Still a Farm

When we pulled into town Friday night and saw the lights of the Navajo County Fair, I was so excited, and I immediately was thinking of the photos I'd take so I could share all about how we'd come up to the farm for our county fair/ birthday week tradition, complete with kids getting ride wristbands from Grandma and Grandpa, the legendary Jose's Green Chile fries, Open Class Exhibits (more on that soon) and lots of run ins with friends and family.

Only, when I thought about saying we were up at the farm, all the excitement deflated in a whoosh when I had the stray, unwelcome thought, "Should I really call it a farm anymore when there is no life left there?"  No chickens. No ducks. No farm dogs or barn kittens. No turkeys. No pigs. No Gertie the Goat banging on the door or munching fall leaves.

The thought made me a little forlorn and brought a mix of emotions I decided not to try to sort through right then and there. I pushed this sad little question aside and determined to reclaim my joy for being at our other home, and quickly regained my excitement about the fair, where I knew in just minutes I'd see my sister and my Sweet Ell.

The fair delivered, as it always, always does, and after a late night of canasta with Mom, Dad and Mike (during which Mom and I WIPED THE FLOOR with Dad and Mike...), Mike and I came out to our place and stayed the night in his Mom's camper behind our house. (Have I told you we're pre-remodel in the house itself, so it's full of redwood planks, piles of stone tile, and new windows stacked everywhere? Not a bed in sight.)

Anyway.

I woke up early this morning and while Mike slumbered, Sadie and I went outside to start watering the trees and rose bushes that we're trying to keep growing by watering every couple weeks when we come to the property. (Low-tech auto watering systems are high on the project list, but not yet conquered.) Thank heavens it was a particularly rainy summer up here, which helped keep things alive when our absences stretched weeks apart.

As I looked at our weed covered property while I was moving the water, I thought again about that mood dampening thought I'd had about whether this is really a farm anymore. By my production farmer and rancher friends' measures, no way. Adam's dad, John, is now married to a wonderful girl who is the daughter of a true-blue Minnesota farmer with many, many acres of verdant farms. John enjoys my writing about our farm antics, but one day laughed as he told me, "What you call farming, we call gardening."  And he said that when we still lived here and we still had chickens! AND ducks!!

I laughed along, though, because I knew he was right. By many standards, this isn't a true blue farm. Still, this is our tiny farm, and I've been happy to call it that all these years. The thing is, though, if there aren't any critters or gardens growing here right now, what about it? Is it a farm or not?

As I continued to think about it, I moved the water from the globe willows to the apple tree, then Sadie and I strolled down the lane to the chicken coop so I could check whether we had plenty of straw and old poo to throw on the garden bed since it's preparing to slumber for the fall and winter.

And I looked down to watch my step and saw this.

Look closely.

Do you see them?  Those are somebody's prints in our lane.

A sure sign that something living has been wandering the place since the last rain.

Then I looked closer, and saw these. A smaller critter than the first -- a racoon? a porcupine?

Then there are these.

These tire tracks are from the farmers who drive back and forth on our lane to their well, which is right behind our property. They park behind our barn to tend the alfalfa fields off the back and side of our land, too. We bought this little 3-acre slice of their land, which they hay around us. (Around here, "hay" is a verb as well as a noun.)   Those farmers moving on and around are property -- they are life.

Next to the tire tracks are Sadie prints.

Hey there, Sadie.

A few seconds before she sat for me, I saw her over at the corner of the summer kitchen, alertly investigating the spot where once there was a monster bee hive, dripping with honey, and where occasionally, traveling bees pop in to hang out for awhile.

Bees qualify as life. Heck, bees ARE life, in so many ways -- their value to our living systems can't begin to be overstated.

I stopped in my tracks about this time; just pulled up still, held my breath, and listened.

I heard the grasshoppers rustling the grasses and chirping; the birds perched on the power lines and outbuildings singing my favorite morning songs; the lizard scampering across the tin panel by the shed, and the pigeons cooing atop the weathered grey barn.

I thought about the very act I was engaged in -- I was pulling water from our deep, cold well to water peach trees, almond trees, an apple tree, globe willows and mulberries. The towering poplars are drinking from the puddles surrounding the rose bushes.  And that well? When Mike went down the stairs into the well house, which doubles as a cool, damp cellar, he encountered a very startled tan and white rat. The fat fella had brought in fresh alfalfa from the field and made a nest on one of the shelves that used to be heavy with canned goods preserved, no doubt, by the woman whose husband farmed this land long before we bought this place.

I don't have to water the grapes winding along the fence line or the overgrown asparagus patch, because the water from the hay farmers keep these remnants from the previous owners growing wild. The lilac bush is nurtured on the fence line, too, and the runoff from summer rains have kept the honeysuckle bush under Adam's window green and strong.

I turn from the honeysuckle and see this. A "mano y metate" -- ancient grinding stones, used hundreds and thousands of years ago by Native Americans to grind corn and grain to sustain life. The side of the small stone you see is smooth and flat, from the years and years it was gripped by Native women making food for their families, firmly pressing hard kernels into the flecked, hard surface of the stone basin below. These prehistoric tools were here when we bought this place -- I don't know if the previous owners found them on this land or while out herding their cattle on the surrounding high desert prairie.

As I looked around me again, I came to a realization. This place may be temporarily missing goats and chickens, turkeys and ducks, pigs and barn kittens; and we may no longer live here full time. But we return often to nurture the life that is still here, with dreams of returning for good some day, when we'll delight in our grandchildren and great grandchildren who will tumble out of the just-opened doors of their parent's SUVs, racing to find their favorite kitty, or check the chickens' nests for eggs, or grab a handful of straw to offer to nervous goat kids. They'll toss a distracted, "Hi, Grandma!" over their shoulders as they disappear around the side of the house. We'll find them later, hidden under their grape arbor forts, munching an apple they stole from the tree as they ran past, and picking up where they left off with their interior design projects of the last trip.

Their last trip to Grandma and Grandpa Walker's farm.

Because this IS still a farm.

There is still life here.

I am still here.

And forever will be.

Overflowing with love from the farm,
Teri

I is for Indigenous

We hear "Indigenous" and typically think of peoples and creatures specific to an area.

In my world, I think of what's indigenous to our little country life.

Now, I do take pleasure in the things that are indigenous to this high country desert of northern Arizona, beyond farm life. Like this precious guy.

I got to spend an entire summer with little Kyan while he and about 30 other young Native American kids danced traditional Pow Wow dances on a dirt stage every night outside the historic courthouse in our little city. The regalia Mr. Kyan is sporting here is not indigenous to this region, but it's indigenous to the Pow Wow traditions that he, his parents, and friends participate in around the Southwest.

I've decided to take creative license with this alphabet challenge, and I'm extending the exploration of indigenous things to experiences and traditions, not just people and critters -- although both figure largely in our country farm life, as it happens.

So, what's unique or indigenous to this life?

Poop.

Poop in the hen house; poop on the front porch when I let the chickens and ducks roam freely, which I do a lot; and nice, aged poop that we scatter on the garden to bring out the shiny in the tomatoes, the purple in the eggplants, and abundance in the zucchini patch. (OK, I think zucchini would be abundant even if we grew it in sand and styrofoam -- still, poop is definitely indigenous to this life.)

Now, in the strictest sense, poop isn't indigenous in the sense that the country is the only place you'll find it; but I think it's fair to say you don't find it in such quantity, across such wide expanses, or value it so highly in other places quite as much as you do on a country farm.

Beyond poop, the bright night skies, low nickering of horses and contented murmuring of sleepy ducks and chickens are also indigenous to this farm life I love. Tonight, I wandered the farm by the light of the night sky, shunning a flashlight and letting my eyes adjust to the low light until I could see every feature of the land, the outline of hens on their roost, and the handle on the pump as I lifted it to fill the duck's pool.

Now, the low light meant I was feeling around in the dark of the pot bellied stove where the chickens lay their eggs, which brought me right back around to the indigenous poo again. But, that's OK.

Because I like everything that's prevalent in this life, even if it's not all technically unique just to country living.

The blooming fruit trees, the smell of the garden soil, the joyful anticipation of those first sprigs of asparagus signalling the start of the spring harvest.

The quiet, the squawking, the dirt under the nails, the eggshells in the compost, the flock that comes tromping up behind you once they figure out you're the one with the goods.

The rain forcing you from the garden, the plinking of lids sealing on hot jars full of the harvest.

The list of experiences and cycles and promises indigenous to this life is lengthy.

And I sink down into the reviewing of it and wrap myself up in the gratitude for it.

Much love from the farm,
Teri

(P.S. Thanks for all the sweet comments on my "A" post -- the shoulder is on the mend so I get to play here again. I'll fill in my "B" through "H" posts in coming days. Cheers to the A-Z Challenge!)

Birds Fly South For A Reason

Turns out there's a darn good reason geese and ducks fly south for the winter.

Here's Bruno.

Bruno's our grey goose. We're pretty sure Bruno is a girl, but I have yet to look up her skirt so I can't be sure. I'm just that expert of a poultry owner.

Now, here's Doris. Doris is our duck. You've met her before. Remember? We named her for her pillbox hat? Because Doris Day often wore a pillbox hat during the era of pillbox hats?

We've loved having Doris and Bruno around the farm. They're a hoot. Can't get enough of them. Truly.

They're also prolific poopers, these girls. And, as you know, I can't handle the poo. I can't handle their particular brand of poo, specifically. Great gobs everywhere you look or step.  It's something to behold.

In recent weeks, we moved Bruno, Doris and their feathered chicken friends to the chicken yard down by the barn and we were blissfully free of poo for a space of time. As we visited Bruno and Doris in the chicken yard and the weeks passed, though, we noticed the fine-feathered girls looking a little bedraggled and distressed.

They weren't happy campers. They were restless. They were in a dither. They were constantly wringing their hands. They just seemed...verklempt. We couldn't figure out what the problem was.

Then, Mike nailed it: the ladies missed their little pool under the trees up by the house. It was their favorite - these swimming fowl NEED to preen and splash and dive and swim. They need to be clean. It's very important to their sense of vanity and self-esteem. These ladies need to feel presentable.

Since we've been having a lot of mild winter days, after getting off to a very snowy start this season, the hose finally thawed, and so today, Mike filled up the girls' pool and brought them up from the chicken yard for a dip. Oh, how the ladies exulted in their nice, clean pool.

They dove and ducked and swam and rooted around in their feathered bellies. They plucked and nudged every nook and cranny; they kept tossing water over their backs and craning their necks in impossible contortions to scrub every last inch of their fancy feathered selves. (Like how I'm pretending that "selves" is a word? Did you catch that?) This took a good half hour. I finally lost interest and went back in the house. I'm not sure how long they actually stayed in the pool.

I remarked to Mike that I was a little concerned that Bruno might not dry off in time for the below freezing nighttime temperatures. Should we run and pick up a new heat lamp for them tonight? Doris was looking nice and waterproof; I wasn't as worried about her. But Bruno, she was looking a little slick and drippy.

"Nah, she'll be fine," said Mike.

"Yeah, she'll be OK," said friend Emily, who was watching the bathing spectacle with us.

Ummm, Em? Mikey? Just so you know, it's freezing out and I got me two wet, incredibly confused bird ladies in the spare, rarely used bathroom that is presently thickly covered with newspapers on every surface.

Did you hear me?? I have a wet GOOSE and DUCK in the bathroom! Anybody watch Friends? Anything sound familiar???

Did I mention the ladies are a little stressed by their surroundings. You know what stress leads to, don't you? Extreme stress? Mmmm hmmmm....stomach aches. And can you imagine what a goose and a duck with a stomach ache can do? Can you imagine the colossal poop fest that I'm studiously avoiding until tomorrow when I can let them back outside? I can't bring myself to dwell on it.

Instead, I am searching my soul and my faltering memory, trying to pin down the dastardly deeds I committed in my earlier years that have put me on the receiving end of this cosmically karmic farmy freak show.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Chicken Games

We have a new game around here.

It's called "Chicken In the Kitchen."

Actually, it's not a game at all; I just figure if I call it a game it will seem more fun and playful. And less disturbing.

In reality, what we have are chickens who have discovered the screenless window to our bedroom, and who delight in jumping into the house. Which means we've had to be a whole new level of vigilant around here, listening for the telltale flutter of wings that our feathered friends can't disguise as they come in for a landing. That blessed flutter is the only thing standing between us and a lot of unmentionable undesirables in the house, I tell you what. (Oh, who am I kidding? I mention it all the time: poop. Poop, poop, poop. It's what chickens do. A lot.)

Last week when I had a triple whammy of upper respiratory infections, I was a little foggy coming in the front door and a little red hen snuck behind me and made it to the kitchen. I shut the door, lifted my drooping head and spied her happily munching at the cat's dish. I actually closed my eyes and uttered a little prayer, standing there in the dining room, "Oh, I really can't chase her. I can't. Please, please let her be calm so she'll let me pick her up without having to chase her around the house."

I advanced on her quietly and slowly, and thankfully, she just stood there while I picked her up.

Prayers are answered, and don't you forget it.

Anyway, this morning I realized no one would be home during the day, and I didn't want to risk the chickens having their way with the house, so I blocked the window. Then, when I was in the truck getting ready to drive the kids to school, I delighted, DELIGHTED in watching a rooster hop up to the windowsill and bob and crane his neck trying to figure out how to get into the new playground, then jump down in defeat. Ha! Take that!

There is, of course, a corner of me that realizes that not everyone...or anyone...worries about things like keeping chickens out of the house. I know that. I do. I just can't dwell on it too long or I might throw in the towel and sell the whole operation and find a nice, clean, shiny, new, well-sealed house inside city limits, with a postage stamp, poop-free lawn.

So I don't dwell. I just dodge the chicken poo and smile. And pet a feathered head. Then all is well.

Love from the farm,
Teri

I've Drawn The Line & I SHALL NOT WAVER!

If you read yesterday's blog, you may have caught reference to the fact that my spring chickens are not yet in their coop because it's being inhabited by dogs right now.

You may also have caught my comment about some of the girls roosting down at the barn, while some are hanging out here in front of the house.

Did you catch that?

That I've been letting some little sweeties hang out up front? In spite of their pooping prowess?

Well, this is the thanks I get.

 Oh, sorry, can't quite see that?

How's this?

What we have here are three presumptuous chickens taking a breather right there on top of my security door.

"What? Oh...what? Is this not OK? No? Oh, well, goodness we're sorry."

"....We're not moving, mind you, but we're real sorry you're not happy about it."

Ummm, ladies? Guess what...you're moving! And I know just the guy to see that you do.

 Ahhhh, that Michael.

Don't know what I'd do without that man.

Bed head, and all.

Much as there's a weird little part of me that toys with the idea that it might be funny, just once, to utter the sentence, "Now, Karlie, don't forget to shut the security door. You don't want a chicken pooping on your head," I'm just not sure it's worth it.

I sense a dog pen raising coming on real soon, so we can put these pretty girls where they belong.

Love from the farm,
Teri

(P.S. You should know my poor mother is undoubtedly shaking her head in distress right now because I've told the whole world that chickens roosted on my front door, no matter that it lasted no more than 45 minutes. She struggles a bit with my put-it-all-out-there ways. Sorry, Mom. Love ya! If you come visit, I promise no chickens will poop on your head.)

Up For A Chat?

I'm not saying that it's been far too long since I've been over in this corner of the world, I'm just saying that when I entered my username and password to sign in to my very own blog? I botched the password. It's been a long, long time.

I've missed it.

I've missed it all: the reading my farmer/foodie/hippie friend blogs (friends I've never met, mind you, but who I think I might actually love. Not in any way you need to worry about, honey. You get all the love and affection that should be directed toward a husband, every last bit, trust me.) No, just love in the sense that it feels good to peek in and see how things are going, to find out a favorite pet or grandchild came through surgery OK, to feel a twist in my stomach when I read that someone's beloved critter passed away, to gaze with bitterness and covetousness upon others' gardens when mine is struggling, straining, working to live.... OK, maybe I don't miss that part.

I've missed all of you, too. It's been a bit of a gaping hole, to tell you the truth. It's good to be looking at this silly screen again, outdated Easter art, and all.

I've been without a computer for quite some time - my laptop didn't take kindly to my dropping it, the picky thing. And, around the same time I dropped the Dell, we had a death around here that made it feel a lot less like our familiar old farm. Then Adam moved out and took his computer with him. And then I got a job. And, Karlie played softball, and I volunteered to help with the concession stands. Which means I didn't get home before 8 p.m. three or four nights a week, for something on the order of 68 years, by my count. To say the least, things have been a little off kilter.

(We still don't have a computer, but Adam's home for the weekend, which means he's nowhere near home because he's out with friends, so he agreed to let me borrow his computer.)

So here I am.

And there's so much to tell you, I don't even know where to start.

So, let me start with the hardest thing.

Miss Gertie won't be knocking on my door anymore. She hasn't banged against that hardwood door in more than a month. Oh, I miss that silly, grumpy, wonderful old goat.

I woke up Mother's Day and realized after 40 minutes of laying there with my eyes closed that there was not a soul in this house that was even beginning to stir, so any hope of breakfast in bed was fading fast. I decided to get outside and wander the farm during the quiet. I went down to the chicken yard that is presently home to the otherwise wandering dogs and Gertie. It was one of those awful moments where it takes you awhile to take it all in. I talked to the three dogs who were eager to greet me, then said, out loud, "Hey guys, where's Gert?" and I hadn't gotten her name out before I looked to my left and saw her lying there, obviously dead.

We don't know what happened. There were no visible indicators as to why she died. She was just laying there, still, and so darn quiet.

We don't know anything about Gertie's past: she was a rescue critter that came to us through a friend of my sister's, so we never knew how old she was, whether she'd been a healthy little goat, whether she'd come from a good line of old goats. She'd certainly seemed fine the day before Mother's Day. There was no warning.

It was a shocking and sad start to Mother's Day, darn it. I miss that silly old goat. No more rearing up at the dogs, dodging her way past us into the kitchen; shelling out Triscuits, scratching between horns, regretting walking behind her when she was feeling a little bloated. All that's gone now. Mike pointed out there were lots of little goats being born down the road from us and I could "get another Gertie." He meant it right, of course. But, I don't think you get two Gerties in life. I don't know that I'm a goat person, per se. Gertie just waltzed into our lives and we made a place for her, and she was part of it all. I wasn't looking for a goat for the farm, I just welcomed Miss Gertie. Will we ever have another goat? I don't know. I really just don't know. Right now, it feels like the wrong question to ask, so I'm just going to leave it be for awhile.

So, that was the sad part.

But there have been lots of good parts since last we spoke. For instance, we have lots of new feathered friends on the farm. We have some chickens who are getting pretty close to full grown who are frankly a little skittish. Right now, the kiddos are in charge of feeding and watering them, but soon we'll be moving the dogs out of the chicken yard and moving the chickens in there, and then they'll be my chickens. I'll take over feeding and watering and spending time in the yard with them, making sure they know who I am. It's right that the kids are taking care of them right now for a few reasons, but I can't wait to make them mine. Don't ask me to explain it further, that's all I have for right now. I can say that I'm eager to sit with them awhile so I can figure out their names. These chickens will have names and will live long enough to learn them, by golly.

We also have a batch of younger chicks who are currently on the front porch, and who we've taken to letting out to peck and scratch and wallow in the dirt. These 8 chicks are loving and tame, and not very skittish (unless I use the power washer a little too close to their brooder, that is.)

Why, you ask, would I be using the power washer near their brooder? Well, to blast away the goose poop, of course. Because I'm learning that geese like to poop about as much as turkeys and ducks do, and by golly, that's a lot. And, they like to poop while standing at the front door looking in at us. Even so, these geese are awesome. As is their pal, Doris the Duck. (So named for her pillbox hat, which of course evokes Doris Day. It evokes Jackie O, too, but somehow Jackie the Duck didn't have the same ring to it.) The photos will be coming. These guys and gals are beautiful. (I don't actually know their sexes, I've just made some assumptions that I will verify or disprove as soon as I get a new computer.)

So you'll feel like you know them when you meet them, I'll tell you now: the grey goose is Bruno, Alvin is the big white fella, and as I mentioned, the duck is Doris.

I'm big into naming these critters these days. I think it's because I'm really hoping we can keep all these animals alive to see next summer, and somehow, if they all have names, they'll be permanent fixtures - indispensable characters in the story we're unfolding here. Maybe if we pile all this guilt on them about being important to us, not just nameless little feathered things, the universe will see fit to let them keep us a little longer. (I'm not just putting my faith in the universe for critter longevity - we've also made strides with our coyote/dog-proofing, that I hope will pay off.)

OK, so photos of fowl are forthcoming.

Other news: Tanner's doing fantastic. He looks healthy and strong. He feels good. Except for some silly white blood cell action, his labs are great and his kidneys are doing their job. We couldn't be happier or more grateful. It's a beautiful thing.

Adam is enjoying his pool boy job, and is preparing to head to South Africa at the end of August. He's going in for immunizations next week, we just received his FBI clearance in the mail, and I just picked up a letter of good conduct from our local police department (these are a few of the things South Africa requires before letting young foreign men come hang out in their country for a couple of years.) We're excited at the prospect of all that he's going to experience during this big adventure. What an amazing opportunity for a 19-year-old kid.

The girls are doing great: Miss Macy went to a week-long dance clinic and loved it - she'll be starting dance in the fall. She just returned from her first girls' camp - it was relocated and cut short because of the wildfires raging in the area where our beautiful regular girls' camp is located, but she still had a wonderful time. More on that later. This summer, Macy's learned the joy of earning cold hard cash through babysitting, and is getting goofier and more beautiful every day. Karlie Q is holding her own this summer. She just finished her first season of softball and her coaches were impressed with her focus and budding skills. It was wonderful to watch her out there doing something new and working hard at it. She's off to volleyball camp on Monday and basketball camp after that. I'm ignoring the fact that she looks more like a teenager than any 10-year-old has any business doing. I'm just choosing to avoid it. Nobody need feel compelled to tell me otherwise.

My sweet sister beat her cancer. She's coming back to us after a long, exhausting process of diagnosis, surgery, treatment, and the beginnings - very beginnings - of recovery. She's been amazing through what has been a really lousy couple of years, and she's shown fortitude that she may not realize was shining through, even when she was drooping in a big chair for weeks and weeks. She's quit shedding radiation, so we can all hug her freely now. There was no end to the GlowWorm and radiation jokes - I'm not sure we've exhausted them yet. The doctors think they have the cancer licked and don't think any more treatment is on the horizon. We are so, so grateful. She's been through so much and I'm glad she's getting to the other side of it all. I just hope she will begin to feel like herself soon. She's missed herself, and so have we. I can't express what it means that she had such a fightable form of cancer and we didn't have to live in that netherworld of fear and uncertainty. Now, I just want her to feel good. Slow and easy.

Did I mention I'm working? I am. Just part time, as a -- you'll love this -- reporter. I'm not kidding. I am actually writing for a living again for our little, hometown newspaper. I'm having so much fun. These are such neat, neat people who are running a paper with the thinking that if a child decides to pick up an issue, they won't be harmed or upset by what they read there. It's idealistic to be sure, and I am pleased as punch. Let the big state newspaper tackle all the "if it bleeds, it leads" stuff. We'll stick with community newspapering, thank you very much. It's been an adjustment to not be keyed up all the time, intent and hyper-alert and always worried about the message, like I was during my umpty-ump years as a PR person. Until I stumbled back into the working world and began attending meetings again, I didn't realize how much time I spent analyzing every situation, worried about the outcome, really wanting to help people better get their message across. In my early forays back in the professional realm, I found myself wanting to script the participants, to whisper in someone's ear how they could make a more powerful argument, or slip a note to someone to coach them on their approach to a tricky conversation. Oh, the bliss, when it dawned on me during a particularly contentious meeting: I don't have to fix this situation, I just have to report on it. I just have to tell what happens, not shape what happens. If you haven't been there, this might all be a big yawner. If you've ever been there, you'll know how delicious this awakening was.

It struck me the other day, though, that I may have left it a bit too long getting back into an office environment. My moment of realization came while talking to my editor and another reporter: I noticed that my editor was craning her neck a little bit to look down past my knees. Wondering what she was looking at, I glanced down and saw what she saw: without skipping a beat in our conversation, I had pulled out a bottle of foot powder from my bag and was shaking it right into my shoes. Yep, right there in the front of a real live office, in front of real live witnesses, I was taking care to avoid foot odor.

I'm going to try harder, swear.

Hopefully, I'll have a new computer soon. I miss being here.  Regardless, I'll be back soon.

Hope all is well at your end.

Love from the farm,
Teri

The Spring Babies Are Here!

We have babies galore around here. This place never feels more like a real farm to me than when all the spring babies arrive. Chicks, ducks, geese and kittens fill the cornucopia of fluffy love around here these days.

(For the record, all these wee critters make us total kid magnets. You can hear the longing, pining, aching in the cousins' voices when they say, "Ohhhhhhhhhhhh, I wish I could come vizzzittttttttt......" when they learn of our new arrivals.)

But I digress.

Introducing our new little mousers Bijou and Stella:

Stella is the little fluffball on top. Isn't she pretty? Doesn't she have that natural feminine grace? Doesn't she look like the sweetest sister ever?

Yeah, well, she's not.

She's a he.

But we didn't find that out for a few days after we started calling him Stella, when Macy figured she and the kittens had spent enough time together that it was OK to start looking up skirts. Upon discovering we needed to get a pair of dungarees for Stella we talked a little, shrugged our shoulders and decided we wanted to call him Stella anyway. In a nod to his masculinity, we've expanded upon his name, however. He is now Stella the Fella. I hearken back to Johnny Cash's thought-provoking classic, "A Boy Named Sue," and figure there's a lesson in there for all of us. I just hope Stella doesn't come after me in a bar fight some day.

Bijou is a girl, for sure. Lest you think this is a weird name for a cat, you should know that other cat names around here have included Noodle and Two Buddy. I had to put my foot down when the kids were insisting on Miss Momentum for a puppy name. I explained there was no way I would be calling a vet to make an appointment for Miss Momentum Walker. It's bad enough making appointments for Noodle & Two Buddy Walker. Adam points out every time I grumble that Two Buddy has literary allusions - yeah, I don't care. It's still weird.

Anyway.

So, now we have precious new mousers who are about to be moved outside to join their barn cat pals, the aforementioned Two Buddy and Noodle.

Speaking of outside - that's where we have our new duck and geese snuggled down. Pictures of those little creatures are forthcoming. For now, you'll have to be satisfied with an introductory look at our new chicks, who are presently chirping and skittering in their brooder box in the kitchen.

"Shhhhh, close your eyes. Then they can't see you."

Oh, sorry, it appears they were just blessing the food. Way to spoil a reverent moment.

OK, we'll come back to them when they've finished eating.

Actually, they were just sleepy babies. I don't know why they fall asleep on their feet at first, but it's so funny to watch them swaying, eyes closed. It's a little nerve wracking, too, because in those first few days, you find out if you ended up with any sick chicks, and the standing there with eyes closed, looking miserable and swaying can be some of the first signs of a sick baby. We've been lucky that all of these are hardy, healthy little fellers. Now they lay down to sleep. Not sure what marks the transition from standing to laying. Just part of growing up, I guess.

You have to be very watchful of these little ones the first several days, looking for any signs of illness. Something you have to especially be on the lookout for is pasty butt. That's the very scientific formal name of a chick condition where their little poopers get clogged with poo, a condition that can lead to death. So, we're keeping an eye on hineys around here. Day before yesterday we found 3 of the chicks had pasty butt, so we held their tiny hineys under warm water until everything loosened up, then very gently wiped at the, umm, stuff, until it fell away. You have to be super gentle with the wiping because their hiney membranes are so delicate at this stage, it's easy to tear them. Ouch.

The little chicks settle right down while you're holding them under the running water, and close their eyes. It could be from humiliation (back to the "if I can't see them, they can't see me" thinking) or sheer relief at the warmth of the water and the removing of what has to be a very uncomfortable, if not painful, blockage. I used to be a little grossed out by this process, but now I just want to provide relief to the poor things, so I try to look past the poo to the healing. It gets me through. Anyway, I'm glad only 3 of the 15 have had any trouble, which we quickly fixed. We're getting past the stage where we'll need to be on the lookout for the poo clogs, and then I'll be able to give up diaper duty for another year.

Here's one little sweetie warming back up after being de-pooped.

"Nothing to see here folks. Just drying off and getting warm. She'll be fluffy again in no time. Keep it moving. Keep it moving."

Gotta be grateful for those Mother Hens that emerge young, watching out for their fellow chicks from day one. These are the friendships forged in steel, I tell you.

We picked our chicks up from the Feed & Seed on Friday, when they were 3 days old. We have 15 of them, and we're going to investigate which breeds they are since they were marked "Hatchery Choice - Pullets," which tells us they're all girls (hens) but not their breeds. I'm hopeful the orangey-yellow ones are Buff Orpingtons, because they are such great moms and in the past, they've seemed to have nice, calming dispositions. With luck, some of those stripey girls will be Aracaunas, which lay the blue or green eggs. Those super pale yellow ones could be Leghorns, which lay white eggs pretty much every day, which is nice to count on.

It'll be fun to watch this little flock grow into their personalities and quirks. We'll name them as their characters begin to emerge. And we'll hope the new improved chicken yard means we'll get to keep this flock to a ripe old age.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Blowin' In the Wind

I couldn't figure out why Belle the Weiner Dog was cowering when I tried to let her out this morning, then I looked at the scene from her point of view. The right side of the doorway was framed in stickers from the tumbleweeds that overnight have lodged 5 feet high on the porch. She probably thought she was being sent to do her business in a briar patch.

The wind has begun its annual blow here.

When I was a little girl, I had romantic notions of Spring, where April showers really did bring May flowers. Now, I live where Spring means being excited at the prospect of gardening, then being beaten down by the wind and grit. Where my bright-eyed enthusiasm gives way to wondering how important it really is for the wee plants to get a good start in rich, fertile soil. Because, at the very time when I should be working all that life-giving manure I've been talking about lately into the ground in preparation for planting next month, the wind kicks up and doesn't stop blowing until roughly June.

I guess I'll have to borrow Mike's protective eye gear, put a scarf over my hair ...and mouth... and wait till he's at work to undertake the task of spreading the poo. Because I'm not sure our marriage can survive him witnessing this scene twice.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Good Morning!

Just a few quick thoughts before I start my Saturday chores:

Remember a few days ago when I mentioned checking into a raw milk source for butter and yogurt making and hubby pleasing? Well, the source said yes so I had a moment of great excitement. Then suddenly, I heard knocking on the inside of my skull and a little voice said, "Uhh, excuse me, Einstein, but isn't your son immunesuppressed, making him vulnerable to any stray little bacteria or virus that the rest of the family's strong immune systems might otherwise scoff at?" So, I figured I better check into whether Tan can have unpasteurized anything (including the goat's milk). Our online kidney guru pulled up a report stating that unpasteurized or raw is on that advisory council's no-no list, and my initial Google search pulled up the same. I'm going to check with Tanner's kidney doctor, who I trust implicitly, and will consider hers the final word. While it would be lovely to bring fresh milk into our home, I'm certainly not willing to take an unnecessary risk with Tan. If we have to wait until he's off the immune-suppressing meds, really, that's no big deal. We'll wait. I'll let you know what we learn.

Gertie let me scratch her behind the horns yesterday. It was fabulous. Then she stomped on my foot. One step forward....

Mike has pink eye. I've been grateful the past few mornings to be able to pop open my baby blues without degooping first. Fingers crossed these clear-eyed mornings will continue.

Adam's missionary application is sitting in front of Church leaders who are deciding where in the world he'll go. Will we be buying pea coats for England or short-sleeved white shirts for Central America? Or a banjo for him to do some front-porch pickin' in Kentucky? We'll know soon!

My friend Debbie said we can go scoop poop from their horse barn. Yee haw!

One of the pigs bit me yesterday. That was a first in two years of having pigs. I was dumping a can of kitchen scraps into their pen and one of the big fellas was ever so excited so he tried to take the can from me and chomped down on my thumb and hand. It was a blunt-edged chomp and broke the skin from the tugging motion, not from any razor-sharp teeth. But the throbbing, fevered, bleeding thumb didn't bug me nearly as much as the gobs of slimy goo he left all over my hand. Let's just say he was primed to properly masticate whatever food entered his strong jaws. Before you think I made some comment like, "Yeah, you'll get yours, buddy!" just know that I didn't. While I'm grateful for the food these pigs are going to be providing us soon, I'm not lighthearted about killing them. I thought being a farm girl now I'd take the butchering in stride, and to a degree I do in terms of not brooding over it, but mostly I just feel grateful for these animals' lives, not entitled to them.

Looking forward to seeing what the heck this "super moon" will look like tonight. It's been really bright around the farm the last few nights, and last night's moon was freaky, because it had a wide red ring around it. Creepy! But really, really cool. Wish the kids had been here to see it. They were in the Valley with family, where you don't see the stars, you see the soft glow of street lamps.

My kiddos are coming home today from their cousins' and my mother-in-law will be bringing them here, so soon our home will be filled again with some of my favorite people in the whole wide world. Guess that means I better go take a shower and get on my chores.

Love from the farm,
Teri

What Manner Of Poo?

Circa 3 years ago, if you'd told me I'd be having this conversation with Mike while driving back from Flagstaff together, I'd have tried to mask my surprise at your far fetched assertion, because I'm nothing if not polite, even in the face of far fetchedness.

Anyway, the conversation went something like this:

Mike: "When are you going to plant?"

Teri: "Probably mid-April. But I need to get manure and stuff worked into the garden now."

Mike: "Where are you going to get the manure this year?"

Teri: "Well, I was going to talk to Doy (the hay farmer) about getting some of his steer manure again, but there's a part of me that just wants to go pick up some bags at the feed store, so I don't have to go shoveling poo into the truck in the wind again."

Mike: "Have you talked to Shumway about what they do with their horses' stuff?"

Teri: "You know, Debbie has said a couple of times that we're welcome to go get some of their poop whenever we want it."

Mike: "Well, why don't you talk to her? I could just take the tractor across the road and pick it up for you."

Ooooooo, the tractor. I'd forgotten about the tractor. I love the tractor. The tractor means not standing on a pile of poop and slinging shovels full onto the truck. Then standing in the back of the truck and slinging the same poop onto the garden later.

Teri: "That's a good idea. I'll give Debbie a call tomorrow. Besides, they've got so many horses and they've been there awhile, so there should be lots of the old, good stuff."

(FYI: Manure is better the longer it rots. No, I didn't expect to know this little morsel either, in my former, shiny life in the oh-so-neatly manicured suburbs. But there you have it: I know it.)

I'm pleased as punch to add that I followed this conversation up with a few moments of quiet pondering...musing...OK, very nearly daydreaming about just how old some of that poo might be and whether we might be fortunate enough to find some of the really awesome rotted black stuff.

Then, Mike got out to fill up the truck and I remembered I needed to call the butcher back to discuss getting the pigs butchered. So I did. And I talked for some time with the butcher about the ins and outs of what we'd be doing with the pigs and sounding very knowledgeable about the whole thing, not having to ask any clarifying questions or for him to spell anything for me to Google later, or anything.

Yep, a few years ago I could have told you all about plans to launch new masterplanned communities or how to re-brand an upscale shopping center, but now, well, now you can ask me whether chicken or horse poo is the better choice for your garden beds. The difference being my advice comes a LOT cheaper these days, even if it isn't imparted with near the level of expertise I used to offer.

Still, I'm learning, and you have to give a girl credit for being willing to step outside her comfort zone. Even if what she finds herself stepping into is a big ol' pile of poo.

Love from the farm,
Teri

(By the way, chicken poo is a great choice for your garden, but you better make sure it's good and aged or it'll burn your plants; on the other hand, horse poo works great, too, but you can look forward to many quality hours weeding if you don't mulch correctly. Which I haven't figured out...yet. I'll learn. As far as ideas for launching a new community, well, we can discuss that another time. When I'm wearing heels, not pondering whether it's too late in the season to plant early peas.)

Guess What I'm Up To....

I discovered this amazing place called "the public library" today and brought home all these goodies.

Wonder what I'm going to do this weekend? Oh, OK, I'll tell you.

I'm planning our garden: seed inventory, calendar for seed starts, layout, etc. In fact, I ran into a friend at Safeway today and let her know I am going to hit her dad up for some of his fantastic, black, rotting poo to spread over my garden. She said, "Well, git on it!" in her darling ranch-girl drawl. And I only realize now that it's a testament to us all being steeped in country life that she didn't for even a millisecond look startled that I was going to ask her dad to give me some of his, well, you know...she immediately knew I was talking about the black gold steer manure that sits in a huge pile behind his corral, and which I've visited before.

So, I'm planning my garden. And I'm also working on a menu that holds to the ideal of eating foods in season. I'm going to tell you more about this new adventure my sister, friend and I are undertaking soon related to healthier, clean eating and other lifestyle improvements.

It is soul-soothing for me to immerse myself in these kinds of projects, focused on the good and abundance. After a week of more hospital time for two of my kiddos and adding a heart condition to my kidney kid's kidney troubles, and trying to get to the bottom of a sweet girl's ongoing tummy issues, I'm not sure I could be more focused on clean, healthy, pure living.

I know we'll only be improving on a life we already love, and that's already pretty darn good, so only great things can come from this time of focus and planning.

By the way, I think I'll be spending MUCH more time in that lovely library - how have I gotten to this age without truly grasping how cool libraries are? I sense I'll be wearing the edges off my library card in no time.

Now, will it be rows again or raised beds this year? Or both.... How to improve my wildly inefficient watering system? Which heirloom varieties will I try this year? What color should my gardening boots be?!? Off I go!

Love from the farm,
Teri

Contemplating the Farm

It's a blustery day here, teasing us with the promise of snow but just plain cold, windy and dry in the meantime. It's a great day, though, for contemplating. Ok, contemplating makes me sound deep and insightful. It's possible what I'm really doing is enjoying a few random thoughts - maybe nothing more than synaptic misfires. Who knows. Who cares.

I prefer to think I'm deep and insightful, so here's what I declare that I'm contemplating:

• ...that this must be Gertie the Goat's favorite time of the year because nearly all of the poplar leaves have dried up and drifted to the ground, where she can't get enough of them. She trots her portly little behind up the lane from the chicken yard and munches these little spade-shaped leaves carpeting the ground in front of the house like there's no tomorrow. She doesn't often exhibit gluttony, our Gert, but with these dried leaves she's positively uninhibited.
• ...whether it's too late to get my garlic in the ground. For the past two years, I've meant to plant garlic in the fall and let it "overwinter", for harvest the following summer. I'd heard this is the best way to grow garlic in these parts and after tasting the most flavorful locally grown garlic I've ever known at a farmer's market this summer, I'm sold on growing my own. You know how a store-bought tomato tastes NOTHING like home-grown? Same goes with garlic. I'm sold. Now I just need to brave the cold and stick those little cloves' bums in the dirt before said dirt is too frozen to dig.
• ...putting the garden to bed. True, I didn't have a garden this year, but I have a big garden bed with soil that's getting better every year. We brought home leaves and yard clippings from Mom and Dad's and we've gotten permission to haul horse poo from the neighbor's corral. I may hit our hay farming neighbor up for steer poo from his property, too - now that's magical stuff, right there. I'm determined to put the garden to bed for the winter covered with this organic concoction with visions of nice, wormy soil waiting for me to uncover in Spring. I better get on it if I hope to do so before the only blanket covering that precious earth is snow!
• ...the sad state of my pantry shelves, forlorn with the absence of home-canned tomatoes. It was with great reluctance that I bought several cans of diced tomatoes at Safeway on Saturday. I hadn't bought canned tomatoes in two years because we've been enjoying the preserves of gardens past. While it was the right decision to forgo a garden last spring, I have pined for the harvest this year!
• ...how to design the right garden for next year, which starts with seed orders in January, and seed starts in February. We actually have seed left over from the garden-that-wasn't last year, so I have a head start there. I'm refreshed, renewed and excited to get started plotting the coming year's garden. I have visions of beans climbing teepees, exquisite fresh eggplant and monster pumpkins.
• ...how nice it is to still have the five hens and 2 roosters that we started the summer with, chiefly because Mike and the kids finished the long-needed, high-fenced chicken yard. Much as I wish we could let our chickens free range, we have lost dozens of chickens the past few years to coyotes and dogs and just can't let the carnage continue. I'm praying the coyotes don't outsmart the fence so that we can grow our little flock again next spring. In the meantime, it is wonderful to get eggs every day, and it was rewarding to watch the chickens cavorting in the grass that we seeded the chicken yard with, and hunkering down beneath the bushes we enclosed in the yard for them.
• ...how satisfying it was to pull out my wheat grinder last night to try my hand at homemade, whole wheat pizza crust, with Tanner grinding herbs in the mortar and pestle, and the kids ooing and ahhing over the beautiful pies before we stuck them in the oven. We're total food nerds around here - I'm not sure the visiting friend quite understood the level of rapture surrounding the pizza viewing. Of course, he went home with fresh peach jam, so if he knows what's good for him he'll keep the eye rolling to a minimum.
• ...adding a few drops of peppermint oil to our homemade laundry soap, just to add that hint of winter flavor to our clothes. (Whole new thinking on "winterizing" your wardrobe. Go with me.)
• ...the hope that this winter will bring many hours of inspiration and writing, with loads of

Love from the farm,
Teri

Romancing the Hen

While Miss Ellie and I were doing the chores the other morning, she exclaimed, "Look, Aunt Teri! I found eggs!" I wondered how she would react when I explained to her that those weren't eggs in the nest box, but colossal chicken poos; then I looked up from filling the chicken waterer and saw to my surprise that there really were eggs in the nest box. Two beautiful big brown eggs.

It's been some time since we've had fresh eggs around these parts.

Why, I wondered, did we suddenly have eggs again? Why, when Lone Hen had not laid an egg since she planted her fluffy feathered bottom on our farm lo those many months ago, is she suddenly laying eggs? Could it be that the new man in her life has inspired her? Does Rooster Boy have Lone Hen's biological clock a tickin'?

It turns out that Lone Hen hasn't been holding out on me all these months. She's been holding out for love.

You go, girl. (And, Rooster Boy, whatever you're doing, you keep it up, fella!)

Love from the farm,
Teri

The Promised Christmas Mystery Tale

It was on Christmas Day that I promised to share our very own Christmas mystery tale, but I was derailed by the great turkey slaughter. I am breathing and eating normally again and the involuntary shudders have abated. I can now share the Christmas tale.

'Twas the night before Christmas and on McLaws Road.....

Nope, sorry, I'm not adept enough at literary adaptations to tell this story in the verse and rhyme of that familiar prose. I'll just give it to you straight.

Mike and I were up late Christmas Eve, as parents often are. In fact, it was the wee hours of Christmas morning before we crawled into bed - about 1:30 a.m. or so. After a wonderfully exhausting Christmas Eve with family, we fell quickly off to sleep.

At 2:21 a.m. I was awakened by the soft tinkling of a bell. I startled, because in spite of the many childhood (and grown up) years of wishing to hear sleigh bells, I never, ever had. I leaped out of bed and padded to the dining room, which is really the entry to the house, and saw that Santa had already arrived. The stockings were stuffed and laying on the table (odd location), the presents were crammed under the tree. While I was tempted to snoop, I did not, believing the 1st glimpse of Santa treasures should be enjoyed by the kiddos in a few hours. I looked to the table one more time and noted the jingle bells knitted to the toes of Adam's and Tanner's stockings. "Hmmm," I thought. "That faint jingle sure sounded like the jingle I recognize from the boys' stockings."

I tottered back to bed and waited for sleep to come. Just as I was drifting off, I heard the soft jangling again and immediately the image came to mind of our beagle-esque dog Mia standing proud as punch on the table top rooting through one of the stockings for the chocolate that Santa surely left. For the 2nd time within in an hour (and, let's face it, probably the 2nd time in the last 25 years), I leapt from bed, this time in terror because Mia is a vomiting dog on the best of days; I surely didn't want her tanking on chocolate and ruining Christmas by up and dying on us. I returned to the dining room and found everything exactly as I'd left it not a half hour before. I looked around for a possible culprit and went back to bed.

I lay there tense and expectant - I knew I didn't imagine the tinkling bell. I don't imagine things (when outside the grip of a particularly entertaining migraine, that is). What could be making that....? There it was again - the tinkling. Just as I cottoned on to the obvious answer and the thought was forming in my head, "Crap! Is it a MOUSE in the stocking? I haven't seen evidence of a mouse since last year...how did a MOUSE find the stockings already?", suddenly, a crashing, clattering thumping shook the walls.

Now, I'd had it -- that was IT!! THAT was no mouse! What the heck was going on?!? I knew that Santa was long gone - I mean, why on earth would he have been lingering on our roof after he'd already dumped the goods? Was Adam trying to psyche us out by playing Santa? Didn't he know his little sisters were firmly in dancing sugarplums territory by this time? With all this running through my head, I shook Mike awake and hollered something at him about someone or something being on the roof.

He grumbled awake just as I thought I heard that faint tinkling again, followed by a "Whummpp!!", again rattling the wall. Sitting up and focusing my senses, I could tell the rattling was the front of the house, not the roof.

Just as Mike leapt out of bed (we had lots of leaping in our life suddenly, truly a disconcerting notion when you're our age) and I shot out from under the covers one last time, it started to dawn on me.

And then I knew. Well, I suspected. And a quick glance out the front window confirmed it.

It was Gertie, the Christmas Goat.

Only, I don't think she was full of good cheer. She looked a little peeved. In fact, I'm fairly certain that her bleak little expressionless face was conveying something along the lines of, "Yo, Dilberts, it's stinkin' cold out here! What the crap kind of Christmas is this? You guys go off for the night, come home visibly fatter, stoke your little fires, crank your little heaters and trundle off to your nice warm beds while I'm stuck out here with these poopin' turkeys, who, excuse me, sleep in their own dung!! Explain to me just what the heck there is to ho, ho, ho about right about now. Oh, I'm sorry - I see you there....whassamatter, did I disturb your slumber? Did I roll you out of your toasty little bed and you had to pitter patter across the chilly cement floor to peer out at the source of the disturbance? Oh, I'm sorry - hate to bug you while I'm FREEZING my furless buns off out here. Yeah, excuse me for fogging up the window there!"

Really, Gertie, where's your Christmas spirit?

Not that I said that to her. Frankly, I was a little rattled by the scalding tongue-lashing so I hurriedly ducked my head behind the door and out of view and turned off the porch light. And then, on Christmas Day, before we left for another day of revelry at Grandma and Grandpa's, Mike rigged a nice, toasty warming lamp on the front porch for Gertie and the turkeys. And we avoided eye contact for a few days, so as not to awaken the sleeping dragon behind those mysterious amber eyes.

And that was our Merry Christmas tale.

Next year, ear plugs.

Love from the farm,
Teri

The Open Front Door

Coming home to an open front door can elicit a variety of emotions. In the city, coming home to a gaping doorway might bring the following to mind: Have every one of our valuables been stolen? Was this a gang hazing ritual or an even more sinister breach? Is someone still in there, lurking in a darkened closet? If I call the police, I'm telling them the place was viciously ransacked; I'm not copping to the fact that it looks like this. Always.

Coming home to an open front door in the country fosters a whole different set of responses: How long have those doors been open? Am I the idiot who left them open? Dang it, I am. Is there a chance on this Great Green Earth that the animals didn't notice?

To the kids I was ferrying home from school, scouts, Grandma's and Grandpa's, I said, "Do you see something standing there in the doorway?" It was dusk. I wanted to believe the black shape about 2.5-feet up from the floor was simply a shadow. Then the shadow moved, and the kids started chiming in, "Yep, that's a turkey." "Oh, there's another turkey." "Is that the duck? Yeah, do you see her behind the tom?" "Where's the 3rd turkey?" Oh, don't worry she was there, too.

Sigh.

I weakly asked, "I don't suppose Gertie is in there with them?" No sooner had I uttered that last syllable then her little white horns popped up behind the black turkey backs. "Yep, there's Gertie," stated Captain Obvious (I'm not sure which kid it was, but their declaration was an unwelcome addition to the conversation.)

I kid you not, each one of those animals was craning its neck to see who had just pulled up; Gertie the Goat in the back, standing on tippy-toes to see over the tops of the turkeys heads. The duck finally had enough of the crowding, vista-blocking poultry and squeezed out between the turkeys to get a better view. It seems at the very same moment they all realized they were busted and slunk out of the house in a cluster, just as Mia came bounding up behind them from somewhere deep in the bowels of the house, ready to gaily greet us. It didn't occur to her that bringing up the rear behind a bunch of gate crashers is the walk of shame for a guard dog worth its salt.

By my calculations, those dang doors had been open since I got the call from the school nurse at 2:47p to come pick up a sick kid until our arrival home at 5:25p. Roughly 2.5 hours they could have been in there. I wasn't ready to face it. I resolved to stay in the car and just text Mike all about it.

The kids went in to inspect the damage and Tanner came out to report the results. "It's bad in there. You probably don't want to go in," he said as he dropped into the passenger seat, shut the door and fiddled with the heater vent. So, I didn't. It was warm in the car. I was disinclined to move.

Tanner and I sat there a good five minutes before I silently turned off the car, turned to look at him and said we'd better go in. Tanner was seriously surprised. He said, "Aren't you going to have us clean it up? Really, you're going in there? Mom, I don't know if you realize how bad it is."

Oh, I was so tempted. There're 4 strong yahoos around here that I'd labored to carry a total of 40 months (we may address the 9-month pregnancy fallacy at a later date) and who were responsible for my stomach looking like a cantaloupe rind - they owe me; I'm fighting the crud; it's been a long day - I can let them clean it up. But, then that stinking sense of fair play raised its perky little obnoxious head. I'm the one who didn't check that the security door was shut when I know darn good and well that our dogs Mia and Sadie can't resist their 'Starsky & Hutch' kick-in-the-front-door routine. It was my fault. It was my mess to clean up.

In case you were wondering, 3 turkeys, a duck and one goat can produce a colossal amount of poo in 2.5 hours. Eleven piles of bird poo and 2 smatterings of goat berries, to be exact. Of course, to make it all extra special, the goat will do one pile of bidness on the living room rug. I spent 45 minutes taking care of the 11 piles of poo and one goat deposit. Then, Macy and I rolled up the living room rug and took it outside. I have my limits and there was just one pile of poo too many.

I truly love our life in the country. I do. But, it just isn't right to have the farm critters greet you at the door. From inside the house. It's just not right. I have no profound or clever manner of wrapping this one up. It's simply not right.

Tepid affection from the farm,
Teri

The Lone Egg & An Evolving Philosophy

One brown egg.

A single, solitary brown egg.

That's all I found in the hen house when I fed the hen this morning. Oh, did I say hen? I meant hens - all 7 of them.

Yes, 7.

Why, Teri, if you have 7 hens, did you find only 1 egg, you ask? Why? Because we have some opportunistic slackers who are drunk on the heavenly mash and sweet scratch we generously ply them with every day, but are refusing to give anything in return. They haven't given for some time. These new gals that we welcomed to our farm a month or so ago are not putting out.

In short, they're takers, they're not givers; and for that, I'm seriously thinking it's freezer time. You know why? Because for the first time in months, I had to buy eggs at the store this week. Why am I buying eggs when I have 7 perfectly healthy hens wandering around the chicken yard, for whom I buy feed twice a month?

And may I say, it's a very nice, clean fresh chicken yard at that. Because on Monday, did I spend the day primping and preening so Mike and I could enjoy a nice, intimate celebration of our 13th anniversary? Oh, no. Not me. I donned a dust mask, and for the first time in months laced up what were once very expensive running shoes and along with my intrepid mother-in-law, cleaned out the chicken coop and chicken yard, raking and scraping up months of hay, food scraps and chicken poo. We spent a couple of hard hours cleaning that coop and yard, then scattered fresh Bermuda grass all over the coop floor, filled the nests with nice soft grass, and spread yet more Bermuda out in the chicken yard. The girls were very excited by the fresh grass and scratched merrily in the new green litter.

We had one hen, though, who was very distressed during the process, continuing to check the nests to see what was happening, wandering from one end of the coop to the other, checking the nests again. As women who have felt a certain urgent need to deliver an uncomfortable burden ourselves a collective 9 times in the past, it finally occurred to us that perhaps the little red hen's distress wasn't so much upset at her changing habitat as it might have been an urgent need to give birth to an egg. And soon. We hurriedly put hay in one of the nests and she gratefully settled right in to complete her daily labor. Poor old girl. Nothing like arriving at the emergency room to have your baby only to find there's not so much as a wheelchair ready to give you rest. As fellow birthers, we should have cottoned on earlier.

She doesn't realize it, but the little red hen's distress may have very well saved her life. Because now we know who is providing us that one lone egg; we know who is returning our hospitality with labor of her own. We know who will be spared when the inevitable axe falls, should the other girls not start producing real soon.

I'm not sure when I became such a cold-hearted "put up or die" kind of person. Never before did I require that everyone show a direct return on my investment if they were to live. Never before did I respond to slights and discourtesies and just plain ungrateful behavior with threats of death. It's this odd new approach to life and death that has crept into my makeup that I'm pondering these days, trying to determine if I need to quash this new philosophy, or if it's a necessary step in my evolution from city girl to farm woman. It's a slightly disturbing turn of events, and I'm not sure where I'm going to come out on this.

I do believe my "serve me or you die" attitude may be leaking out a bit, oozing from the seams; I'm afraid my grim reaper watchfulness may be starting to make the people around me nervous. Could that be why Mike's mom, my beloved mother-in-law, works from dawn till dusk when she visits, never sitting during the day, hardly resting long enough to eat a quick meal before returning to some unpleasant task? Perhaps I should tell her that the yummy vittles and clean towels we proffer during her visits don't require labor in return; that my tit-for-tat requirements extend only to the farm critters.

On the other hand, my refrigerator and kitchen counters have never sparkled so much as they do following my mother-in-law's visit this week. Could be that mercenary glint in my eye has its merits....

More to ponder as I walk among the chickens.

Without an axe.

For now.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Around the Farm

Time for a quick farm and garden report:

First, let me say, just when you think you cannot possibly love your husband any more, he goes and power washes the turkey and duck poo off the front porch and sidewalk and you learn you can love even more. Then he tries to force you to use the kids' bathroom in the morning so he can get first shower and that passion falls back a notch. Ebb and flow, that's what love is all about.

ANYWAY.....

Yesterday, our neighbor mentioned he'd be covering his tomato plants because we are supposed to have a couple frosty nights before it warms up again. So, my friend in farming Emily, me and a few of our yahoos picked all the ripe and ripening tomatoes, covered the most robust plants with the best looking remaining fruit, then picked all the green tomatoes from the uncovered plants. We, again, have a boatload of tomatoes to process. This morning, I went to pull the sheets off the plants because we have 50 mph winds forecasted for the entire day. Since I don't want to come home to the embarrassing spectacle of linens wrapped up in the overhead powerlines again, I figured we better grab the sheets now. Good call - the winds are already high. If Gertie the Goat were wearing her Hannah Montana wig, she'd be a platinum blond windsock in the side yard right now. Already, there are ripples on the duck's wading pool.

All the uncovered tomato plants were crackly and brittle this morning; the covered plants were lush as ever. Thanks, Neighbor Bill, for the heads up on the freeze. Just to be safe, we'll pick the rest of the tomatoes tonight, layer all the greenies in newspaper and let them ripen over the next few months. (I sound like I know what I'm doing, don't I? I've been in PR for nearly 20 years, I can make anyone sound smart.)

With this last picking, the garden has pretty much given up the ghost. We could pamper and protect the beans for a little longer, but seriously, I'm tired of the garden. There, I said it. I'm pooped. I need to recharge over the winter, start browsing seed catalogs in January by the fire, and get excited again. Right now, I'm done. Plus, I'd really like to get a pedicure because I'm sick of snagging the sheets with my rough heels, but I can't justify it if I'm going to keep mucking around in the garden. (In addition to the garden excuse, I've been putting off the pedicure because the top of my foot is still tender and alarmingly crunchy after being stomped by the horses - yes, both of them, same spot - a few weeks back and I'm not sure Redgie would appreciate me reflexively bopping her on the side of the head when she went to massage the smushed foot. Better to wait.)

Oh, we do have our fall lettuce and spinach still growing. Emily got the first pick, we'll take the next, and see if there's anything after that.

We do need to get our garlic planted - time's running out. I'll have to pull deep on the well of resolve to get my hiney out there for that project. But, I love garlic, use a ton of it, and have sorely wished we had it from the garden, so I suppose I'll have to go plant it. Crap.

The animals are doing ok, but we have a big "front of house" operation going on. Literally. The turkeys, duck and goat are all up front, in plain sight for all to encounter. We've become THAT family. My poor mother. She never wished this for me. But, now that the poo is off the porch, I feel a little less concerned about how it looks. I figure, as long as I accessorize, wear make up and avoid screened t-shirts with Tweety Bird or Sponge Bob on them, I can pull this off.

The turkeys walk around all puffed up in "full feather," which is just totally cool. They're really mean to Sadie the dog, though, and I'm sure they'll be fouling the walk again in no time, which feeds my temptation to go ahead and just get them tucked into the freezer in advance of Thanksgiving. The only thing is, I'm really worried how the duck will take it. Yes, I said "duck"; where once we had three, now we have one. And she stands at the turkey pen every morning, staring in through the netting, waiting for them to be released. They don't give a rat's patootie about her, but she can't function without them. I think it's time to move her down to the chicken coop and acquaint her with those girls, so she isn't left forlorn when the turkeys take the trip to the Great Grub Farm in the Sky. I actually cried a little when the boy duck disappeared and she was left to swim alone. I have GOT to get over crying over the critters. Seriously, it gets worse the longer we're at this farming thing.

By the way, I don't feel like much of a farmer these days - the garden's done for the season, the pigs have been butchered, the horses are hanging at the neighbors, and we're just left with the poultry and Gertie the Goat. While I'm happy for the simpler days we'll enjoy this winter, I know I'll be ready for all the spring babies to show up, making us feel like a going operation again. If we had a milk cow, I KNOW I'd feel like a farmer again. Plus, I could quit buying all that hopped up milk, butter and cheese at the store. But, for now, I'm glad to not have to worry about twice a day milkings and making anything more from scratch. Just for now.

Speaking of making things from scratch, with a bunch of little jars of peach jam on the counters, more frozen whole peaches to process, and the apples that will be arriving late October, I'm well on my way to having lots of yummy preserves put up for the year. We'll be thawing the pork we just butchered and canning a bunch of that in the coming weeks, as well. I figure by early November, we'll finally be done with preserving the harvest.

Don't think we're getting lazy around here, though. There are new windows to put in, firewood to be cut and gathered, the garden to till under, the property to clean up and trim back for the winter, the corral and sagging stalls to tear down, the chicken yard to expand, the coop to clean out...ugh, I'm feeling a little nauseous, so I'm going to stop right there.

I think I'm going to go crawl into the tub until the wind stops blowing. Which isn't forecasted to happen until tomorrow. Perfect. And I am NOT going to wonder why Mia the psycho dog is getting fat. I'm not. I'm not going to give it a single thought.

Love from the farm,
Teri

Sexy (Email Classics)

Written May 9, 2009

As I was (euphamistically speaking) "preparing the garden" for plowing this week, I had the following thought:

A real man doesn't know sexy until he's seen his woman standing on a 10-foot pile of steer manure, throwing it by the shovelful into the back of his F250 pick up. Wearing a fuschia handkerchief. And a denim skirt. In the wind. With wrap-around eye protection. For 4 hours.

(Ok, part of that time was spent throwing said manure on the garden, then refilling the truck with HORSE manure, and throwing THAT on the garden. Next year: bags of steer poo from Home Depot. I'm just sayin'. Christmas presents of poo are ok. Just ask my sister Lynda. I gave her steer poo for her bridal shower.)

The saving grace? The eye protection was more Dale Earnhardt than welding class. My life's pitfall at the moment? Using a Dale Earnhardt comparison as if it's a positive thing for a girl.

Love from the farm,
Teri

It's Windy Here (Email Classics)

Written April 25, 2009

I'm not saying being outside today is a bad idea, I'm just saying that the cardboard box on our front porch? It was impaled by a branch that came flying this morning, and 3 inches of that branch were sticking through to the inside of the box.

Now, I'm a sport, you all know that. But I'm figuring today I will NOT do two of the three things I had planned for the day. You guess which two I've crossed off my list:

1) Burn weeds from the house to the barn
2) Spread dry, flaky manure over the garden and new garden expansion area
3) Dishes

I was excited about the weed burning - my neighbor demonstrated how to use the torch yesterday and I was rarin' to go. Mike was a little nervous about my excitement level. He probably prayed for the wind to make sure I'd behave while he's at work today.

Spoil sport.

Guess I better put on my lavender gloves and get going on the dang dishes. I hate when I don't get to play outside with propane-fueled toys. And poop.

Love from the farm,
Teri

....and by the way, it STINKS in here! (Email Classics)

Written May 22, 2009

I was actually just going to leave you all alone, but I walked through the front rooms on my way to toss a Diet Pepsi into the freezer for a few before I dig back into my massive paperwork project this morning and I was again assaulted by the STENCH in my house! It's true - my house STINKS and truth be told, it has for some time, on regular intervals. You know why? Because I'm a SUCKER and a SAP, that's why.

It's because there are presently 12 young chicks and 4 NOISY turkeys under brooding lights in my dining/living room. The chicks are in a big wooden box, with a lid (oh, don't ask me how many times I've been tempted to shut that lid.) The turkeys are in a toddler pool, surrounded by 4-ft orange plastic netting with an infrared lamp keeping them toasty, the fragile little hot-house lilies. There's a light bulb over the chicks keeping them warm, too.

See, you have to keep the young things warmed to 95 degrees. On sunny days, we transfer the turkeys to a pen outside for the day and just bring them in at night. But their pool and their "bidness," if you know what I mean, stay in the house, so the pew-factor is still about the same. But, it's too cool and rainy to put them outside today. So, for the sake of fun, let's add humidity to the equation, shall we? See, it's rainy outside, and the lamps make it warm inside, so we have that great swamp factor going on. And we all know what warm and damp does for smells, right? (Can you just imagine how nice my house looks with pools and netting and such? And a tub of fresh straw, and a 50-lb bag of turkey food? If my mud room wasn't filled with laundry, I could shove it all in there.)

Did I mention that in spite of the rain, the old hay farmers still watered the alfalfa fields surrounding us yesterday and swamped our leach field, so we added sewer stench to the equation late yesterday afternoon? It's dissipated now, except for a lingering aroma in Adam's room. Poor Adam.

I want the creatures OUT, OUT, OUT!!! OUT of my house, with their chirping and their pooping and their STINKING! And, by the way, while I'm in here silently hating them, they're having the time of their lives! See, the chicks? They're almost 3 weeks old, which in chicken life is about like an 11-yr-old boy. And what do 11-yr-old boys like to do? Climb and jump. Well, these silly chicks have taken to flapping their little wings to "fly" themselves up out of the box, onto the ledge of the lid, then they leap back into the box. Flapping and leaping, flapping and leaping. It's an annoying little cadence. Not to mention, when I went to put that Diet Pepsi in the freezer a few minutes ago? I heard a big ruckus. Well, that's because Junior leapt off the ledge onto the floor instead of back in the box and didn't know how to get back in. I had to catch him/her/whatever.

I won't have the little poopers walking around my house. I won't. Mike is off the next 3 days and he will find a solution. He will clear room in the one outbuilding that has non-scary electrical wiring and will remove these cute little stench factories from my home. Or, I'm moving into my mom's house.

Mom, I'll take the newly redecorated room, please, with the 1,000-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, please, and the glowing wood floors. And, please have a cool, damp cloth waiting for me to apply to my eyes. And, fresh, mild pot pourri. Please.

For now, I'm going to go take a bubble bath. THEN I'll get back into my paper project. And I won't add Benadryl to their water to make them sleepy. I WON'T.

Oh well, it could be worse - it could be two weeks ago when the 3 ducklings were in here, too.

Seething resentment from the farm,
Teri