Don't hate.

My dad called me as I was headed out the door for work to tell me that there were calves in the neighbor's yard and I needed to check the fences. Sadly, this isn't an entirely unusual occurrence. You see, the same fluff that makes calves so freaking adorable also insulates them pretty well against the zapping power of the electric fence. It has to be pretty dang hot to keep those bouncing bundles of joy contained and safe from the dangers of the blacktop. And also keep our neighbors happy, because even though I think calves gamboling around in my flower garden would be the most perfect photo op ever; it isn't everyone's cup of tea. There's no accounting for taste, ya'll.

So anyway, I had a lovely morning playing farmer, fixing fences, and attempting to find all of the cows as they happily munched their way around five acres of two foot tall grass. While it is true that cows will "bunch" around a feeder, when they are grazing they spread out man. Regardless, I think they're all there, but a herd of all black cows moving around where you can barely see them makes it hard to be sure. The IL farm doesn't ear tag anyone so it is hard to know if they've been counted or not when I can't see their faces to know who they are. 

I got the fence hot, and rigged it in a few places because I didn't have the tools with me to fix it permanently. That's going to be tomorrow morning's project. Dad has promised to teach me how to restring a broken high tinsel (really heavy duty steel wire that doesn't work like the light duty wire I am used to) section.

Now here is where things divulge from farm life to my personal beliefs, so if you don't really care about that then I encourage you to take this cow picture and go with my blessing, or file this one under knowing your farmer. Either way.

Have a Crooky!

After I finished up with my farming for the morning I made a decision. A decision that I knew would have some repercussions, namely  that it would make feeding later a bit of a difficulty. A decision that I don't regret in the least.

I decided to wear a maxi dress and jacket, and I believe that EVERY person other than Captain America had something to say about it. Please note that I still hadn't done my hair, or worn make up, and this thing was like the yoga pant of the dress world.

What I did not anticipate was the barrage of questions: "Why are you so dressed up?" "Who died?" "That jacket doesn't go with that." "You can't work in that." "You're overdressed for feeding aren't you?" This and comments like them, from at least eleven people.

My inner monologue had a field day. "Because I wanted to mess with your world view." "I'm actually my own evil twin." "I wanted to spend all day defending my clothing choices." "It was hot." "It was easier than trying to find a clean pair of jeans," as most of mine have some sort of marking on them whether it is a stain from the cows or from farm equipment repair. "I just got the dress and I delight in it." "I just wanted to?" "It is coral, so I probably wouldn't wear it to a funeral." "Overdressed? Pioneer women pulled plows in dresses, you know." The list goes on and on, but it raises the question, why do I have to defend my choices?

As long as I am not indecent or breaking any policies on my dress, of course. If I was running around like Lady Godiva on a four wheeler I could see someone stopping me and asking what made me make that particular clothing choice for the day. (Ease of cleaning by the way, that is all I can come up with. Or maybe a severe mental break...)

I just wrote about my realization that I was a farmer, and you know nine times out of ten I dress like one, but I am also a grown woman who likes to wear something that flows around my ankles when I walk every so often. So what if I have to hike it up and tuck in in my bra to make it a mini and keep it from getting puppy prints on it? That's my prerogative.

I guess what I am trying to say is this: when did it become our job to judge one another, and not just delight in each other and the unique qualities that we each bring to the table?

I think that goes far beyond clothing choices too. I am PASSIONATE about what I do, and how I think that livestock should be raised; but I have to appreciate what other farmers do and why they make the choices that they make when it comes to their life and livelihood. Grassfed beef, free range chickens, and organic gardening are clear choices for me, but I don't have to bring anyone else down to bolster that belief.

I'm not sure all other farmers could rock a coral maxi/mini dress and muck boots, but I can; and similarly to my beliefs about the food industry and animal husbandry I respectfully refuse to apologize and make excuses for that, even while acknowledging that it isn't for everyone.

Now, if you don't mind, I am going to go spin circles in my flowy skirt to Taylor Swift's "Shake it off" and see if the cows try to eat it.

Hug a cow in 2015!

Happy New Year!

Sorry for the delay in posting. Things get kinda crazy around here during the holidays.

My friend Rachel said it perfectly when she described getting ready for them thusly: "Two weeks of constant cleaning and arranging so you look like you just rented the house for the day, and that no one actually lives there. Then when everyone is sitting down to dinner you realize that you have no clue where you hid the pepper shaker. That's Christmas." That pretty much sums up the holidays round here. With mom hosting holidays and having a sanctuary for unadoptable Chihuahuas, well, it can take a lot of last minute touch ups. Let's just say there are some memories from my younger days that I get to relive - Cinderelly, Cinderelly / Night and day it's Cinderelly / Make the fire, fix the breakfast / Wash the dishes, do the mopping.

Just kidding, I actually enjoy being able to help mom out. It reminds me of when I still lived there and we would spend every Saturday cleaning. Maybe I'm scarred or something, but vacuuming that house makes me nostalgic!

Last year CA and I spent Christmas Eve with his family and Christmas with mine. We continued that schedule this year, and it seems to work fairly well. I'm really looking forward to having the house I bought finished though. I can't wait to start hosting holidays!

Speaking of the house, I'm not sure I have mentioned it before. I purchased my neighbor's house last March: a 1948 three bedroom and one bath. I had thought it would be great to remodel the bath and add a half bath upstairs. Things were going swimmingly - when I pulled up the carpets the house's original floors looked great. Until we had to cut a bunch of holes in them because the house had the original wiring and it had arced. And smoked. And I was ready to burn it down, but fortunately CA and my dad stepped up. I am happy to say that as of yesterday we are one weekend away from having all the wiring finished! Hallelujah!  At this rate I might move in before the one year mark! And that would be great because then I can sell my nicely remodeled trailer and dad can build a fantastic shed in its current location. Then he can move his things out of my grandpa's barn and we can start repairing buildings there in earnest. Then, after CA has his home remodel done, we build all of our fences on the hill (grandpa's farm), and we have the buildings finished we can turn our sights on remodeling grandpa's house. Whew. I tell you, I don't know what I am going to do with all my free time ten years from now...

But I can tell you how to install outlets and one-way switches, how to fix walls, and I can lay some pretty sweet quarter round. So, it hasn't been for nothing, right?

Last year around this time I decided not to make a resolution, but to give myself a yearlong to-do list:

-Self Love February -basically spend time doing the things I enjoy like sketching, reading, cooking that I fail to do so often.

-Paint vanity in bathroom

-Fill wood holes in quarter round on trailer

-Fix and electrify Pearl's pen

-Feed sacks clean out all the old feed sacks from both barns

-Clean Old Barn

-Rosetta Stone

-Finish edits on my book

-Exercise more

*Finish Old Barn pen

*Fix corner post

*Trim fence

*Replace/fix white boards

*Can enough tomatoes & potatoes that I don't have to buy any

*Basement #1, mom's

*Basement #2, CA's

*CA's house remodel

Yeah. Clearly that didn't happen. I didn't do so well with "Self Love February" since my grandpa died and I spent most of it wallowing in various stages of grief. I didn't fix Pearl's pen because another mare went blind in the pen next door and decided to play ping pong with the vinyl boards every time the wind blew hard. So, until the blind ones either pass on or get moved it is fairly pointless. I almost cleaned out all the feed sacks and the old barn, but then I got distracted by the fact that the barn was falling down and never finished. I never used my canner this year, but I froze the tomatoes and potatoes; that sorta counts, right? I didn't work much on mom's or CA's basement, and I took down some wallpaper as my contribution to CA's house remodel. I did however buy him a spare set of high thread count sheets so I did improve his quality of life somewhat.

Don't get me wrong, I accomplished a ton last year. I am almost into Evelyn's house. We have cleaned some of grandpa's sheds. I grew SO MUCH squash. I got a milk cow, courtesy of CA (:)). I didn't finish editing my book, but I started writing another. I took time to get pedicures, like three or four times.  I kept hay in front of the cows. I learned how to jack up a falling down barn. I learned how to run a mile. I bought my own trimmer and kind of kept my yard trimmed in addition to the fences. I took three amazing trips. I made memories with my loved ones, and so much more.

So this year I am going to change it up a little bit. For one thing I am going to actually share my to-do list with CA and my parents and see what they think and feel about things.

2015 To-Do List:

-Look better going into 28 years and 730 days old than I did at 20. That's right. Size ten jeans and a trip to the salon here I come.

                -Keep exercising more

                -Keep working on cutting out processed foods, GMOs, dairy, sugar, and gluten

                -Shank CA when he brings me ice cream, do not eat ice cream for supper dammit. Okay, maybe just once or twice...

-Move into Evelyn's house, and try to sell the trailer.

-Help CA remodel his house in whatever way I can.

-Plant flowers and vegetables. I may cease weeding by July, but by God it makes me happy. Heck, try to make more time for the Zen of Weeding.

-Stop. Breathe. Enjoy Life. Slow down and weed, pet the milk cow, pick cherries, watch a sunset, or paint. Learn from 2014. All those chores will still be there later, or even next year. Clean the barn on a gorgeous day when it makes my heart sing to be outside, but not because I have to.

-Help people more. Whether that is mom and dad cleaning the basement, or volunteering somewhere.

-Spend more quality time with friends, family, and critters.

-Take time to be creative: edit the book, work on the new book, learn Italian, daydream, meditate, learn to make cheese, bake more breads, learn to distill essential oil, ANYTHING.

-Try to not get overwhelmed as often by everything that I feel like I have to do.

That last one is the big one. It is so easy to get caught up in the rush of day to day living. I spend so much time rushing from one job to the next, and spending the time in between jobs strategizing how to do them more efficiently. It is going to take some conscious effort, but I am really going to try to slow down.

How about you? Want to keep me accountable in 2015? Want to share your goals? 

Want to hug a cow?
Of course you do. Hug a cow in '15!

What makes a farmer?

I was talking with one of my friends about a fantasy land where we would run away with our boyfriends and live in a cottage somewhere. In the course of the conversation she started talking about farming and how she wouldn't know what to do with herself, so Captain America and I would have to be in charge of it. I tried to tell her that it was easy, but something must have gotten lost in the translation.

How do you sum up the love, the angst, the freedom, and the responsibility in a few sentences? How do you explain the pure exultant joy that you can feel from successfully doing something that felt insurmountable: mowing and baling a field of hay on your own, helping birth a calf, falling in instant love with a baby chick, making food from dirt? Or the heart wrenching despair and loss that you feel when Murphey's law hits and everything that can possibly go wrong does: all the equipment breaks - repeatedly, it rains on your hay, animals die, gardens wither? 

Surely this is what she must feel like when she tells me about music, or other friends try to explain what moves them. It is so frustrating to have something that you love so much, and be unable to verbalize that love to share it with your loved ones. To explain how easy and wonderful your passion is to someone who doesn't share it is exceedingly difficult.

Being a farmer isn't about mechanical skill, ability to build fence, knowledge of livestock medicine, or any of the hundred other chores that pop in my head - though those things do help. But being a farmer is so much less, and so much more than that. It is heart. It is love. It is fortitude.

Being a farmer is cow paths that wind through the woods as a child's Yellow Brick Road. It is climbing atop a pile of round bales and serenading a herd of cows like you're a pop star. It is watching a thousand loved ones slowly age and die, or be swiftly executed in their prime. It is holding newborn kittens and helping bird's to their nests. It is standing in a hayfield during a surprise thunderstorm surrounded by 200 freshly made square bales that are going to have to be shaken out and dried again so they can be rebaled without molding, and finding the ability to cry, curse and laugh your way through it again and again. It is being aware and entangled with both the highs and the lows of life; and having so much love for that life, plant or animal, that you get up and keep going even when it feels pointless, overwhelming, and you question your sanity.

I don't know. Maybe it is genetic. Somewhere in our DNA is code for red or green tractors next to the one that determines our eye color. Maybe it is environmental. How could I ever leave my adoring herd of fans? After all they are the only ones who like my singing, and most of my songs were about them and the horses anyway. 

Maybe it is a combination of both that gives anyone the determination to pursue their passion. Heart and fortitude, baby. That's what makes me a farmer.

Have you ever been eye stalked by a cow?

 

You know those people at the gym that stare at you while you exercise? That make you feel judged, and badly about yourself? The ones that make that internal voice go, “Oh crap. I’m not working hard enough. Fast enough. I must look horrible in this spandex shirt!” Yep.

Meet the mother of those people. A cow.

You're not even able to work fast enough to keep me fed. Amateur.

Let me set the stage for you. A few weeks back I posted about my abusive relationship with the cows and I mentioned that I had spent several hours cleaning the barn. This is a set of before and after photos of the lovely project.

Something doesn't look quite right.
And no, it isn't the fact that the stalls are full of 30 years worth of junk!

Step one complete! Note the height change!
Also note that this is about when I realized that my radio was on AM.
And that was why I couldn't listen to anything other than radio Disney...
I was dedicated dammit. I also know the words to "Let it go."

Let it go, let it go. I'm not cleaning this anymore!
Let it go, let it goooo! Almost ready to close up the doors.
I don't care. What the cows say.
Let them moo onnnn!...The hay never bothered me anyway!

You see that wonderfully compressed timber? And the one with the hole in it? Yeah. That was what prompted my cow-stalking gym time. The dang barn was falling down. It is always something! 

And yes, I have an entire barnyard version of the song. Go ahead. Judge all ya'll want. When Disney comes knocking on my door you'll see! ;)

Stop being a weatherman.

 

I saw this photo on Facebook last Friday, and all I can do is heartily agree. I feel like my life has been a non-stop whirlwind lately.  I have always enjoyed being busy. It is one of the reasons I love living on a farm. I don’t know what to do with myself when there isn’t some chore or project to work on. I’m not big on relaxing with television or movies (to the point that I am pretty sure it drove my college roommate crazy because I couldn’t sit through a show without leaving to do dishes or something else productive). Tis the season for that to shine I suppose. Spring is always a time of growth and rapid change. There is always a flurry of activity that leads into the growing season. This year’s has just been even crazier than usual.

My grandpa passed away in February leaving me with a bunch of outbuildings to clean and rehab, in addition to a LOT more grass to mow, and a ton of exciting (but overwhelming) opportunities. In addition to that, I bought a house. Because, hey, why not compound that overwhelming amount of yard, with another two acre yard. Go big or go home, right?

Right. Check. Got that. Did that. Own the t-shirt. Damn near started a business printing the t-shirt because I just can’t say no to adding more things to my plate. AHHH! Stress is exhilarating!!! Until it isn’t.

Halfway through getting my garden in last week I about had a meltdown. I had already smushed my hand between the rather large lawn mower and a tree – leading me to believe that prayer must work because the accident really should have removed fingers or at least broken something. My guardian angel has got some overtime coming her way! Anyway, in addition to pain priming myself for a crying spree; I had let myself become obsessed with my to do list. Anyone who lives on a farm, no matter how big or small, should realize one thing about farms and to do lists. Farms make NEVER ENDING to do lists.

Seriously, something is always coming up. There is always a garden to weed, or a fence to fix, a barn to repair, livestock to check, plants to water, grass to cut, invasive plants to kill… I think you get the idea. You will never accomplish everything on the list. Plain and simple. You have to do what you can, when you can, and try to not drive yourself insane by impulse buying ten bags of organic potatoes that were on sale for $1.99/ five pounds and trying to process them during planting season. It does not end well.

 

Though I have found that I can process ten pounds of potatoes over my hour long lunch break, and that Captain America has some awesome potato chopping skills. Yay date night! (Despite this, I still have 10 pounds to go. WHOO!)

Anyway, to summarize: I was trying to mow well over fifteen acres of yard, plant my entire garden, process 50 pounds of potatoes, figure out how to remodel a bathroom, stress about moving things around up at grandpa’s so that the massive fixing spree can happen, and stay on top of my regular chores in the three hours of daylight that I had after work. In three days. Because it was going to start raining Thursday and not stop until this week. Plus, I have plans virtually every weekend. On a side note volunteering at the food pantry in St. Louis Saturday was incredibly rewarding, though a bit disturbing. Who on earth donates opened products (Mm, half used quinoa! Not sketchy at all!) and cans that expired in 1999? Really guys?

I like to call last week my extreme exhaustion challenge. It makes it seem much happier that way. In the midst of it, my mom gave me some very good advice: “Stop spending your life trying to be a weatherman and predicting when the storm will hit. You’re obsessing with when the rain is going to come rather than enjoying the sunshine!” I would like to say that I immediately stopping stressing/crying/working myself sick and really got that statement, but it took me a few days. I was very good about enjoying the little things with grandpa when he was alive. I stopped and admired the clouds and the sunshine with him, but since he has gone I have been (maybe distracting myself from grief?) overwhelming myself with responsibilities, trying desperately to maintain and do things the way he would have wanted. It is the same with the neighbor’s house I purchased, I want to care for it the way Evelyn and Ralph always did.

I want to honor their memory with my actions, but at some point I have to admit that I am just one person and I can’t take care of things the way that three people were able to. At the end of the day it doesn’t matter that the grass isn’t immaculate, because it is just going to grow again. And the land is mine to care for now, not theirs. I need to be a good steward, but by God if I want to rearrange the buildings that are falling down on themselves and have to be rebuilt anyway to suit my goals I should. I shouldn’t make myself crazy over it.

What is the point in having everything to take care of if I can’t stop and enjoy it? If I don’t get in the habit now, I will make a habit of not enjoying it that will be very hard to break. I will always have too much to finish; and this making everything a priority bit that I have been doing lately is only serving to make me insane, and make nothing a priority.

So, here is to better prioritizing, and not making myself sick with guilt when I want a damned pedicure. Ha!

 

Attempted Murder, Barnyard Style.

Ah, spring. It is so welcome here in southern Illinois, especially after the never ending winter we had this past year. The freshness in the warm air stirs up all sorts of desires.

The people are gardening, birds are chirping, the grass is greening, and the bulls are trying to kill each other...  in the lake.

Yes. That’s right. It is spring. Time for Bull Match 2014!

Along with the warming temperatures comes a “warming of the blood” as it were. Usually the two ‘ole guys butt heads and kick each other. It is all in good fun until they are having a stand off in front of your tractor while you’re trying to move hay and you have somewhere to be. Their bellering across the hills blends with the sounds of the birds, cats, and stallions; a distinct song of love and lust and, well, SPRING. It is always a welcome sight, and frankly is one of those things like the return of the robins that lets me know that winter is finally gone.

But not this year. This year it got scary.

So many things fell into place Friday. I was taking the afternoon off to go hang out with Captain America, so I was home to help dad load up calves to go to a farmer friend of ours who will be feeding them out at his house. It was single handedly the WORST calf round-up of which I have ever been a part.

What usually takes us 15 minutes turned into renegade calves escaping to haunt the woods along the driveway, and two hours of trying to sort the remaining bull calves and heifers. We try to ship only the boys to feed out.

 I know that they will have a good home while they are with him, and that it was significantly less traumatic than being run through a sale barn, but it always breaks my heart a little bit when a rough black nose pops out of the trailer window to nuzzle me. Or to try and find a weak point to escape the trailer, but I’m going with nuzzle…

Anyway, we finally got the trailer loaded and I happened to hear splashing in the lake, which was odd because usually the cows don’t start swimming until it gets to be much warmer. I turned and peered down at the muddy brown water trying to figure out what was going on. I couldn’t really process what I was seeing. There were two black shapes in the water. One was barely above, and the other was… throwing itself on top of the barely swimming one? What the hell? I walked a few steps closer and realized that they were the two bulls. Brisket was shoving Dale into deeper water.

“Dad! I think your bulls are trying to kill each other.” I called over to him, amused at the time, not yet understanding that I was watching an actual death match and not just horsing around.

“Get me a gun.” He yelled as he sprinted towards the lake. I took off for the house heedless of my muck covered boots. I almost spun out on the pale hardwood floor as I slid in front of the gun closet and opened the door to find… not a single gun there. I stared at the vacuum cleaner and cursed. I didn’t even live here anymore, where had he moved his cow stopping guns? I slammed the door shut and sprinted into my parent’s bedroom, breathlessly. Surely there were still some weapons hidden in the drawer. I found a gun case and turned to run downstairs, out the door, and towards the lake as fast as my legs could carry me.

I saw dad nearing the dam now, yelling and throwing rocks at the bulls. Dale’s nose was just barely above the water as Brisket tried to repeatedly throw his bulk on top of him to hold him under the cold brown water. Brisket really was trying to kill his rival, and he was smart enough to do it. Knowing that they were well matched on land he had somehow got Dale into the water and had quickly taken advantage of the situation. I sprinted towards dad, heedless of the pain in my side, and got to him just as he managed to get Brisket out of the lake. Dale laid along the shore. His huge chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. I tossed the gun to dad who immediately removed it from its case and pointed it at Brisket; as the huge bull made a move like he was going back for seconds.

“What the hell, Lauren? You brought me an unloaded gun? What am I supposed to do? Throw it at him?” Dad glared at me over his shoulder as he reached down for a rock to throw at Brisket’s big black head.

“You’re lucky I could even find one!” I yelled back, exasperated. “I don’t even live here anymore. I don’t know where you guys keep your guns!” Yes. I managed to find the ONE unloaded gun in the whole damn house.

Brisket let out a few short bellows followed by a long one. From the body language I could tell he was taunting Dale. After dad stung him with the rock he sauntered up the hills towards the herd of cows. Three of the girls made moves towards Dale, but as Brisket strode past and talked at them they eventually turned to follow him. At that, Dale finally had the energy to heave himself up onto dry land again and dad and I started the journey back around the lake; herding him with words and well placed mud clods as he bellered and pawed out his anger.

Many times as we walked I wondered if I was going to survive. There are few places quite as dangerous as walking ten feet behind an already pissed off 1,600 lb animal and throwing things at him. There is something very scary when that said animal turns towards you pawing and rubbing his head in the dirt, snorting; and all you have is a handful of dried dirt to protect yourself with. Sometimes I question my sanity.

Eventually we got him locked up in protective custody with our remaining heifers. His calls of discontent are echoing off the barn walls now. They are not the happy sounds of spring that they once were. I can only imagine what would have went down if dad and I hadn’t been home. I don’t know what we would have assumed had happened to him (I'll take Brisket in the library with the candlestick!), but I can guarantee that we would have never thought murder. It was almost the perfect crime.

So begins the hunt for a new bull. Can’t have Brisket throwing his psychopathic intelligence to the next crop of calves.

Seriously. He’s like the bovine version of Gacy.

Bad, bad, Biscuit.

I have a wonderful homemade biscuit recipe that I adapted from Suzanne McMinn over at Chickens in the Road (The lady is my heroine, seriously, check her out). I make these biscuits for Captain America fairly frequently. He can't get enough of them. They're damn good biscuits.

So, I made them for him Sunday morning before we headed downstairs to work on his basement remodel project. About an hour later there was a very loud THUNK! We looked at each other and nodded briefly. It was like in the movies. That one glance and slight chin tilt held more meaning
than an hour of conversation. I dropped the broom I was holding and made a mad dash for the stairs. I leapt up them two at a time and almost spun out on the laminate floor as I slid towards the kitchen.

There he was, CA's massive black and tan coon hound, Sampson; standing amidst a pile of still warm golden biscuit goodness.

I did what any sane person would do. I ran at him, screaming for him to back away from the biscuits. Believe it or not, he didn't listen and continued to nose around trying to remove the rest of towel that I had covered them with. I made it to him and started trying to drag him away from the pan before all of the biscuits were ruined by his doggie drool to no avail. He wasn't even sorry, or scared, or really wanting to move at all.


I picked up a biscuit that had rolled across the kitchen and threw it at him. It exploded in a golden shower of crumbs that spread all over the floor. The bits of yellow and white made a fine
counterpoint to the golden oak finish. I picked up another handful of bread heaven and started shoving it in his face. In my head it was like rubbing a puppy's nose in the mess he made.


Unfortunately, rubbing biscuit crumbs all over his face did not seem to punish him much. He
still was not apologetic or ready to flee the crazy biscuit flinging lady. So I reached around him, resorting to dragging him away from the pan manually. He is not a little dog, and while he was being removed from his prize he growled and snapped at me.

Growing up in a dog sanctuary, and watching a lot of The Dog Whisperer has taught me that there is one thing to do when a dog begins to be aggressive towards you. Roll them on their back and show them who is the alpha of the pack. I am always reminded of Cartman from Southpark, you WILL respect my authority!

Anyway, so CA comes upstairs to find a biscuit pan on the floor, the kitchen COVERED in crumbs (imagine a biscuit bomb going off mid air. . . it was even in the shelving), and me sprawled out on top of the dog holding him on his back with one arm and rubbing his stomach with the other; muttering something about him being a "bad, bad Biscuit" all the while. Sampson was staring at me like I had lost my mind. He looked up at CA and whined something that I have to interpret as: "Save me daddy! I was just eating some good food I found, when this crazy lady came up and attacked me! I didn't do anything wrong. She came out of nowhere!"

What did CA do? He laughed his butt off. That's what. Great co-parent he is going to be!

Now every time that dog is bad we call him Biscuit. I'm not sure he was smart enough to know what his name was in the first place. That poor thing is going to have a complex.

The difference between want and need...

I hear lots of my friends talking about wants and needs when we are out and about. I struggle with them too. Do I want or need those new boots? That purse? That replacement bale ring for the cows? Then there are the wants and needs that aren't material: more free time, more rewarding experiences, vacations, weekends with friends, or exercising. I'll give you a hint. That last one is probably a need, but I really don't want to!

A lot of times the difference between want and need is painfully apparent when you live on a farm. Fortunately, this week began with them coinciding quite nicely. I wanted to be outside because it was sunshine-y and almost sixty degrees. I needed to move hay. I needed to fix the fence because the cows can easily get on the highway and die tragic bovine deaths.

 

But there are obviously times when the opposite is true and my wants and my needs are opposed. Like when it is -20 and I need to move hay. Or I want to leave for a vacation, but things will starve to death. Then there are times when my wants turn into needs.

 

For years I have wanted to clean up the old barn that stands on my parents’ property. It is a thing of beauty – all hand hewn oak beams and hand cut stone quarried from the property is stands on. Though it is home to six stalls and a great amount of space we really only use it for the hayloft and storing a few wagons. The space has been underutilized my entire life, but especially in the last five years since we started feeding the cats in the newer horse barn. The old barn has not received much TLC. We don’t really go in there unless we have to throw hay to the cows.

 

My grandfather recently passed away, and I am staring some massive barn and house renovations in the face starting around September; so, I have felt a huge push to try and get all of the little things off my to do list at mom and dad’s farm. Some of those things require more than one set of hands. Yeah. I’m talking about you Mr. Corner fence post that is washing away and needs to be fixed before taking the whole fence row down. We are gonna tango mister. Mark my words! Or are made easier with multiple sets of hands like trimming the fence line or replacing white boards in the danged vinyl fence. But one of them that didn’t need many sets of hands was cleaning up some of the trash in the old barn.

 

I mentioned that we used to feed cats in there. I have a confession. I’m lazy, and rather than cutting the weight circles off the bags (you can turn them in for rewards with Purina) I just threw them behind a partition. Out of sight, out of mind. I am really hating myself for that one. I have spent maybe two hours cutting off weight circles so far, and I am not even close to being done with that project. In the course of this though I have found that my desire to clean the barn might not be a want so much as a need.

 

When I took Captain America in there to show off my progress three weeks ago we heard the sound of running water coming from the barn basement. Yup. We had a pipe burst right outside the basement wall. The good Captain got right to work and dug a trench that appeared to go halfway to China before I could so much as blink. He and my dad fixed it, and it was all good. Well, if anything like that can actually be good. However, I had this thought in the back of my mind saying,  “How long would it have leaked if I hadn’t started cleaning in there? If I hadn’t wanted to show it off it could have run for months without anyone noticing.”

 

Then it got cold again, and it wasn’t until yesterday that I snuck away from my desk job and out to fix some fence. I got done in the daylight and decided to let the chickens loose for awhile. I won’t leave them out of earshot anymore since the Great Defeathering Incident of 2013 so I went back into the barn to clean up more feed sacks. I opened one of the stall doors to try and shine a little light on my project and started rocking out on my iPod and cutting out weight circles like a boss. I don’t know what drew my attention to it, but after awhile I looked up and noticed that one of the support beams, one of the support beams that is under the hayloft mind you, was sagging. The oak beams it was sitting on have splintered and rotted into almost nothing.  

 

Suddenly cleaning the barn is not a WANT, it is an EMERGENCY. AGH! So much for wanting to go to Captain America’s house this weekend.

My sick addiction.

I’m pretty sure that livestock is a drug.

 

Seriously, it has to be an undiagnosed opiate of some sort. There is no other explanation for why it was -35 freaking degrees and I was wandering around outside with three pairs of pants, two jackets, and a pair of coveralls on; feeding with a smile under my balaclava (ultra cool ninja mask). I was kind of horrified when I realized that I couldn’t wait to go check the cows. I’m sick, sick, sick I tell ya.

 

Or maybe I just wanted to practice my ninja skillz. WHA-CHA! The deluxe winter Lauren action figure comes with hay throwing motion and ice chopping axe! KII-AII!

 

Or perhaps  it was because I would throw the good alfalfa hay down to the cows from the barn loft and I was distracted by the cold thinking: “I wonder if this is the bovine version of manna from heaven?”

 

It really goes to show that it takes all kinds. I am pretty sure that someone out there would think feeding a bunch of dirty old cows in the freezing cold with snow up to their knees is hell, while I kinda think feeding a herd of black beauties in the muffled quiet that only comes during the pristine white world of winter is heaven on Earth.

 PS: I am really hoping God get’s it, or I will have to get really used to that cold layer of hell…

Life

I am exhausted. I am energized. I am up at 6 starting a load of laundry, pulling weeds and picking tomatoes. I am late to work because I get distracted by the bees meandering around my mint plants and my perfect moment of joy, being in tune with the universe, makes me not care one bit. I take a break to have breakfast with my grandpa and tell him about my day so far. We talk about his childhood and how much quieter things were when all he had to worry about was whether or not the harness was mended. I revel in being a part of his story. I am home at lunch with the dryer going, dusting counter tops, vacuuming my floor, chopping watermelon to throw in the food dehydrator with one hand and eating a sandwich with the other. After work I’m on the mower at my grandpa’s for two and a half hours before coming straight home to hop on a different mower to mow around paddocks until dark and then feed horses and chickens and stumble up the driveway under the most brilliant moon I have ever seen to take a quick shower and grab dinner before I turn around to finish up watering the horses to the sound of a tree frog chorus. Then it is home again to chop tomatoes and chat with my loved ones for an hour or two before falling blissfully exhausted into bed and waking up to start in again.

This is my life, and it is perfect.

The morel of the story.

It is spring in southern Illinois, and that means mushroom hunting. In case you didn't know, finding fungus is a BIG past time in many rural areas. I know some people that spend hours and hours combing through the woods seeking out all sorts of edible wild mushrooms, but the crowning glory of wild edibles is the morel. They have a very unique flavor and texture, and are nearly impossible to grow on purpose. A pound of morels can sell for upwards of thirty dollars around here, but luckily for the average consumer adventurous enough to brave the ticks and snakes they can be found in almost every woods. But they are crafty little things.

It is the perfect excuse to enjoy the woods in spring!

Over the weekend mom and I engaged in this past time, and by engaged I mean she found mushrooms and I found just about everything else...

I found flowers.

And a turtle...



Some Jack in the Pulpit...

Some pretty mystery plant...

And about that time I had just about given up. Mom was walking around with a bag full of mushrooms, doing her "mushroom meditation." Which, though I want to mock, I can't give her trouble for because, you know, I found a turtle and she found a bag of morels. Go figure.

I found a wild Susan in her natural environment!

But the moral of the story with mushroom hunting, farming, and life in general is patience and perseverance! (Also enjoying the journey and not just the delicious and delectable destination!)

Happy hunting!

Barnyard Tales Chapter 6. Death Wish

Have you ever pictured the great moments in your life as if they were in a book?

“The weathered barn wood slipped past her fingertips. The texture immortalized itself in her memory even as the sensation flew past. It was gone in a moment, but that moment lasted forever. The sensation of hand hewn wood would be with her forever; always drifting right past the ridges and whorls, always right out of reach. Her body turned with the effort of reaching for the wood. One leg struck a board catapulting her sideways; saving her life.

Milliseconds to outsiders felt like slow motion to her. Every sense was alive. The air rushing past her face. The delicate sensation of her foot slamming into oak and sending her shoe flying helter skelter. The hard shove of a stair upon her back and the finality of her concrete bed as she gazed up towards the heavens from whence she had come.

The girl was dazed, confused. She stared towards heaven wondering that she was alive. Golden straw peaked around the edges of the gaping space. Like a gilt picture frame on her demise. Pain was distant then; but the longer she lay the more her muscles cried out in agony, the stronger came her bodies cry. Soon it would be insistent. Soon she would not be able to ignore the call. The girl debated lying there longer. But who would come? Who would hear her pleas and cries?

No one. She was destined to be her own white knight. She rose, shakily at first, but more confident with each passing second. Rough barn wood was again beneath her fingers and hands she levered herself up and slowly climbed the stairs. Her jeans were ripped. Her body torn. Her eyes swam with concussive force.

Slowly she walked towards the house. Slowly she climbed the stairs. Slowly she entered and stoically she took what came.”

Actually, no, she didn’t take that stoically. As soon as I told my mother that I had fallen through the barn loft it went something like this:

Mom: “Are you okay?”

Me: “Yeah, I think so.”

Mom: “Is anything broken? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

Me: “I don’t think so.”

Mom: “Well, that was stupid. You won’t do that again will you? I told you to be careful up there. Now get your ass back outside and finish feeding the horses.”

And then I cried. Not the pretty stately crying, but the "is that girl sobbing or beating a dying moose to death with a sick eagle" kind of crying. Because I make a sucky heroine. But I did go find my shoe and finish feeding the horses. And I did become really sensitive to falling off of things, like straw bales, in barn lofts, when there are access holes cut in the floor that lead directly to the barn basement. Because, I LEARN.

Except, maybe not because I fell through another barn just last year. Damn. I really am a sucky heroine. I'm like, hand me the flashlight and let me take a shower by myself in the haunted house with a lightning storm. Nothing bad will happen this time. Really! As much as I go into run down barns it is apparent. Clearly I have a death wish.

An amusing side note: I also only landed one half of my body on the step and I got a hematoma the size of a softball on one side of my butt. My parents both thought it was hilarious to say, “Only Lauren could fall through a barn and do a half assed job. It would have killed anyone else.” *snicker, snicker*

They’re so sympathetic.

Barnyard Tales Chapter 3. Cow Propping 101

“Don’t rock the cow. Don’t rock the cow baby. Don’t rock the cow. You’ll knock the cow over!”

That was the song mom was singing as I tried to roll Bessie into a kneeling position so that I could pull the sling under her again for the fifth time. The bits that I could see of the bright yellow material stood in stark contrast with her black hide. Bessie was uncooperative. She refused to help me by shifting her bulky cow body. The dense bones of her legs were nearly impenetrable barriers to my progress. They were almost as bad as the rest of her. Sprawled out on top of the sling like a sunbather. She simply stared at me, contentedly chewing her cud as I struggled with the most important one sided game of tug of war I have yet played.

My muttered curses melded in unholy harmony with mom’s music. “You could help me, you know? I can’t get this God forsaken thing to move!” Well, then Bess moved, but only to try to butt my leg out from under me with her raspy black nose. Cows have it out for me. First Buttercup, now Bessie. Maybe I should be more specific; ancient semi-paralyzed cows have it out for me.

Secretly, I believe they feel that killing me will extend their considerable life spans. That is the only possible explanation. Well, that and I keep giving the cute names. And they are pretty much left alone except when they are being fed, rounded up, or are on their deathbeds. So they’re wild cows of the plains! And maybe I try to pet them. Maybe I get some sort of thrill after facing a cow and living. It’s exhilarating.

Or at least it is when the cow is responsive. Bessie had not responded to all of the petting, coaxing, begging that mom and I could come up with except to begin licking and rubbing on my mom like a lovesick puppy. And the repeated head butts at me, but at least she wasn’t as hateful as Buttercup. After two weeks of vet checks, meds, and repeated bouts in the sling being carried by tractor from delectable grazing patch to delectable grazing patch she seemed to have decided that she either didn’t care to try to live anywhere except that spot anymore, or that her personal attendants would figure it out and she needn’t bother herself with such pesky details as standing on her own.

To be fair she had done very well in the early weeks of her decline. Dad had found her alone and stuck in the lake three times, having to wade into the recently swollen waters himself to try to pull her close enough to shore to use the tractor. It was a drought that year, and the first good rain brought all of the dust and debris with it into the quagmire of the lake bottom. He sludged forth valiantly fighting the muck with every step. Feeling it slide up his pant legs and through his socks. After several agonizing strides he met the cow face to face. She mooed at him plaintively. Her big brown eyes reflecting her distress. He maneuvered to her side, hoping to rock her free of the sludge clinging to her quickly cooling limbs. Slosh, slosh, slosh, he was nearly in position when the next step had no purchase. He slipped into a unknown hole up to his chest and was faced with a big black cow side of doom. The cow thrashed and the weight of his position sank in. If she fell over he would drown, pinned under a cow in the murky depths. With fear induced, God given strength he pushed the cow free of her muddy prison. The next two times were a repeat of the same, save that he knew the wily cow’s tricks and avoided the pit trap. Finally when we found her down outside of the lake we knew enough was enough.

She was down near the electric fence, which was working well. It was my parent’s anniversary. Time was short. Dad and I worked in haste to get her maneuvered into the sling. We worked too fast, because I nearly electrocuted myself on the fence while I was dragging the chain into position. Despite my near death experience, it wasn’t too bad. She worked with us, presumably trying to attack dad with her face so her body wasn’t actually impeding the movement of the sling most of the time as she repeatedly launched herself at him. We debated setting her free again when we saw she could stand of her own accord, but decided given her past history that we had to bring her up because the end was near and cow hospice had to commence.

That was how I found myself pulling for life and death on a tiny green strap, begging Bessie to help me to help her get the bright yellow sling in position. Mom stopped her song and added her strength to the fight. By our combined effort we got the sling under her. We quickly secured it with baling twine so it could not fall off again and raised her up with the front end loader so blood could flow to her feet. She seemed content; nosing through grass, hay, and cracked corn with reckless abandon. So we left her once more semi suspended with enough weight on her legs so that she could stand, but enough support that she couldn’t fall. It seemed an idyllic solution until the inevitable happened: I needed to use the tractor for something else.

We tried to lower her, but her Majesty was in a mood. She would not be standing of her own accord today, thank you very much. No matter how much we pleaded and massaged as soon as her weight was her own burden she crumpled to the ground like a broken building. What could we do? She seemed happy. She seemed to have quality of life. Should we end it for her? One look into her eyes and we decided no. There had to be another solution.

But what? What could give her support and blood flow besides the tractor? Then inspiration stuck like a bolt of lightning across the clear blue sky. We wedged square bales between her legs so that she was straddling them. She reached down to take a bite of hay between from between her legs. The thought of, “This could work.” echoed though our minds.

Little did we know that nature’s duplicity was about to strike. As we unhooked her she seemed to steady for a moment. Was that nervousness in her eyes, or just a trick of the rapidly darkening light? Slowly she began sliding from her hay bale throne in a bizarre parody of a slowly sinking ship. “Mayday! Mayday!” I screamed. “B1 is down! Repeat B1 is down!” What could we do? I ran over and braced myself against her, but there was only so long I could hold her up. A thousand pounds of cow is a lot to wedge yourself against, even when physics is on your side. Mom came running up carrying a four by four post. We propped her up and studied the situation. It looked like it would hold.  We waited long minutes with baited breath. The low rumble of the tractor was a dramatic counterpoint to our thoughts. Finally we deemed it structurally sound.

I raced to the tractor and leapt into the water filled seat. Muttered curses and pissed off moos resounded through my ears. The other cows were not pleased with my tardiness. I moved hay quickly, a combination of the herd’s displeasure and knowing our stop gap solution wasn’t a permanent one motivating me to speed. Did I make it? No, I pulled up just in time to watch majestic queen Bessie sink from her throne and happily begin pulling up grass.  I parked the tractor and walked inside, defeated.

I had just failed Cow Propping 101.