that apparently a mother of 4 has no business uttering. If I never again see that kid shaking his head, chuckling, and saying, "You crazy kracker" in the same way I might gushingly say, "You cutie patootie" to a toddler, it won't be too soon.

Since he was little, Adam has adored and been adored by his Grandma & Grandpa Fraley. As the only grandchild for 6 years, he had lots of Vegas trips (during the family-friendly campaign), San Diego adventures, weeks at the grandparents' house while I was off on forest fires, bazillions of quarters for the arcades, and numberless bunches of carrots for the donkeys in Oatman. His Aunt Lynda took him off on adventures: sometimes, he had to follow clues or figure out riddles to learn what the adventures would be. (The relations understand it's all about the presentation. Grand adventures are usually announced through crafty clues wrapped in special packages.) His bond with these 3 folks gave him an underpining of strength and security that I think could be a universal example of why kids should be surrounded by multi-generations of family members.

Adam still loves the chance to grab one-on-one time with his grandparents when he can, especially since the advent of 3 siblings born within 3 years of each other blew his serene start in life right out of the water. Yet, there's not an ounce of resentment towards these interlopers. In fact, he breaks my heart with the level of concern and sometimes fear I see flashing in his eyes when Tanner shows signs of the illness plaguing his kidneys. He fervently urges ER visits and questions decisions to wait-and-watch when it's apparent Tan's having a rough time. He carries worry in his heart and it breaks mine, because I don't like to see him burdened by such intense care at such a young age. I have always prayed my children would develop compassion, believing that characteristic above all will keep them centered throughout their lives. I don't want his compassion to become a weight. But he loves his little brother and he can't fix him, so he's just watchful. Imagine what I felt when I learned that on an evening Mike and I had to rush Tanner out for medical care, Adam gathered the girls and knelt for a family prayer before a family member showed up to take them somewhere for the night. I know it's happened more than once. How about that kid.

It's hard to believe the wispy-haired little boy I brought home from the hospital when he was less than a day old is this 6-foot-2-inch galoot who will be graduating high school in 6 weeks. How is the shy kid that I had to pull out from under counters and podiums because he couldn't stand anyone to look at him the same guy who addresses audiences without fear, acts like a goof in broad daylight and strikes ridiculous poses in thoroughly public places? You just never know how they're going to turn out, I guess.

I'm excited for the adventures and experiences I know are awaiting him, but I have to tell you, I'm going to miss having him around. He brightens my life; he makes me laugh; he drives us crazy with his whatever-the-male-equivalent-of Ethel-Merman-singing-is. He loves us. And we love him.

I can't wait to see what comes next for Adam when he ventures off the farm. I'm going to miss that hollandaise sauce, though.

Love from the farm,

Monday, March 29, 2010

Tell Me Why

Yesterday, the young mother who oversees my girls in "Activity Days" called to see if Karlie and Macy could go with a group of girls and women to serve dinner at the Bread of Life mission in town. Loaded up with baggies full of chopped onions and tomatoes (their contribution to the meal they would be serving), the girls hopped into their leader's car at 5 o'clock, excited to be on their way.

Activity Days is a program for girls ages 8 to 11 in our church. On any given Activity Day, they might make gingerbread houses, Father's Day gifts, memorize scriptures or learn to sew or sing harmony. Last summer, they came home with sparkly, star-spangled, ribbon-festooned flip flops they'd made themselves just in time for the 4th of July.

Upon their return last night, the girls tumbled out of their leader's car, yelled thanks and gave me a quick "hi!" as they bounced into the house. I thanked their leader for taking them and asked how it went. She said, "It was amazing. The girls were amazing. They did so good. They always do." I was surprised that she seemed really touched and quiet, rather than just upbeat and matter-of-fact.

Curious about her demeanor, I went into the house and asked if the girls had a good time. This was only the second time they'd fed the homeless in our community and I wondered if they felt that warm surge of lightness that seems to always accompany serving others. I remember - and still experience - the hesitation and nervousness I have felt when going into a situation where I'd be serving others less fortunate, ill or downtrodden; yet every time, there's that warm glow that makes me so glad I did.

I didn't want to color the girls' response to me, so I didn't say any of that. I simply asked them how it went. They said they'd had a good time, that it felt good to feed the people who were there. Then, they surprised me by saying, "We sang 'Tell Me Why'."

"Tell Me Why" is a sweet little old song that's been around forever. I taught it to the girls while we were driving around lost one night in northeastern Arizona. I wasn't worried, I knew we'd eventually find our way back onto the right route home. We just had time to kill as we drove around in the dark, so we started singing songs. I hadn't thought of the song in years until that night, but it was fun to teach them the words and try our hand at harmonizing.

I was surprised when Karlie told me they sang a duet last night, because I was forever trying to get the girls to sing to us. Sometimes they're all for it, other times they claim shyness. I understand - I do the same thing. I knew something must have moved the girls to prompt them to share the song with these struggling families and lonely individuals who take refuge at the mission. I thought how beautiful it must have been for those being served to sit at dinner, hearing these two little girls sing in their clear, sweet voices the simple words:

Tell me why the stars do shine
Tell me why the ivy twines
Tell me why the sky's so blue,
And I will tell you just why I love you.

Because God made the stars to shine
Because God made the ivy twine
Because God made the sky so blue,
Because God made you, that's why I love you.

I asked how the people responded. Macy said, "They really liked it." Karlie, in the nose-wrinkled, quizzical little tone she has patented replied, "Sister Stanton cried." Her tone clearly conveyed she wasn't sure why.

I knew why.

Because there's something about a child's voice lifted in song that touches the spirit, especially a lonely or aching spirit. A child's voice is a balm. There is a purity in those breathy, high, sometimes faltering notes that somehow conveys a downy softness and innocence that we don't often feel as adults. And it affects us.

I was reminded of the times our babysitter Oma would take my sister and me along with her church group to the "old folks' homes" in Ohio when we were little, so we could sing to the "old people." I was a little frightened of the ancient, bent over people in wheel chairs, with rheumy unseeing eyes and impossibly wrinkled skin. Though I couldn't know the words to describe it at that time, I remember their fragility and seeming vulnerability being so unsettling for me. But my fear soon gave way to that puzzled wonder that Karlie conveyed as I witnessed the smiles and pure joy those old people expressed as we sang to them. Some closed their eyes as tears streamed down their faces and they tilted their heads towards us so they could hear more clearly. Some of the white-haired old ladies would clasp our hands as we stood near them and with beaming smiles tell us how beautiful we were. I remember feeling that warmth of knowing we'd made these people happy somehow, even though I didn't understand how we'd done it.

Recalling all of this, I asked the girls if they would sing the song again for my sister and me as we sat in the living room last night. They did, and as I listened I thought how their leaders' demeanor when she dropped them off made so much sense now. Of course she was touched by hearing these sweet girls sing to people who were hungry not only for warm food, but for a warming balm that would soothe their troubled spirits, if only for an evening. Of course she was moved by the pure innocence that they exude at this tender time in their lives. Who wouldn't be?

I love the wonder of little girls who sing simple, sweet songs.

Love from the farm,

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Gertie's Mad At Me. Again.

Well, I've done it again. Gertie the Goat is mad at me. Again. Even as I sit here typing this, she is outside muttering and cursing and butting her horns against the door occasionally for good measure.

Poor Gertie. She just doesn't understand.

It all started at 1 a.m. when I realized that with all of the kids at Grandma's house, no one had been here at dusk to put away the chickens. The 21 baby chicks were nestled snug in the coop, but the 17 teenagers, along with Lone Hen and Rooster Boy, had not yet been tucked in for the night.

I had a moment's hesitation, thinking I hadn't heard from the local coyote population in awhile and wondered whether it was safe to let the birds sleep in the gated pen tonight. It was probably less than a moment's hesitation, actually, as the glaring answer was, "No! Have you learned NOTHING?! You will NOT let the chickens sleep under the stars! What kind of sadistic farm woman are you? 'Just this once' will translate to nothing but piles of feathers in the morning, I guarandarntee it!"

Clearly, I could not leave the chickens out, no matter how unpleasant the prospect of putting on shoes and a coat to head out to the coop in the dead of night might be. Just to punctuate that thought properly, a lone coyote howl pierced the otherwise quiet night. So, up I got and put on flip flops and a coat, and called for our fierce new protector, Belle the Wiener Dog, to accompany me outside.

In the front yard, the other sentries - Mia and Sadie the Dogs and Gertie the Goat - sent a few warning barks and bleats in the direction of the coyote howl then raced to join me and Belle on our trip to the coop. Thankfully, there was a bit of moon glow cast on the farm so it wasn't pitch dark making our way down the lane. I didn't bother with a flashlight because I couldn't foresee being able to hold the flashlight and grab chickens at the same time.

The three big sentries went ahead of Belle and me, making sure the path to the coop was clear of danger. Gertie joined me in the pen as I felt around for the 17 teen chickens, lifted their sleepy, warm forms one by one and put them in the coop, and hunted down Rooster Boy and Lone Hen in the shed so they could be put to bed, as well. Vigilant in her defense of the chickens, Gertie reared up against Belle, who was uncouth enough to allow a fleeting expression to grace her tiny face long enough to convey that she was contemplating the idea of snagging a little chicken of her own. Gertie then poked her head into the coop to make sure the little cheepers who were already snoozing under the heat lamp were safe and sound. Satisfied that all were safely gathered in, she dutifully made her way to the pen gate, standing quietly until I finished latching the coop and let us both out of the chicken yard.

Gertie trotted alongside me and the three dogs as we walked back down the lane to the house to head in for the night. We were all simpatico, just farm hands finishing up a standard chore, enjoying a companionable silence as we approached the front door. Then suddenly, the mood shifted.

Gertie saw first Sadie, then Mia, make their way to the door, so she put her game face on and began rudely shoving her way past the dogs to the front of the line. She turned around, bum to the door, hooves planted, and stared resolutely at the lot of us. She cocked her head sideways and reared up on her hind legs, twisting her body just so and shoving her horns at the dogs. So intent was she on achieving the perfect attack form that she gave Mia and Sadie the split second they needed to slink past her into the house. Belle hung back behind me, little claws clicking on the pavement as she began scurrying in place, trying to build up momentum to bolt the second the opportunity presented itself. Just as I grabbed Gertie's collar to haul her back from the doorway before she cleared the threshold, Belle saw her opening and streaked past us so fast she was just a smudge of black motion, ruffling the coarse hairs just below Gertie's knees as she whizzed by.

Gertie was outraged. Here she had given equal attention to my safe passage to and from the coop with sly predators stalking the property. Of all the guard critters, she was the one who showed the most care towards our feathered friends. Yet, here she was again, shunned. Disallowed from joining her compadres in the house for one lousy night. Once again, she watched as those tongue-lolling canines trotted their pampered bottoms right into the warm house, while she suffered the indignity of being yanked by her collar and nudged out the door that would be slammed fast in her face.

Poor Gertie. It feels downright mean spirited to freely accept her devotion then kick her to the curb each night. But there are certain immutable laws of civilized society that simply don't allow for cloven-hoofed creatures to rest under the roofs of bipeds.

Apparently, however, there are not immutable laws keeping the shunned creatures from expressing their supreme displeasure at being treated so callously. So the headbanging and muttering will likely continue sporadically through the night. And I will endure the guilt of contributing to the division of the classes for yet another long, cold night.

Love from the farm,

Friday, March 26, 2010

A Bit O' the Bubbly

'Twas a blustery day today in northeastern Arizona. Just ask my pal Em, who witnessed the car door slamming shut on me as I shrieked like a little girl. I'm sure she was checking to see which appendage was stunted; all I can say is it's time to cut my hair.

Nothing like having a chunk of hair unceremoniously yanked nearly out of my scalp to send me reeling back to 1974 when all the teeth in my head were still babies, my hair was more than halfway down my back, the summer was hot and muggy, and the back window to the station wagon was down. Then it started to rain.

I closed my eyes and tilted my chin up to catch the refreshing cool offered by the rain drops, so I didn't see the window inching up, taking my hair right along with it. Dad wasn't quite as sympathetic as Em when I shrieked lo those many years ago. Remember the shag haircut? Yep, that was my style of choice after that little fiasco. I won't be going the shag route this time, but there's no question that a haircut is on the horizon.

The gale-force winds put the kibosh on our plans for the day, which included trips to the dump (imagine my sorrow at putting that chore off). So, instead, I enjoyed a nice little visit with Aunt Barbara who brought us our onions for the garden. We talked about our gardening and canning plans, admired the beauty and aroma of the pickling spices Mom and I recently ordered, and then I shared with her the laundry soap recipe that we've been using here on the farm for awhile now.

After errands in town and a few chores around here, I made myself a batch of the bubbly brew while I worked on supper this evening. (For those of you who do not have family hailing from the South, "supper" is the word that most of those living to the right of the Mississippi use for "dinner". "Dinner" in the South usually means the mid-day meal. Just a little down home Kentucky trivia for you.)

So, since I teased you once before about my laundry soap recipe, here it is for any intrepid soul who would like to undertake this quirky little task. All I can say is it's septic safe, it gets rid of all manner of farm grunge, and it lasts about 4 months with our family of 6. And, while I used to spend about $20 a box on my beloved Tide with bleach every couple of months, I spent about $7 on the ingredients for the homemade soap when I made my first batch, and that was 3 batches ago. And, I still have enough ingredients remaining for at least 2 more batches. Just a little thrifty and frugal tidbit for you.

Thanks to my sweet friend Tracy for sharing the recipe. And for being a perfectly normal, bra-wearing, makeup-donning person, so I don't feel as though I've gone too far down the backwoods babe route (or if I have, that at least I'm in good company.)

Laundry Soap
1 Bar of Zote soap
1 C Borax
1 C Arm & Hammer Washing Soda
5 Gallon bucket

Put 4 cups of water in a large pot and place on stove over medium-low heat. Grate Zote soap into pot. Heat until soap melts, stirring frequently. (This takes awhile - grab a book or plan to do some deep thinking.)

When the soap is nearly melted, fill the bucket about half full with piping hot tap water. Add melted soap to water and stir briskly (I use a whisk). Stir in Borax and washing soda. Fill bucket the rest of the way with hot water, give it another stir. Cover and let sit undisturbed overnight.

Resulting detergent will be a lumpy, watery gel. If desired, add a few drops of your favorite essential oil.

Use 1/4 c per load.


Friend Tracy said her sister fills an empty liquid detergent container (like an old Tide bottle) half full of the finished soap mixture, then fills the bottle the rest of the way with water, giving it a good stir with the whisk when mixing initially, and giving it a vigorous shake before using at laundry time. The sister lives on a horse ranch, so her family sports some impressive dirt, yet she maintains that she gets great results with the diluted mixture.

I haven't wanted to mess with funneling the soap into a smaller container so I just use it full-strength from the bucket and have no complaints.

The only drawback of making the soap is that now I don't have an excuse to avoid laundry any longer. With this wind whipping around, I certainly ought to save the energy on the dryer and hang my clothes outside too, if I wanted to be a super thrifty and earth-conscious human being. But, I'm not gonna this month. I'm going to use my dryer until the nighttime temps are consistently above freezing. Hey, I'm cleaning clothes at about a penny a load, if that. - I think I've earned the right to a little (temporarily) extravagant living with a dryer and a Bounce sheet.

Love from the farm,

Monday, March 1, 2010

Roosting With the Chicks

Saturday, my pal Em came by with her kiddo, Rob. They were looking for me so someone pointed down toward the barn. They found me, sitting in the chicken coop with the chicks.

Just sitting there. I'd been there for awhile, just watching the chicks in their new, roomier digs. See, the little cheepers had moved up from the brooding box in the mud room, to a wading pool surrounded by insulating foamboard, to their final home: the chicken coop.

I spent a couple hours cleaning the coop out Saturday, with some help from Mike: shoveled out the winter's worth of litter, scattered straw on the floor, put new hay in the nest boxes, dug out some bigger feeders and washed out another metal waterer and got the coop all fresh and ready for the 17 assorted little roosters and hens.

With help from Macy and her visiting, slightly flabbergasted friend, we transferred the chicks to the coop with two trips in the wheelbarrow, the girls on either side holding a board over the would-be jumpers, while we spirited them from their snug home behind the house to their new cozy home in the barnyard.

Mike broke away from the cleaning duties just before we transferred the chicks, and strung some electricity into the coop and hung their 250-watt brooding (heat) lamp. These little ones are growing bigger every day, but aren't old enough to contend with our below-freezing nights.

Once we got the chicks in, and the nosy dogs and Gertie out, the girls escaped to their fort building and I sat down on the little pot-bellied stove that's in the corner of the coop and watched the chicks settling in to their new home for awhile.

It was a surprisingly soothing time, watching the chicks explore the roomiest environment they'd ever been in, tentatively scratching around in the straw, bellying up to the biggest bowls of feed they've ever seen and getting their first glimpse of a metal poultry waterer. I sat quietly, hoping they'd just think of me as part of this new, safe home, and therefore, someone worth trusting. I talked to them quietly now and then, but mostly just sat there, watching them.

I silently promised that they'd get to grow old on the farm. By the time they're old enough to venture outside, they'll have a sturdy, safe, roomy chicken yard to explore where they will be safe from predators.

These are the warm, fuzzy musings that Em and Rob stumbled upon when they found me in the chicken coop.

Did you hear me?

This is truly, honestly what I was doing. Musing and relaxing with the chicks. Being soothed by poultry.


On the one hand, I love that I love this life. On the other hand, I worry my Mom may be right. That the chicken love is just plain weird. But there you have it. That's how it's going here on the little farm.

Love from the farm,