Farm Photo 6/30/07: Stormy Weather on My Mind

But Not On My Farm

Because of the way our farm is tucked into this little valley, we never get much in the way of sunsets. Most evenings the sun simply dips below the ridgetop without so much as a wave goodbye. Sunrises can be very nice, though, and once in a while at dusk the entire sky will turn some gorgeous shade of pink or orange. On a clear night there are more stars twinkling above than many people have probably ever seen. It wasn't until I'd moved to the middle of nowhere that I finally realized why they call it The Milky Way. Out here it's one big swath of white across the sky.

We may not be on the wide open prairie where the horizon stretches on forever, but we do get some pretty big glimpses of the weather as it heads this way. The spectacular displays will often stop me in my tracks, but it isn't easy watching storm clouds blow right by, knowing they're off to shower water on someone else when we so desperately need it.

You know it's dry when a cat kicks up a cloud of dust as it trots down the driveway. The storm in this photo passed overhead without leaving a drop, but thankfully we've had a little rain lately--enough to at least settle the dust. It's probably due to the fact that despite overcast skies, humidity at 80% or higher, and not a breeze to speak of, I've been dutifully hanging laundry out on the line. This trick has worked before, and it seems to be sort of working now. By the time I hung up the last sock other day, there were raindrops tapping on my big straw hat.

Three days later, I'm afraid to break the spell by bringing all that still-slightly-damp laundry in, especially since there's an awful lot of sunshine outside considering the 60% chance of rain in the forecast. Because we have no neighbors, I don't have to worry about word getting around town that I leave my laundry hanging on the line for days at a time because I'm either lazy or crazy or both. But reputations aside, I may have to give in anyway. I'm just about out of clean socks.

Want to see more?
--Farm Photo 7/6/05: Misty Morning Sunrise
--Farm Photo 7/24/05: Quite A Sunrise
--Farm Photo 8/5/05: At Sunrise, The Possibilities Are Endless
--Farm Photo 8/6/05: A Gorgeous End To A Lovely Day
--Farm Photo 8/15/05: Sunrise On A New Week
--Farm Photo 9/13/05: You Can't Fence Out A Sunrise
--Farm Photo 11/19/05: Good Morning Sun & Goodnight Moon
--Farm Photo 12/31/05: Final Sunrise Of The Year
--Farm Photo 2/8/06: There's Something About A Sunrise
--Farm Photo 4/15/06: I Haven't Shared A Sunrise In A While
--Farm Photo 9/12/06: A Peach Of A Sunrise
--Farm Photo 9/19/05: Morning Moonset
--Farm Photo 1/11/06: I'm Constantly Distracted By The Sky
--Farm Photo 9/5/06: Another Beautifully Distracting Sky
--Farm Photo 9/23/06: Last Night Of Summer Spectacular Show
--Farm Photo 10/24/06: There's That Distracting Sky Again
--Farm Photo 11/9/06: Big Sky

© 2007 FarmgirlFare.com, the award-winning blog where Farmgirl Susan shares photos & stories of her crazy country life on 240 remote Missouri acres.

Farm Photo: 6/16/07

Heading Out Of The Heat

We're in the middle of a scorching heatwave, also known as summer, and farm cats can be counted on to find the coolest places around. In this case that means under the 100+ year-old half of The Shack. If we had a basement I'd be sleeping in it every night until at least the middle of September.

Heatwave or not, I'm just happy J2 was out and about. Today was the first time I'd seen him leave the cat cabin since his pal New Cat died unexpectedly last week. I was afraid J2 would go off in search of his buddy, but instead he's been staying in the cat cabin so he wouldn't miss New Cat's return.

I miss New Cat something fierce, but my loss is nothing compared to J2's. Those two were the best of friends who spent nearly every waking moment together, then slept curled up side by side each night on their silly pink wool bed. Tell me animals don't have real feelings, and I'll show you a heartbroken cat.

"It's a bad time of year to chuck a kitten in there with him," Joe said the other day when I mentioned how bad I felt for J2. He meant that in the kindest possible way, but sometimes the things that guy says crack me up. He was right, though. Life on a farm is risky enough for a cat, and snake season is especially dangerous if you're an innocent kitten.



J2 is a friendly guy, but because he was so close to New Cat he didn't want much attention from us. Now several times a day he jumps over to his feeding perch in the cat cabin and cries out for affection. This afternoon I was out in the yard hanging laundry on the line and was thrilled to see him heading toward me and loudly meowing hello. I could hear his purr box running on high from several feet away.

As I pet and he purred, I explained to J2 that I understand how lonely he is and assured him that a new feline friend would be bunking with him soon. I have no doubt that another cat in need of a home will find us. They always do.

Cary Is One Year Old Today!

Hip Hip Hooray! It's Cary's Birthday Today!

Okay, actually Donkey Doodle Dandy (who is doing just fine, for those of you who have been asking) said the same thing he always says, "Hee HAW! Hee HAW! HEE HAW!" (yes, donkeys really say that) but everyone knew what he meant. And yes, this photo was taken today, and he's still wearing that incredibly ratty blue halter. (Kat, please don't faint.)

Don't know who Cary is? Click here to read her story--or to read it again if it's been awhile.



Dan has adored Cary since the first time they met (well, most of the time anyway).

Because life on the farm is full of the unexpected, we tend to shy away from making extravagant plans for holidays and other special occasions. Instead we'll end up taking an afternoon off, or cooking up a special dinner, or opening a bottle of champagne (or all three) simply because, as Joe likes to put it, "It's Tuesday." Or it's snowing. Or there's a full moon. Or the first tomatoes are ready in the garden. You don't have to look hard around here to find a reason to celebrate.

And so, in that tradition, Cary's birthday has been a rather quiet one. I spent some time poring over baby pictures, smiling and sniffling as I relived the past year. And several times during the day I went outside and just stood with Cary while she ate. Okay, okay, I stole some hugs and kisses, too.

There may not have been a lot of fanfare, but everyone definitely ate well, because today was officially Sheep Freedom Day. We've been warming up for it all week, as the sheep were already spending each day in a large fenced pen across from the barn. As I type this, though, 90 woolly beasts are outside and on the loose.



And while I have no doubt whatsoever that little foodie Cary (aka She Of The Always Empty Four Stomachs) would have taken a breather from frantically munching on sweet spring grass to eat a cake if I had baked her one, I opted instead to sneak her a bag of one of her very favorite foods--popcorn. She didn't inhale it in two seconds like she used to off the hardwood living room floor, but that was only because today it got stuck in between the blades of grass, forcing her to nibble on them as well, and that took a little longer.

For the most part, Cary adapted very quickly to life with a two legged mother. When she was very small, though, I would call out to her and she would often look at me in confusion. You could tell that her baby sheep brain was sending her mixed messages: This smells and sounds like your mother, but she should really be a lot shorter and wider and woollier.

As Cary grew up, my fears about her not learning how to be a real sheep went completely unfounded, and she slowly adapted herself back into the flock. It is truly amazing to watch animal instincts at work.

If somebody looked at Cary for the first time today, they would never be able to tell that she once had a badly broken leg. And if that somebody wandered among the sheep with me while they were out grazing, they would never be able to tell that, for a while, one of those sheep spent every waking moment of her life with me--working in the garden, lounging on the daybed in the living room, curled up at my feet while I sat at the computer. But I know, and Cary knows.


She's all grown up now, but once in a while, when she turns her head just so, like she did this afternoon, I can still see the baby in my little girl.



Happy Birthday, baby. It's been a year I will never, ever forget. And it's been wonderful to have shared it with so many of you.

Click here if you'd like to revisit some of the many previously posted Cary photos.

© Copyright 2007 FarmgirlFare.com, the award-winning blog where Farmgirl Susan shares stories & photos of her crazy country life on 240 remote Missouri acres.

Farm Photo 4/22/07: Curious Critters

Dog Inspection

Lucky Buddy Bear is half English Shepherd and half Australian Shepherd, and his favorite thing to do is work, preferably with his sheep.

He loves them all, but this time of year it is obvious that little lambs hold a special place in his heart. Bear would like nothing better than to have bouncing babies around all the time.

For the past six weeks or so, the entire flock has been penned up in the barn and the adjacent half-acre barnyard (well, the entire flock minus The Dirty Dozen, aka Studly Do-Right Jefferson and the wethers). This is for two reasons.

One, it keeps the sheep from munching down all the new spring grass before it has a chance to grow (instead they're fed bales of hay and grain treats several times a day). And two, it makes it much easier for us and the moms to keep track of all the new babies.

Unfortunately we only have a couple of days' worth of hay left, so everyone will soon be out happily eating sweet green grass with The Dirty Dozen (who were let loose a few weeks ago in order to save on hay). This means that frequent hikes out into the fields to do sheep-checking and lamb-counting will start taking up large chunks of my days.

But back to the barnyard.

Each night all of the moms and babies are locked in the barn so that hungry predators have a much harder chance of getting at them. The gateway separating the farmyard and the barn patio is about four feet wide.

This means that every single evening (usually before I get my dinner), 79 woolly creatures must be convinced to trot through this narrow opening. And every single evening a pack of baby lambs refuses to do just that, either because they simply haven't figured out The Nightly Plan or they're just too busy racing around having fun.

This is by far Bear's favorite part of the day. Once the majority of the sheep have been lured into the barn with a bale of hay, the two (or three, depending on if Joe has been roped into helping) of us spread out and attempt to move the babies and any straggling moms into the barn.

It feels a lot like you are in a life size version of one of those hand held games where you have to get all the little metal balls through some itty bitty opening—and inevitably there is always one stubborn ball that refuses to comply.

Unlike me, Bear never loses his patience. You won't catch him yelling, "Well you wouldn't be crying your head off for your mother if you hadn't run back out into the farmyard you little trouble maker!" or "Turn! Turn! TURN!"

No, at times like these, Bear is in his element. He gives me a patient smile that says, "We'll get this last one in, don't worry." And eventually of course we do. Then I tell Bear what a great job he did, and if he could stand up and give me a high five, I have no doubt that he would.

Bear knows that the sheep need to maintain a healthy respect for (and slight fear of) him, but he also knows that the baby lambs must learn early on that he is friend rather than foe.

Lambs are naturally curious, and so when they sneak over to check Bear out, he lays on his back with his paws in the air, as this puts him in the most submissive position. He lets the lambs sniff and inspect him all they want, and he never moves a muscle. And when they and their attentions wander away, he rolls back over, stands up, shakes himself off, and grins the biggest grin he possibly can.

Current Lamb Count: 39. Number of lazy, hungry farmgirls who ate their dinner (grilled homegrown, grass-fed, Angus T-bone steaks; warm and crusty pain au levain; and freshly picked spinach and mesclun salad) before tucking in the sheep tonight: 1. Number of stock dogs who didn't hold that against her: 1.

© FarmgirlFare.com

Farm Photo: 4/18/07

Even Farm Bosses Have To Sleep Some Time

Our houseguests have arrived for their working vacation, and inbetween some fantastic meals, great progress is being made on the artisan bread bakery we're slowly building here on the farm. As I type this, a wonderful picture window is being installed above the spot where my 3-compartment stainless sink will go. I'll be able to wash dishes and gaze out at my favorite view.

The good news is that it doesn't look like I'll have to bring a couple of bouncing baby lambs into the living room to distract our guests from the dust--the food thing is working just fine. And silly me, I didn't even take into consideration the distracting effect just the smell of stuff cooking and baking has on hungry visitors.

There are three freshly baked loaves of pain au levain cooling on the counter, and the dutch oven I'm lovin' has been put back in the oven for another couple of hours. It's filled to the brim with short ribs from our own grass-fed beef, several pounds of sliced organic onions, two heads of chopped garlic, Italian heirloom tomatoes and sweet red peppers from the kitchen garden (via the freezer), and half a bottle of good red wine. The tummy-rumbling scent of dinner has wafted halfway to the barn.

Lamb Report:
The latest lamb arrived just minutes before our houseguests did. Both mother (a yearling ewe who still needs a food related 'C' name--click here to see all the choices or to suggest a name of your own) and baby (a healthy boy with some of the longest legs I've ever seen) are doing just fine. We finally have some vacancies at The Bonding Suite Inn, and the end of lambing season 2007 is in sight. What a wild spring it's been so far. Current Lamb Count: 38.

Farm Photo 3/27/07: A Lot of Love on the Farm

Rosebud, her newborn twin girls, and Lucky Buddy Bear

Lamb Report:
Things have been crazy. There are stories, but there isn't time to write them down. There hasn't even been time to change my hats. I've been wearing them piled on top of each other for days: shepherd, vet, midwife, nursemaid—and undertaker.

Current lamb count: 25. Number of Nanny Bears having the time of their life (and wishing we could have baby lambs all year round): 1. Number of farmgirls who never in her wildest childhood dreams pictured herself at 38 years old, wearing dirty overalls and a big straw hat, kneeling in the hay in an old barn, listening to the rain hitting the leaky tin roof while holding a baby bottle and trying to milk a sheep named Snugglebunny: 1.

Update: Click here to read "A Tail Of Two Mothers: A Mother's Day Story From The Farm" and learn why I was trying to milk Snugglebunny—and why I was able to stop.

More below. . .

Farm Photos 3/9/07: Double Trouble

Cats Aren't The Only Ones Who Are Curious



Nibbling On My Knee

These are Zelda's twins. They were born Sunday evening (taking me completely by surprise), and have been staying with Zelda at The Bonding Suite Inn. Zelda had been bunking in a special pen adjacent to the barn with eight other pregnant ewes who, because they are either very old or probably carrying twins--or both--are receiving special treatment and lots of extra food.

They are known as The Spoiled Rotten Gang. I am such a pushover when it comes to these girls. (Okay, you're right. I'm a total pushover in general.) When my mother was visiting a few weeks ago, she couldn't believe how quickly I gave into them. I went from "No, girls, I don't think you need any grain right now" to filling up a bucket in about seven seconds. It's those big, beautiful, pleading eyes boring straight into me. That and their incessant, starving-sounding baaing. (Is that a word, baaing?)

Anyway, Zelda gave birth in that pen, which meant the three of them needed to be transported to the Bonding Suite Inn, which is located in the barn. If we had been in the barnyard (or even out in a field) I would have picked up the twins and, holding them close to the ground (because moms know lambs can't fly), walked in a backward crouch while mom (hopefully) followed us. But this time I needed to get Zelda and her twins out of The Spoiled Rotten Gang pen without the rest of The Spoiled Rotten Gang making a break for it, and then into the barn without any sheep escaping--hence the halter.

Moving the twins was a cinch--I simply tucked one under each arm and carried them to their comfy new quarters. Zelda, however, had to be dragged, pushed, and cajoled the entire way (which felt like about half a mile even though it was probably only 50 or 60 feet).

Moving a single sheep is rarely an effortless task. They do not like to be forced anywhere, especially if they are wearing a halter that is attached to your wrist. Those docile, obedient, incredibly clean sheep you see being led around in show rings by very small children at county fairs? Those are not

I'm sure each shepherd has their own way of coaxing a haltered sheep somewhere. My technique utilizes a running monologue of sweet, encouraging words inbetween my struggling moans and groans.

"Come on now, Zelda. We're almost there. You're doing great. You are so pretty! And your twins are adorable! What a wonderful job you did! I'm so proud of you! Almost there! Almost there! Yes, I know you can do this! Come on, Zelda, PLEASE!"

I also try to see the bright side of the situation. "There's definitely. . . yank!. . . no need. . . pull!. . to go. . . tug!. . .TO THE GYM!" (Yes, I really said that while moving Zelda.)

Watching me move a sheep might actually be more entertaining than Barn Cam. Actually, after looking at these two photos and thinking about moving Zelda, I had an idea that I think might be better than Barn Cam. You know those tiny cameras people wear on their foreheads like a miner's light so you can see everything they see. . .

Of course I probably would have destroyed the camera this morning when I bonked my bean in the barn (damn those low ceilings). Unfortunately I excel at running into things with my head. Today's whack was so good it knocked me right to the ground. I skipped my chores and staggered back to the house where Joe quickly administered ice, aspirin, and some very nice chocolates. But it's a little unnerving when you're holding a bag of ice to your head and realize it actually feels good.

So I guess the camera idea isn't such a great one after all. I am, however, thinking seriously about keeping my hardhat down at the barn.

A year of Farm Photos ago:
3/9/06: I Think They're Born Addicted To Treats

© Copyright FarmgirlFare.com, the cute times two foodie farm blog where Farmgirl Susan shares recipes, stories, and photos from her crazy country life on 240 remote Missouri acres.

Farm Photo 2/7/07: Cary Coming At You!

Carybunga!

Baby Cary is 9 months old today—and she's about to get her first haircut!

Don't know who Cary is? Click here to read her story. And click here to catch up with what she's been doing over the years.

Late Afternoon Update: So, um, I messed up for the second month in a row. Cary actually turned 9 months old yesterday. I thought about just trying to let this totally embarrassing screw up slip by, but I figured somebody would bust me.

As for all that lovely snow and ice? Yesterday it was a freaky 67 degrees (with lots of sunshine) and everything melted just like that. Today it was back down in the 30s. Weird.

The biggest news of the day, though, is that Cary and the other 54 sheep have been successfully sheared. But photos will have to wait, as there are treats for the sheep that need to be passed out, and treats for my visiting mother (aka Vital Member Of The Shearing Crew) to be made. I've promised her a dinner of garden haricots verts (by way of the freezer), warm crusty bread, and lamb ribs (yes, we do eat some of the lambs we raise, it's the best lamb I've ever tasted, one of these days I'll get around to writing more about my meat eating practices and opinions as people are constantly asking me about them, and don't worry—nobody is ever going to eat Cary!). Tomorrow night we'll be having her favorite pizza (my mom's, not Cary's).

Then an hour or so ago she casually mentioned she'd never had one of my Emergency Chocolate Cakes, so there is frozen butter softening by the woodstove. Oh, plus there's been a request for cranberry orange scones for breakfast. (Her motto when she visits is, "I work for food!" and over a lunch of Spur Of The Moment Summer Squash Soup—hers topped with thinly sliced Monterey jack cheese & tomatillo salsa, mine with a dollop of sour cream—we mapped out our menu for the week). Okay, I've just been informed that it's 4:30, the living room is still cold, and there's no more firewood on the porch. Now I hear Cary calling to me from outside. I guess I'd better get going. . . (I hope to answer more of your questions soon!)

A year of Farm Photos ago:
2/7/06: My Seed Starting Headquarters (check the comments section in this post for some helpful tips on starting your own seeds). And click here to read about my two favorite seed companies, plus my favorite edible gardening book for the past six years.
2/6/06: Tree Sock Laundry Day?

© Copyright FarmgirlFare.com

Farm Photo 2/3/07: Sheep Shearing Delays

Lucky Buddy Bear—Stock Dog Extraordinaire

Slight change of plans. Since this is about the least treacherous stretch of our steep and curving (and very icy) driveway, we cancelled last Thursday's scheduled sheep shearing session. We didn't want our sheep shearer to make it down the driveway and then not be able to climb back out.

The last thing I want to do is annoy him in any way, as sheep shearers are few and far between around here, and this guy is really good. When I heard he was out of commission last year due to a broken leg, I started making panicky phone calls looking for a substitute shearer and came up empty.

Fortunately he was a fast healer, and late in the season I managed to sweet talk him out of his convalescence and into coming out and shearing our overheated sheep.

More below. . .

Farm Photo 1/31/07: This Year's Sheep Shearing Plan

You won't be seeing this in 2007

Oh, there'll be bouncing baby lambs of course. In fact, if all goes well there may be as many as 50 of them racing around here by the end of April. What have I gotten us into?

What there won't be, though, are big woolly mamas, because The Plan this year is to shear the sheep before lambing season starts.

More below. . .

Farm Photo: 1/28/07

At Least I Have Chickens To Cheer Me Up

The last thing we need around here is another set of dishes, but when I spied these charming mugs and bowls a few weeks ago I simply couldn't resist them. And I'm so glad I didn't, because every time I look at them I smile.

They aren't as much fun as having real chickens around, though, and that's why we're going to order a new batch of chicks in early spring. The just-hatched birds will be shipped to us through the mail in a sturdy cardboard box with plenty of airholes, about the same time as everybody else's. There is nothing like walking into our tiny post office and realizing that the entire place is chirping.

The other day we spent a pleasant half hour flipping through poultry catalogs and debating the benefits and selling points of various varieties of chickens. "Although of substantial body size, this high-powered layer converts feed into eggs just as efficiently as most smaller birds because of its calm, contented disposition." "Lays right on during coldest weather!" "Before 1880, this beautiful breed was called 'Winnebagoes.'"

We haven't made any final decisions yet, but we do know we want hens that will lay large brown eggs. Actually, Joe doesn't care what color his eggs are, as long as they are big and appear on a regular basis. For me, it's definitely more of a 'looks' thing. I think brown eggs are much prettier than plain white--and I'm convinced they have more flavor. It's the same with the chickens themselves--Joe doesn't care what they look like, while the artist in me wants birds that are pleasing to the eye. I have always loved those black and white Barred Plymouth Rocks, a "good old-time American breed" that are "a real pleasure to work with." Right now they're at the top of my list.

I also haven't decided how many chicks I want to order yet. It will depend, as Joe put it, on whether I want to go back into the egg business. When our 2001 flock of 18 hens was in its prime, we were getting about 100 eggs a week. The ones we didn't consume were carefully washed and packed into cartons and sold to the natural foods store for 85 cents a dozen (though I think they're paying slightly more now). Whatever the final number of chicks, we'll probably end up ordering at least three different kinds, so I'll have a nice colorful mix. I've already had Cherry Eggers (which is what Lindy The Chicken was) and Buff Orpingtons, so I probably won't go with those (though they were both very nice breeds). Anybody have a favorite breed they recommend?

Of course we still have Whitey (who was purchased at the little general store next to the post office nearly 7 years ago) and the last two 2001 hens (at least one of which is still laying). I call them Joe's Super Duper Overbred White Laying Machines. He calls them thrifty. And while he didn't waste time reminding me that when choosing new chickens, "plumage isn't everything" and "we don't just want cute" (because that is what I always want) he was also quick to add that "there's nothing cuter than a thrifty white chicken." Oh please.

Yes, I certainly have chickens to cheer me up. And as I type this, there is a nice plump one that was raised by our favorite local pastured poultry purveying family roasting in the oven. Cluck! Cluck! Cluck!

A year of Farm Photos ago:
1/26/07: And Posh About To Dig In
1/27/06: Stumped For A Clever Caption
1/26/06: Can't Look Over Something? Try To Look Through It
WCB #34: Molly Doodlebug (aka The Doodle Monster)
And out of the kitchen came: Savory Cheese & Scallion Scones

Welcome new visitors!
Click here for a brief introduction to this site.

Farm Photo 1/19/07: Meandering Water and Thoughts

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.
A year or so ago I was reading yet another one of those How To Be More ________ articles that never seem to go out of style. You simply fill in the blank and are instantly on your way to helping millions of us poor slobs turn into better, more proficient people. How To Be More Organized. . . More Beautiful. . . More Wealthy. . . More Politically Correct.

While I've failed miserably over the years at becoming more organized and clutter-free, I did latch on to a small but significant concept from this particular article, whose subject was something along the lines of How To Be More Happy And Content With Your Life. After reading it, I stopped saying "I wish."

I wish I hadn't overcooked the broccoli will not improve the state of what is sitting on your plate. I wish it wasn't so hot and humid here will not change the weather. I wish I had a million dollars will never make it magically appear. I wish you weren't so far away will not bring them any closer. I wish he hadn't died is never ever going to bring him back.

On the surface, simply not saying I wish. . . doesn't seem to make much sense. I mean, of course you wish all those things were true. But I have come to realize that saying them out loud is actually a waste of time and energy, as wishing for something (rather than actually doing something) only brings about feelings of dissatisfaction and unhappiness.

After reading that article, I became aware of was just how often I found myself saying I wish, and I was surprised by the frequency. I made a conscious effort to stop saying it. It was an easier habit to break than I thought it would be, although there are still times when a wish is on the tip of my tongue, and it is all I can do to stop it from escaping.

Not wishing for things to be any other way than how they are has definitely had a positive effect on my life. There is, however, one thing I cannot help still wishing for--that our wet weather creek would run all the time.

There is something so profoundly soothing about the sight and sound of that crystal clear water ambling over the rocks. It is an immediate stress reliever. This morning was crisp and bright, blue sky and a pleasant 38 degrees. I stood in the front field with the sheep and deeply breathed in the day, while listening to nothing but the high-pitched cry of a hawk overhead, the rhythmic munching of my flock, and the babbling of the creek as it meandered its way along the edge of the field.

It's rare for the creek to be flowing on a hot summer day, but once in a while it is. That is when we finish our chores up early, slip into flip-flops (which are totally unsuitable farm footwear except for this one instance), grab a couple of ratty towels, and make our way down to one of the two little swimming holes in front of the house that were conveniently formed a few years back during a flood.

With the sun still beating down on you with all of its might, just looking into that cool water and anticipating how it will feel on your hot, sweaty skin is almost refreshing enough. At this moment, all of the world's problems have been reduced to one pressing question: Should you take it one toe at a time, or go ahead and splash right in?

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a stream.

A year of Farm Photos ago:
1/19/07: Those Leaves Didn't Just Land On His Back
1/18/07: Tree Sock?
And Meme's The Word, Part One

Farm Photo: 1/15/07

Our Wet Weather Creek Started Running This Morning

Shhhqwit! Shhhqwit! Shhhqwit!
From what I've heard, we've been very lucky so far. That predicted freezing rain and other nasty stuff ended up coming down as regular old rain instead, but boy did we get plenty of it. The creek is running. The overflow from the spring box--which is often not more than a trickle--looks like a baby Niagra Falls. And there's mud. Lots and lots of mud. The barnyard turned into a mushy, yucky mess.

Shhhqwit! Shhhqwit! Shhhqwit!
In my beloved rubber boots and thick woolen socks, I can slog through the barnyard just fine--even with my hay cart in tow (no sense in feeding those bales that are safely in the barn just yet). I cannot believe I survived the first 26 years of my life without rubber boots. They are so liberating! Today I marched right through a puddle that came halfway up to my knees.

As for the sheep. . . well, they avoid puddles whenever possible. And I can't think of anything they despise more than having to walk in the mud. You don't know what pure disgust is until you've seen it staring back at you on 56 faces at once.

By choice, the sheep and their guard donkey spent the day plodding around in the wet and nibbling on low hanging branches of cedar trees rather than munching on hay in the muck. It is obvious they blame me not only for the mud, but all of the bad weather as well. So when I tucked them in for the night, I consoled them with their favorite treats and the comforting news that this would all be frozen solid by morning. Which is good--because I hate to think how much it would cost to buy 112 pairs of little rubber boots.

As for us, we are hunkered down and awaiting zero degrees. The fire in the woodstove is crackling, there is freshly baked bread in the kitchen, and the two raised beds of my special high dollar garlic have been mulched with a thick layer of manure hay from the barn. I even managed to install a makeshift plastic tarp drop ceiling in the greenhouse to help hold in the heat from the space heater. There is nothing more to do but curl up, get some sleep, and hope there's running water in the morning.

A year of photos ago:
1/14/06: Patience Is Not One Of Their Virtues
And WCB #32: Posted Patchy Cat
1/15/06: Nice Green Hay On A Very Cold Day
And WDB #17: Robin & Leopold

Farm Photo: 1/13/07

The Ice Is On Its Way

A whole new weather vocabulary opened up to me when I moved from California to the country: Flash Flood Watch, Tornado Alert, Severe Thunderstorm Warning, Heat Advisory, Ponding. (Yes, Ponding.) Today they are calling for Freezing Rain and Ice Accumulation, with temperatures turning "very cold" by Monday--lows 7 to 11 above. Chance of precipitation 100 percent. Ice Pellets and Light Sleet were mentioned.

And so the ritual begins. Forget the little hay cart. Instead toss a dozen bales of hay in the truck and drive them down to the barn. Hook up the hose and fill the sheep's water trough before the freezeless hydrant freezes and you'll have to haul buckets of water from the spring. Plug in the tank de-icer. Give the sheep and Donkey Doodle Dandy plenty of grain to keep their bodies warm overnight. Harvest as much bounty as you can in the greenhouse and set up the little heater to help protect what is left. Check the timers and heat lamps and heaters scattered around the farm--in the henhouse, in the old well house, in the new well house.

Back inside, clomp up the narrow, uneven staircase to retrieve sleeping bags for covering up the picture windows in the living room. Dig out the insulated winter suits and hang them near the woodstove. Throw another quilt on the bed. Stack firewood high on the porch. Give extra food to the dogs and cats and make sure everyone has a wool bed to curl up on. Set the shower faucet at a drip to help keep the pipes from freezing, but fill up every empty water container you can find because they probably will anyway. Cross your fingers that the power stays on. Dream of thick hearty soup and freshly baked bread and cozying up with a good book or a favorite movie. Wonder what you are forgetting.

Do all of this before the Ice Storm Warning goes into effect.

Realize that rain has started pounding on the old tin roof above your head. Check the online weather forecast. Too late. Take a deep breath, bundle up, and head outside--knowing in your heart that everything will be okay.

A year of Daily Photos ago:
1/13/06: Defrosting
1/12/06: Donkey Doodle Dandy Soaks Up Some Morning Sun

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Farm Photo: 1/7/07

What I Learned From Cary Last Year:


The best things in life only appear to be unobtainable. . .




All you have to do is reach up, grab hold, and take the biggest bite you can.

A lot of memorable things happened on the farm in 2006, but for me it will always be remembered as The Year My Lamb Laid Waste To The Garden.** And I wouldn't change a minute of it--even if the raspberries and asparagus don't grow back.

Little Cary was 8 months old yesterday! (These photos were taken back on August 20th.) I'm a little late here, I know. For some unknown reason, all last week I had it in my head that Cary was born on the 7th, not the 6th. Fortunately she doesn't hold that kind of thing against me, because Cary is extremely good at pouting and inducing guilt. Almost as good as Dan. But not quite. I don't think anybody has perfected the art of inducing guilt better than a sulking little donkey, especially if he is wearing an extremely ratty blue halter. (It's coming off soon, I swear.)

Wondering who Cary is? Click here to read her story.

And if you'd like to see more:
Cary Is Seven Months Old Today!
Cary Is Six Months Old Today!
Cary Is Five Months Old Today!
Cary Is Four Months Old Today!
Cary Is Three Months Old Today!
Cary Is Two Months Old Today!

Cary captured in the garden:
--On July 31st sucking down the surprise lilies
--On July 27th eating around the bean poles
--On June 30th in the weeds
--On June 27th eating weeds & inhaling asparagus ferns
--On June 19th lunching in the greenhouse
--On May 28th by the beets
--On May 27th with the turtles
--On May 23rd on the cucumbers

A year of Daily Photos ago: The Boys In Dan's Hood
And WCB #31: Now You See Him. . .

**With many thanks to Finny for providing me with that perfectly fitting phrase last summer, "lay waste to the garden," which never fails to make me smile.

Daily Farm Photo: 12/26/06

Reflecting On The Bigger Picture, Remembering The Little Things

When my brother stayed with us on the farm for a month in February of 2005, he made himself useful whenever he could. He convinced the digital thermometer in the kitchen--which I had somehow inadvertantly switched to celsius--to display the temperature in farenheit again. He replaced the starter in my little SUV. He even set the clock on the VCR.

Each of the three doorways that leads in and out of The Shack is equipped with a storm door as well as a wooden door. These storm doors are inexpensive, metal-framed affairs consisting of two thin glass windows with a screen over the bottom window. If luck is with you--and you are willing to sacrifice the use of your fingertips for several minutes afterward--you can push in some painfully stupid sliding thingies and then lift and secure the lower window up over the second one so fresh air can blow in through the screen. If you are heading outside, you push on a small lever to release a tiny latch that holds the door shut, and then push the door outward. If you are coming inside, you must grab the handle, press on a button with your thumb, and then pull the door open toward you.

The storm door we use by far the most leads from the kitchen to a small covered porch. On the porch live three enormous chest freezers, the dog houses and dog food bowls, a cat food bowl, and Smudge the cat (who lives on top of the chest freezers, just out of reach of the dogs). During the fall and winter a wheelbarrow full of firewood also takes up residence there, and we probably make at least a dozen trips in and out each day just lugging in firewood alone.

One day I noticed my brother tinkering with the storm door handle.

"There!" he said proudly. "I fixed this broken latch so now the door stays shut like it's supposed to. It was driving me crazy."

"Well, thanks," I said.

Not long after that, Joe walked purposefully through the kitchen and slammed into the storm door.

"What the--"

"Derek fixed the latch on the door so now it locks shut."

"Ohhhh." And without skipping a beat he called out, "Hey, thanks, man!"

Old habits die hard around here, and Joe and I must have banged into that door twenty times each over the next couple of weeks. The day after my brother left, Joe put the latch back the way it had been, and we both laughed out sighs of relief.

Neither of us had had the heart to tell him that because we use that door so much we keep the latch 'broken' on purpose.

May your memories make you smile more than they make you sad.

A year of Daily Photos ago: In Loving Memory Of My Brother

Daily Farm Photo 12/7/06: Kids These Days

Cary Goes Grunge

Every year the so-called Generation Gap gets a little wider. In fact sometimes it seems like it should be called the Generation Grand Canyon.

A California pal I've known since kindergarten recently informed me that, after weeks of negotiation, her three-and-a-half-year-old son now sports a mohawk. My friend says it looks super. Her mother, on the other hand, pretty much thinks the exact opposite. I doubt either of us girls even knew what a mohawk was when we were twelve, let alone three-and-a-half. And we've certainly never had one. There's obviously no denying it: The Teenage Rebellion has been taken over by toddlers. And even the rural American barnyard isn't safe.

I really want to assume that the red swipe of raddle marker and splotch of green slime ended up on seven-month-old Cary quite by accident, but with kids these days you never know. And of course I can't help wonder (and worry) what will be next. I can only hope that as we near shearing time next spring she doesn't start negotiating for a full-body mohawk.

A year of Daily Photos ago: Still Life In Farmyard

Daily Farm Photo 12/3/06: A Place To Bark

Lucky Buddy Bear Is On Alert No Matter What The Weather

Note: After writing this essay (which was supposed to only be one paragraph), I decided that it needed a title, and "A Place To Bark" immediately popped into my head--probably because it's the name of the non-profit animal rescue run by one of my new favorite people in the world, Bernie Berlin. Talk about perfect timing. I had planned to write about Bernie and all that she is doing to singlehandedly save hundreds of homeless dogs and cats literally destined for death when she had her benefit art auction on ebay up and running. . .well, the auction has begun! I still want to borrow her name for my title, so I thought it only appropriate to mention her here.

If you love animals and want to see the amazing difference that one person can make in the world, check out Bernie's blog, A Place To Bark. . . And Meow. Just be sure to grab a tissue first--I don't think I've ever made it through a single post without tears streaming down my face (the good kind). Attention all you art lovers: Click here to go to the ebay auction site where you can support Bernie's animal rescue efforts and purchase one of a kind, donated artwork at the same time.

There's a scene in Larry McMurtry's book, Texasville, when Duane's dog Shorty is yapping incessantly, and Duane's wife Karla says, "Instead of getting him neutered, we should have had them take his barker out." Years after first reading it, I still find that line hysterical. I just love the image of a dog having a removable barker. That said, I think one of the best things about living out in the country, miles from the nearest neighbor, is that your dogs can bark as long and as loud as they like. And if you're smart, you quickly realize that is exactly what you want them to do.

When I adopted Rex as a six-month-old puppy from the local animal shelter back in 1992, I was living in a tiny house on a tiny lot in the middle of a sprawling Northern California city. Rex quickly grew into a 95-pound lovable behemoth who spent most of the time lounging around the backyard. Apart from the fact that he routinely (and mysteriously) escaped from said yard while we were at work, he was extremely well-behaved. (I would return home to find him grinning and bouncing around the tiny front lawn, which happened to be surrounded by a little white picket fence and thus acted as a giant playpen. To this day I have no idea who kindly kept sticking him in there.)

Rex may have been an escape artist, but he was a very quiet one. He did not whine, and he rarely barked. I don't recall ever having to tell him to hush. Every 10 days or so, he would let out one deep, bellowing woof, and then he would give me a look that said, "I couldn't help it, Mom. I was about to explode." And I always told him that I understood completely.

Rex clearly realized that, hard as it might be, one must strictly obey certain noise ordinances when living in a crowded urban area. As soon as he moved to remote Windridge Farm, though, he instinctively knew that the rules had changed, and he immediately began making up for lost time. He barked at absolutely everything. He barked at squirrels and birds in the trees and airplanes that soared overhead and cars a half mile down the driveway and faraway hounds in the woods. Sometimes he simply barked for the sheer joy of being able to do so. It was wonderful.

Now I live with Robin and Bear, and they both take their guard dog duties seriously. These duties mostly include barking of course, and sometimes the two of them go at it all night long, bravely protecting us from monsters and unknown enemy attack. And although their yelps and howls often wake me up, I never get angry or annoyed. It's reassuring to hear that they are hard at work, and it's easy to fall back to sleep because I know that I am safe.

I have also come to know their many different barks along with their corresponding meanings. I can easily tell, for example, if they are barking at something that is far off in the distance or right here in the yard. And so early this morning when both dogs began simultaneously howling their heads off while I was still padding around the living room in my slippers, I knew right away that something they considered very bad was not far from the house. And I was right. I opened the back door in time to see Bear race across the lawn, shoot through the fence, and tear up the wooded hillside after a coyote, letting out a stream of ferocious woofs the entire time. Robin was nearly as loud and not far behind.

The coyote count far outweighs the human one in our little valley, and if I'm outside at night I can often hear packs of them singing to the stars and the moon. That's one of the other great things about not having any neighbors--you are free to howl right back at them, and so I usually do. I used to think that glimpses of coyotes were more common in the days after snowstorms because the animals were driven out of hiding in search of food. This morning, though, as I watched that grey-brown, furry body and bushy tail lope off into the woods, I realized that I was probably wrong. The coyotes are always close by--they're simply easier to see against a snow white backdrop. It's not a very comforting thought, but I know I need not worry. My loudly barking dogs are on the job.

Attention Dog Lovers! This is Weekend Dog Blogging #63!
Head over to Sweetnicks every Sunday night for the complete roundup of cute canine candids. Wanna join in? Just post your pup and email the permalink to Sweetnicks.

A year of Daily Photos ago:
Another Same Scene, New View Series

Daily Farm Photo 12/2/06: Snowstorms & Snowfall

Hello, December

So we got a little snow. But first we had enough rain in just one day to start the wet weather creek flowing, then an inch or two of some frozen substance that made it look and feel as if the farm had turned into a giant snowcone. There was lots of howling wind, too--the kind that makes you want to dive under a heavy quilt when you hear it--along with temperatures that dipped into the single digits. And somewhere in the midst of it all the power blinked off--and it didn't blink back on for 21 hours.

Twenty-one hours without lights in the house or lights in the barn. No oven, no radio, no computer, no fans to circulate the warmth from the ancient woodstove (our main source of heat) through the frigid house—and no running water, because no power means no way to pump the water up from the well. Then the phone line went dead. Twenty-one hours to think about just how much I heart electricity.

The important thing is that all of the critters are fine. Not exactly happy with the ice and mud and slush and freezing cold, but fine. (And no, Cary didn't get to sleep in the house curled up by the woodstove--but Robin did.) The sun is shining brightly today, and the sheep and their guard donkey are roaming the fields, hungrily pawing at the snow to reach the grass they know is underneath. It's supposed to get even colder tonight, but we're ready for it.

There are strategically placed electric heaters and heat lamps to keep the pipes from freezing, the firewood is piled high on the porch, and the oven is is sending the scent of freshly baked butter cookies wafting through the house as it heats up the kitchen. And there are buckets and bottles and glasses and pitchers of fresh water everywhere just in case.

Autumn was so very, very nice, but it is quickly becoming a distant, defrosted memory. The calendar may say it lasts another three weeks, but the temperatures and the landscape have declared that winter on the farm has officially begun.

A year of Daily Photos ago: Baa Baa Babsie
A year and a day of Daily Photos ago: Warm Wash, Cool Dry
And out of the kitchen came: Onion Flakes & Things For Cakes

© Copyright FarmgirlFare.com, the foodie farm blog where Farmgirl Susan shares recipes, stories, and photos from her crazy—and mostly electrified—life on 240 remote Missouri acres.

Daily Farm Photo: 11/16/06

Yep, Bear's A Leaf Roller

And a grass roller. And a hay roller. And an ice roller. Even a barn roller. And an expert snow roller--only yesterday's snow was a no show. But that's how it often seems to be around here. I scurry about in a frenzy, getting all geared up for the predicted 2 to 4 inches, which turns into a predicted one inch, which turns into nothing at all. It's a relief and a disappointment at the same time. Of course the best snowstorms really are the ones that hit entirely by surprise. You go to bed with one landscape and wake up blinking at another. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow! (Just skip those false alarms.)

A year of Daily Photos ago: Another Same Scene, New View