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.

Sweetie Pie, Honey Bunch...

Remember how I told you that Captain America bought me a milk cow? Well, after what feels like a month of staring at her, willing her to calve, she did it.

Sweetie Pie, what do you have there?

Is that a new baby?

Introducing: Honey Bunch!
(You know that I love you! I can't help myself...)

Seriously though, I'm in love!

Redneck Love Poem: New Holland's missed marketing opportunity

My Valentine's day poem options to accompany this lovely water color I did for Captain America (also known as this is what happens when you say I can't buy you anything for V-day, ha):

Our baler is red.

Our tractor is blue.

I'm so lucky,

That I found you.

The baler is red.

The round bale is tan.

I am so glad,

That you are my man.

Balers are red.

Tractors are blue.

There's nowhere I'd rather be,

than haying with you.

Balers are red.

Tractors are blue.

Oh hell, the cows got out.

No one I'd rather curse with than you.

The balers are red.

The tractors are blue.

I think New Holland missed a marketing opportunity.

Don't you?

Love will find a way... or a hill, which is like the same thing.

Captain America lives about an hour and a half away from me. So, on nights that I stay at our "Missouri Farm" I have a good chunk of time in the morning to pray, get my mind clear, and well, appreciate all the cows.

Look, some people get distracted by pretty girls or guys walking down the street. I almost run off the shoulder trying to get a better view of the new calf that I glimpsed. You have your morning routine, and I have mine. Coffee, check. Affirm that I am going to be a better and more patient/understanding/loving/selfless/etc. person today than yesterday, check. Nearly kill myself cow watching while driving, check, check, check. Don't judge!

Anyway, there is a farm I drive by that has this big ole' Hereford Angus cross (black cow with a white face) I watched her have the cutest little calf last year, and then I saw the tiny little bull they put in with her. Seriously, he was short. Well, guess who calved last night? Yup. That's right. Love found a way.

It reminded me of last summer when CA and I turned out our bull, Sampson, who is admittedly still a youngster and growing into his role of herd sire. He was at least a good six inches shorter than his lady friends, but he is resourceful by golly. Love will always find a way, and in his case the way love found was to stand his lady in a hole. Yes, that's right. He has a "love hill." I had heard of it happening with little donkeys and big mares, but never with cows before. Who knew? That's problem solving right there!

It is a testament to the tenacity and resourcefulness that we put into relationships and life that no obstacle is insurmountable, even when it looks like it is. Oh, well, and "spring fever" helps I guess. But seriously, I mean if a cow or donkey can beat a 2 foot height difference, really? You can do anything! All it takes is a change of perspective and a can do attitude and you can move mountains, or build love hills. Whatever you're in the mood for.

That cute little white faced blob by her momma's legs was the first glimpse of spring and the new year for me. My heart leapt, my car swerved just a little bit, and my faith was restored.

It's a new year. Anything is possible.

Barnyard Tales Chapter 8: That time Satan tested me with a disc mower

Sweat poured down my back and I wiped my brow with one grease stained hand. This mower, oh, this mower. I was pretty certain that Satan himself had come to life and went to work for Case IH as a disc mower design engineer. The Case MDX91 is his gift to the world.

A single 3/8" roll pin had snapped on Tuesday causing the whole lift assembly to crash to the ground, popping apart like a can of Pringles and shearing the all thread that held the spring on. The mower was neatly immobilized, a beautiful piece of red and white pasture art popping up against the muted browns and greens of the hayfield.

Captain America texted me when it happened. His succinct text messages said more about his frustration than a dictionary of curse words.

I arrived the next day with some spare parts from the local hardware store and watched him attempt to loose the all thread from the cast iron jaws of the now seized spring assembly. It didn't work, and for the next morning neither did I as I hauled the spring to the repair shop. The little old farmers opened the door for me and did their best to reassure:

"Farming is only 5% farming, and 95% fixing the stuff that breaks."

"I'm gonna try to hire her."

"Me? Oh no, clearly I'm just good at breaking things!"

"That's fine." He motioned to the broken PTO shaft in his calloused grip. "I'm pretty good at that too. I just need someone to blame it on!"

"We have those springs too. They lock up all the time. These guys will get it extracted for you."

Guess what, they didn't. One new spring assembly and three days later CA and I were headed out, convoy style, when he pulled the big blue bulk of the tractor off the road and walked up to the door of the truck full of tools. I turned down the radio. I should have known then that this was the Devil's clever design.

"We don't have the replacement bolt for the roll pin. It's in my car."

"Oh, you want me to run to your house?"

"No. My car. At your house. An hour and a half away."

"F."

But that's fine I thought. Silly me. I believed I could just leave him in the field and run to the closest hardware store, only an hour round trip, and wouldn't even have to get dirty. Oh, I was so sure of my plan as I jammed out in the air conditioned truck. He'd surely have it mostly put together when I got back.

And that was how I found myself sweaty and blackened with grease and hydraulic fluid, repeatedly rocking a cast iron piece of metal over its seat over and over, and over again. We tried to beat it on by hand. We beat it with hammers. We beat it with the front end loader of the tractor. I kicked it. Nothing worked. We took it off, and put it on. I stood up and walked my pretty little head right into the bale spear, slipped on a grease gun and fell flat on my back. I couldn't tell if the water seeping from my eyes was from pain, frustration, shock, or laughter. We took it off, and put it on. Off and on. Our muttered cursing melded with the dull thunk of the hammer into a beautiful song about the human condition. The sonnoffawitchingmothertruckinggoshdanged whatchamadoodle kept jamming for absolutely no reason other than to be contrary.

Which is how I know that Case's signature red color shows their allegiance to the Underworld. Crafty, crafty.

I called for back-up. They couldn't figure it out either. There were no burrs, no reason whatsoever that the one pipe shaped piece would not fit over the other pipe shaped piece. None at all other than this being a test of fortitude. A divinely administered trial designed to plumb the depths of our resolve, break our spirit, drive a wedge in our hearts, and tarnish our souls.

Or not. As Heinlein said, the purpose of laughter is to keep from crying. It also helps keep you from killing your mate as you work towards a seemingly unattainable goal on a 90 plus degree day with about 500% humidity.

"Hammer."

"Hammer."

"Block."

"Block.

"You can call me doctor if you want. Punch."

"Yes, doctor. Punch."

After four hours of repeating the process, the incessant beating with the front end loader worked. The part slipped on like a glove. I cheered. I laughed. I cried. I thanked the Heavens. Hallelujah. There is a God and he answers prayers. The disc mower was my Moby Dick and CA and I had just harpooned the crap out of it. Suck that, Devil-mower.

We didn't stop to question why our relationship had needed to be so rigorously tested through heat and frustration, our love tempered by the fire of both. It wasn't until later that the thought crossed my mind that the Devil-mower was a test. It wasn't my Moby Dick, it was a brief blink of our book of Job.

We merely did a happy dance and went to work inserting other pins and adjusting parts and pieces.

We merely lifted the 30lb spring into place and connected it.

CA merely told me to stand there and depress the hydraulic hose button so that I got a face full of hydraulic fluid, not even a courtesy tap. Seriously. But through laughter we overcame even that, and came out the other side with minimally clogged pores and remarkably silky skin. We freaking persevered.

And that is the story of the time Satan sent a disc mower to test my relationship.

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.

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!

 

"Cowmunes" and the difference between a small farm and an industrialized one

Perspective is everything. Growing up it didn’t seem weird to me that we left our cows alone and only medicated them if they were sick or injured. I didn’t realize that on other farms people would feed them things other than hay, grass, and trace minerals. Okay, and sweet feed to the bull that one time when I was eight and my mom had a heart attack because I was petting him and hand feeding him his “treat”  and I never did it again because she yelled so much. Of course, that was also the year that I learned I shouldn’t share my bologna sandwich and sugar cookies with my horse, despite her love of them. But that is a whole other story. Growing up our cattle operation went something like: check them, count them, and leave them be until round up day.

Apparently that is progressive. I’ve been reading a lot about the benefits of grass fed beef. Not only is it more nutritionally sound than what you would buy at the store, but it also is better for the cows. Go figure. That’s the way we have been doing it my entire life.

We joke amongst ourselves that we have a “cowmune.” The momma’s share calves. Any calf can walk up to any cow with milk and nurse at their pleasure. Heifers “babysit” groups of five or seven little ones while the mothers go for a swim in the lake. I have to walk up and poke the cows to get them to move out of my way when I am bringing them their round bales. The old gals live out their lives surrounded by generations of their daughters and sisters. Most of them have never been vaccinated, eaten anything other than a grass derivative, or required medical treatment. They wander at their will through woods and fields munching on whatever tidbit that takes their fancy. They come to the barn and moo their displeasure with the grass hay until dad or I go up in the barn loft to throw them a few bales of alfalfa hay, or let them in the yard so that they can munch on the grass on the other side of the fence.

Seriously, if cows could play drums, there would be a circle going. Someone would have found their spirit guide by now.

Even our two bulls don’t fight much. Instead they bellow back and forth like two little old men discussing the news over their coffee cups. Give them some tie dye, because this is not what a “farm” is supposed to look like.

At least not the industrialized monsters that raise most of the cows that wind up on super market shelves. Line those babies up and run them through a squeeze chute because when you are being finished in a feed lot you’re going to get sick without a bunch of vaccines and antibiotics. Preventative medicine is where it is at when you are cramming everyone on top of each other. I get that. Cows eating candy instead of grass? (If you don’t believe me check out this article on CNN. This practice has been happening for awhile. I have even heard of them being fed leftover tacos!) That I have a harder time with, but I guess even the big time farmers have to have their margins so that they can eat too. Right? Where is the balance between doing what is right for your animals and land, and making a profit? Land prices are outrageous, and the taxes on them aren’t cheap. Even with the subsidies that the new farm bill gives to large scale farmers. It lays out plenty of hoops that are expensive to jump through too.

That’s one of the reasons why grass fed is so much higher in the grocery store. Not only are grass fed animals slower growing, usually, you are paying more to help a small scale farmer survive without selling out to one of the big boys. After reading about everything that happens to cows in industrialized feed lots I started looking into grass fed operations where we could sell our cows. I found that all of the local operations operate on less than 500 acres. Which is pretty freaking cool. Small scale farms are slowly disappearing from the United States, and with them the other “cowmunes” of the world. I love our hippie cows. I’m pretty psyched about doing my part to help them survive. Are you?

The sucky part.

When I got home last night I found Pearl down on a hillside. Her hind legs were straddling the lowest of the boards on our white vinyl fence. Fear gripped my heart, causing my stomach to drop lower than my knees.


It immediately took me back to when my baby boy, Mac the Tennessee walking horse, used to lay down and be unable to stand up again on his own. He had that problem for years and I got to be quite proficient at flipping him over and bracing him so that he could get up again.
 
I did my best to soothe Pearl, and her blind best friend Cabernet, as I slid the boards out and tried to use the skills Mac taught me to roll her over. I struggled against her weight and gravity unsuccessfully. Hoping against hope that she was just laying down and not getting ready to transition to the next stage of life. At her age transitioning was likely, but this was the horse that snuck out to try and graze while I was moving her hay on Saturday. Spry and persnickety are her hallmarks. I called my parents to come home and help me, and then I got to work praying and trying to get her up on her sternum.

Pearl was whickering and flailing her legs. Cabernet was calmer than I have seen her in years. She is normally a basket case any time her "seeing eye horse" is more than three inches away from her nose. Mom and dad arrived within seconds of each other and we rolled Pearl over and tried and tried to help her stand several times. Dad volunteered to go get the sling and the tractor. Mom backed up and surveyed the situation. "Guys, she isn't trying to get up. That isn't what her legs are doing. She's dying." About that time her breath went arrhythmic and her neck arched back in the way that only means one thing. She had passed.

I went up to the large pasture, praying aloud that one of the horses there would step up to the plate and be a friend for Cabernet since Pearl had passed. Luna was the first horse up to me, and I buried my hands in her coat whispering to her how sorry I was that her momma had gone on while I petted her fuzzy yellow hair. Her half sister, Pissante, came up about three feet away from Luna's head and neighed a neigh I have never heard before directly at her. It was odd. I know the sounds for calling distant herd members, or weaning, or for food, or fear, or anger; but never anything like this. This whole thing was made even stranger by the fact that Luna and Pissante are quite frankly the two hardest horses to catch and work with that we have in that pasture. Luna is known to jump 5' tall cattle panels to get away from me rather than be touched, and Pissante, well let's just say she earns her name. But not right now.

I brought another mare, Zippy, down from the large pasture hoping that she would buddy up with Cabernet. She is one of the lowest horses on the totem pole out there, and I hope that means she is timid. All of the other horses I have tried over the last few months have been very mean to Cab: biting, chasing, and kicking. When I introduced them to each other Zip turned her ears back, which means that she wasn't too happy being sniffed all over by a stranger, but she didn't pin them down or try to hurt Cabby with tooth or nail. I'm taking it as a good sign. As Truly and Grin both went into kicking fits.

However, as soon as I turned Zippy loose Cabernet went to stand next to Pearl, who was awaiting my dad's removal expertise. Cab raised her top lip, scenting for her best friend, and then lowered her nose to the body. Slowly and methodically she started licking and nipping at Pearl the way she did with her foals when she was trying to encourage them to stand. I watched her as she groomed her friend methodically, stopping every so often to nuzzle for a few moments before returning to her licking.


Tears were streaming down my cheeks by the time I had to turn away. I think that horse is capable of more love and grief than I am. My heart breaks for her.
Whoever says that animals aren't capable of emotions should witness what I did. I have seen cows line up for funeral processions, and mares mourn for their foals, but never have I seen anything so heartbreaking as Cabernet licking and loving, and trying to get her friend to stand up.

This is the part of life on a farm that I hate. Frankly, death, even when it isn't tragic, sucks.

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.

Companion Farming. It is better than growing alone.

I have this weird fantasy where I secretly take pictures and videos of Captain America and I, and I edit them into a better commercial for FarmersOnly. You know, kind of like the Match and eHarmony ones, only with more cows. Oh and instead of the first date conversation being about our jobs it would be about what dead things the dogs drug into the yard lately (a whole deer head with eyes and all, thanks Susan…). Less giggling and more full out belly laughs. Fewer sly hair flips and more hands shaking and praying to not spill the wine. Heavy discussions about how many cows we wanted to have when we got older, or how much acreage we wanted to own. And the tagline for this? Companion Farming. It is better than growing alone.

 

Why Companion Farming you ask? A few months ago I was walking across one of Captain America’s fields carrying two bottles of tea; making a beeline straight for the tractor when it hit me. If I hadn’t drove the hour and a half to get there, and he had flipped the tractor or gotten kicked by a horse or whatever random farming accident, no one would even notice until it was too late.

 

The bottom dropped out of my stomach and I felt physically ill. I fought it down and hopped on up to make a few rounds as “tractor candy.” But it hasn’t been very far away from my thoughts ever since. As we made the rounds and small talk I found my thoughts wandering and toying with words, as they are frequently wont to do. I was thinking about how glad I was to be alive and in the relationship that I am in, and then I started being grateful for the opportunity to explore my hobbies and interests like companion planting, and I looked over at CA and thought to myself how lucky I was to have such a nice farming companion, and then the thought hit me. We were companion farming. I was put in his life to prevent him from an untimely tractor accident (or at least to cry a lot if it happened) and he was put into mine to help me too. Because let’s face it. In a few years I too would be farming alone.

 

Over the past few weeks my thoughts have been circling around this idea of companion farming as if it was an unruly cow and I REALLY wanted to pet her calf. Which is to say I will think hard on it and then lose interest only to come back a few days later and stare longingly at the cuddly little epiphany that is just barely out of my reach. Seriously, it is right there.

 

I have had a lot of thoughts that almost catch it.

 

We refer to loved ones, friends, romantic partners, and pets as companions. Ideally most of those relationships are symbiotic, and help each other, to create a better whole. To extend the idea of companion gardening into it, there are certain plants that grow well together giving support to sprawling vines or fighting off certain insects for their neighbors. Those companions don’t replace sunshine, soil, or water; but they go an awfully long way when it comes to boosting the liveliness and productivity of their sister plants. For example, squash can grow by itself, but it is much more susceptible to bugs without some radishes in its life. Much like I can grow by myself but am much more prone to bouts of depression without all of my companions around. Each one is specialized and good for certain things like conversation, hugs, devil’s advocacy, fun wild nights, shopping, or listening; much like certain companion plants are great for things like immune support, physical support, or even pest deterring.  

 

God is a gardener planting people in our lives to help us grow in certain ways. We must chose our friends as if they were companion plants (IE stay away from those black walnut friendships ‘cause nothing good will come of that [black walnut trees actually release a toxin into the ground that can kill rival plants]). Not everyone that will take from you also gives you back what you need. After all, what good is a little shade if you’re both starving and fighting for nitrogen? When selecting a mate you must choose someone that you not only grow well next to, but who also doesn’t steal too many of your nutrients, all the better if they add what you need back into the soil.

 

Any of those work? No? Well, heck. They don’t quite do it for me either. Maybe one day I will clutch that cuddly calf of insight and it will be as clear as day, but for right now it is still about as see through as lake water after a rainstorm. Geez, I am rocking the redneck analogies today. Sorry ‘bout that!

 

One way or another, I am so grateful to have my life so full of EXCELLENT companions.

 

And part of that is because of FarmersOnly. So watch out, Captain. It only makes sense that I should give a little back!

 

After all, who could resist a handsome farmer fake threatening
you with a knife as you snap pictures of him cutting bale strings for you?
C'mon! The ad will write itself!

 

 

Meet Peep

I lifted broody hen and what did I find beneath? A fuzzy little yellow chick who peeped his bitty head off at me.

I have to admit, I fell in love. I held him all the way over to his new home at Captain America's house. At less than 24 hours old he is already spoiled rotten.

I kinda hope some siblings hatch, or I will have the world's most babies bird!

You don't have to be lonely...

It has taken me awhile to admit this...

W and I broke things off a few months ago. It broke my heart, and even though I know better I felt as though I would never heal. But after a great deal of crying, self pity, and internal debate I did it. I tried online dating a few weeks ago.

FarmersOnly.com is actually a thing. Believe it. Chintzy ads aside, it is pretty fantastic. Imagine if you will that you are fishing, and you know you want to catch a catfish. Do you go hang around fishing holes known for bluegill? No. You go down to the river and throw in your hook where you know there is a passel of channel cat. Dating is similar. I know that a lot of what I am looking for in forever has to do with a rural lifestyle, so why look somewhere else? Laugh, tease, and kid all you like, but for me FarmersOnly was like the Sears and Roebuck catalog of guys (who ALL LOVED and WANTED A RURAL LIFE). Score.

Now, there are some drawbacks to meeting “farmers, ranchers, and good ol’ country folk.” Namely different approached to grammar and in general an intense affection for hunting and beer. I am a self proclaimed grammar Nazi, so that was a bit of a hurdle. Though there aren’t so many guys there that mix up their, they’re, and there as there are in my Facebook newsfeed; so it wasn’t as bad as I had feared. I’m okay with hunting and beer as long as I don’t have to be outside in the early and cold, and as long as it is decent beer. Also, I’m not that picky as to what “decent” is either.

I met a few gentlemen friends on this site, and went on a few dates with mixed results. One guy in particular has stood out in the last two weeks. I have nicknamed him Captain America, and he didn't run screaming away when I called him it to his face. Or when I sang him his theme song. Or when I talked about random dead things on our first date. Bonus. Anyway, there was one other “drawback” that I hadn’t anticipated. Let me give you the back story:

I sent off for my  renewed Firearm Owners Identification Card in December. I didn’t receive it until this week, so I have been unable to previously purchase a firearm to protect myself from varmints or intruders. A few weeks ago my friend’s house was burglarized and I mentioned all of it in a text to the Captain. His response was a resounding encouragement to have a weapon in my house because the results of NOT having one and needing it would be much worse than having one and using it before my card came in. I agreed with him offhandedly and thought nothing of it as I went along my merry (continually texting him images of freakishly large snake sheds and angry bulls).

That is, I thought nothing of it until this week when upon telling him that my card came in; the boy brought a very nice revolver into my house, informed me that it was his snake killing gun and that it wouldn’t matter that I am a horrible shot, and asked me if I would like to keep it until we could go purchase one of my own. **Update: done and done!

To be fair, blithely telling him I was unprotected and then sending him a bunch of stories and pictures of things that could potentially kill me was probably a bad idea. Lookie! I am innocent, and helpless! Gah. What can I say? I am an awkward dater.

But here is the tricky part: we have been on several dates, he has cooked for me and I for him, I have met his horses and he mine, we have worked on his farm equipment a couple of times, and he offered to leave me a gun. Are we friends? Are we seeing each other? Are we dating? Is it exclusive? By accepting possession of this revolver would I somehow perform some part ancient redneck marriage ritual leaving me betrothed, or more? Seriously, it is a NICE gun. The thing could be a bride price, but wouldn’t that go to my dad? It is like Carrie with the shoes in the Sex in the City movie, only a revolver? What is proper etiquette when a guy tries to leave you a gun? Should I clean it? Oil it? Practice shooting so that I can hit the broad side of a barn? Is it like in the Princess Diaries where I am going to have to shoot a target through a flaming hoop to signify something? Because if I have to hit a target at 50 yards I am going to need a lot of practice. 

Also, when he asks me to come over to “help unload his baler” is that code, or did he just buy two balers? Why do you even need two balers? Oh yeah, spare parts, but still. Is it a euphemism? Do good ol' country folk even have euphemisms? Are they like the pick up lines in my last post? What do these things mean!?!? Is it intensely manly and attractive to kill snakes and make boots out of them, or is it creepy? Agh!

Geez, the things I never had to consider when I met a guy at a bar!

Gardens, Cows, and Wine. What a weekend!

Are you ready for gratuitous cow pictures? I sure as heck hope you are because I have them ready to go.





I had a ball out with some friends on Friday and had to drag myself up to work in the garden on what has to be one of the most beautiful days to date this year. It was pretty enough that the not sleeping was definitely worth it! I let the cows loose in the yard over the weekend while I was out tilling my garden and could keep an eye on them, and boy were they happy. Until it all went wrong and I had to put them back out on their pasture. They are a little pissed now that they are contained in their pasture again, but someone ate some of mom’s butterfly bush. And her lovage. And a couple bites of day lily. And they destroyed a few herb garden markers. I think you get the point. They are heathens. Bad, bad cows.

My friends at Two Amigos in Sonoma, CA heard of my gardening adventure and asked me to take a couple shots for their Facebook page as well. If you are ever in Sonoma check them out! Their wine is phenomenal, and they are great people!

I started out my adventure in photography strong. Picturesque, right?

Then Brisket was like, "Whatcha doin'? Can I eat that?"

And, I was like, "Oh hey, Brisket! How's it goin'?"

And then I was like, "I have such pretty cows."

And then I realized that I had a purpose.
"Dammit! The wine, Lauren! Focus! Don't let yourself be distracted!"

Also, prepare yourselves because we have two newborn calves. I’m sure I won’t be able to keep myself from more cow photos. They are so darn cute!

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.