Tax Day Tea Party

You may have heard about the Tax Day Tea Party which is planning demonstrations all over the country to protest what's happening with the stimulus plan and bail outs that no one, at least no one that I know of, wants. You can find out what's happening in your state and join in this modern day tea party.

You also may have heard about the plan to mail tea bags to your senators, representatives, the president himself. I understand that an actual tea bag won't be delivered because of security precautions. But you can send, via snail mail, e-mail or fax, this picture of a tea bag, or even just the tag from a tea bag, along with a note of protest. The idea is to make ourselves, being the silent majority, heard loudly that we are unhappy about the current direction our country has taken. It seems that those who we elected to represent us have forgotten who they work for. Let's remind them! Here's a link so you can find out who your elected officials are and where to send it http://www.govtrack.us/

And while I'm on a roll I'll give you the link to the 9/12 project which is a place for you and other like-minded Americans looking for direction in taking back the control of our country.

Come on America. Let's take our country back!!!!!!!

Goat Breeding Stepladder

Let me introduce you to Casanova—our young Boer buck. He’s 10 months old, full of enthusiasm, hormones, and confidence he absolutely hasn’t earned yet. True to his name, he’s eager to romance the ladies. There's just one small hitch... he’s also short.

And the does? Well, they’re not.

Now, he tries. Oh, he gives it everything he’s got—there’s huffing, there’s grunting, there’s awkward circling. But at the end of the day, his little hooves just don’t reach high enough to seal the deal.

So, like any practical farm gal with a bit of leftover plywood and a good sense of barnyard mechanics, I built him a platform.

Yes. A platform.

Picture a sturdy little structure with a cutout in just the right spot. Casanova climbs up, the doe backs in, and voila, everyone’s happy. Mission accomplished. Dreams achieved. Stars aligned. Baby goats pending.

Of course, I can’t just leave the doe in his pen and hope for the best. Left to her own devices, she stands there like, “What’s this nonsense?” and wanders off to eat something. Meanwhile, poor Casanova's up on his platform trying to romance air. It’s like watching a very confused dance recital with only one participant.

So instead, I schedule conjugal visits. I bring the doe in, back her into position like I’m parking a livestock trailer, and let nature do its thing—with a little human assistance and a lot of goat commentary.

Some may say it's a bit unconventional. I say it's ingenious. Around here, if there’s a problem, we build our way out of it.

Love might not conquer all, but a well-timed platform and a determined farm woman sure come close.

King of the Mountain (aka Chicken Coop)

"Hey, I'm higher than everyone else."
"No you're not. I'm up here too."
"Wonder if I could jump up on the barn roof. Then I'd be higher than you."
"But if you can jump up there so can I. So then I'd be just as high as you. Na-Na!"

Thank Goodness for Ear Tags!

I’ll say it—they all look alike to me. I know, I know, that’s probably not very maternal of me, but come on… when you’ve got a dozen wooly little lambs all bouncing around like popcorn in a hot pan, it’s hard to tell who’s who. Fortunately, their moms are better at this job. They just sniff a backside and go, “Yep, that one’s mine.”

I, on the other hand, do not have that superpower. Nor do I have any interest in getting down in the dirt to conduct a rear-end roll call. That’s where ear tags come in. Bright, bold, numbered, and blessedly bum-free. Not at all weird.

Today was one of those rare, beautiful sunny days where the animals were actually calm for five whole minutes. Every lamb and goat kid in the place decided to crash out in the sunshine. They looked like a puddle of warm biscuits, soft and slightly lumpy. It was the perfect moment to sneak a photo—something sweet and peaceful to prove they’re not always hooligans.

But of course, the goats ruined it.

They saw me kneel down with the camera and immediately leapt to their hooves like, “Wait! Is she doing something without us?” Because heaven forbid I try to document a quiet moment without their fuzzy little mugs front and center. So they thundered over like a pack of short-legged paparazzi. Not to be outdone, one of the bottle lambs came galloping behind them like she was late for roll call.

By the time I lifted the camera, the nap pile had scattered, the moment was gone, and I had a close-up of a goat nose smudging my lens. Again. Just like my own kids when they were little—anytime you tried to capture a sweet, still memory, they immediately turned it into a circus act.

I was able to sneak back later and managed to catch a few of them once they finally settled down again—because apparently, patience is a farm skill you have to practice even through the chaos. At least I can tell who’s who this time… thanks to those little numbered tags and not having to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong.

Farm Rule #37: If it’s quiet, they’re either napping… or staging a coup.

I'm SO Proud of Myself!

Yes, I’m proud of myself.

“Why?” you ask. Well, I’m glad you asked that question. Pull up a hay bale and let me tell you about this year’s lambing season, now officially in the books.

We’re done lambing—done! As in, all our pregnant ewes are no longer pregnant, and I’m sleeping through the night again (well, mostly). We had six ewes lamb this spring, three of which gave us twins. That’s nine spring lambs, plus the one born last November—ten lambs total, ready to head to market in the fall. That’ll cover winter hay, grain, and maybe even a few chocolate bars to keep me going through next lambing season, if they last that long.

Everything went pretty smoothly overall—no breech births, no tangled-up twins trying to come out in a jumbled heap, and all the moms figured out which end of the lamb to lick. Well, almost all.

One first-time mom apparently got her wires crossed. She decided she liked the lamb in the next pen over better than the one she’d actually birthed. Classic case of “the lamb is always cuter on the other side of the fence.” So I put up a sheet of plywood between the pens to break the visual confusion and then gently encouraged her to nurse her own lamb by pinning her against a wall until the baby latched on. (Gentle encouragement on a farm often involves more arm strength than you’d use in a pilates class.)

This all went down at 2:00 a.m., and by that point, I was mentally preparing for a bottle baby. But come morning, the ewe had come to her senses and was mothering her own lamb like she’d planned it all along. Whether it was confusion, first-time jitters, or full-blown postpartum barnyard madness, we’ll never know. But she worked it out, and I call that a win.

Then there was the lamb who got scours at just a day old. For the uninitiated, “scours” is a polite farm word for explosive bacterial diarrhea. The smell alone could strip paint. I almost lost the poor little fella, but a round of antibiotics and some electrolytes had him bouncing around by the next day like nothing had happened. I kept up the meds for several more days, just to be safe—and also to spare myself the trauma of reliving that diaper disaster.

The final lamb born was a bit of a concern too. He was one of a set of twins, and while his brother hit the ground like he had a to-do list, this guy seemed. . . meh. Just not vigorous. And lambs already look like white, wrinkly old men when they’re born. He just looked extra shriveled. A few days in, he still wasn’t filling out his skin, which meant mama might not have been producing enough milk for both, or maybe the stronger twin was hogging the milk bar.

So, I stepped in with goat’s milk. And just like that, he perked up—started pushing his brother around and demanding extra helpings. I’m still giving him a little extra on the side just to keep him beefing up, and now he's living his best lamb life.

But now we get to the real reason I’m proud of myself (you knew we’d get here eventually, didn’t you?).

One of my ewes prolapsed after lambing. And for those of you with delicate constitutions, maybe just stop reading here and go hug a houseplant. For everyone else—a prolapse means that part of her insides decided they wanted to be on the outside. In this case, a vaginal prolapse. Think “barnyard horror movie” meets “do-it-yourself vet care.”

So what did I do? I put on a glove, washed her up, coated the uterus with sugar (yes, I know, but it reduces swelling so everything fits inside again), pushed everything back where it belonged (yes, everything), inserted a prolapse retainer (which basically looks like a plastic spoon designed by a medieval torturer), and gave her a shot of long-acting penicillin.

Three days later, I removed the retainer as per the instructions (yes, it came with instructions, and yes, I actually read them). Next morning? Prolapse again. Wash, rinse, repeat—literally. This time I added stitches to keep things tucked in, gave her another round of antibiotics, and so far, so good—she’s holding it together, literally and figuratively.

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a vet. I didn’t get to go to vet school, but I’ve apparently picked up enough to do what needs doing when no one else is around and things are falling apart—sometimes literally.

This lambing season gave me my first case of mom confusion, my first bottle supplement, my first case of scours, and my first prolapse. And yet. . . no casualties. No vet bills. Just me, my gloves, and a healthy amount of determination, not to mention a strong stomach.

So yeah—I’m proud of myself. And tonight, I’m going to bed early. After all, I just pulled off four barnyard firsts without losing a single animal. But if any more problems arise, I’m burying my head in the hay!

2nd Amendment Rights

Here's a humorous look at 2nd amendment rights. Wouldn't want to be a gunman in this store! I often wonder how far the insane shooters, that we've been hearing about on the news lately, would get, or if they would even try it, if others were armed as well. My husband always says (which probably isn't original but he's the only one I've ever heard say it so I'll attribute it to him) "an armed society is a polite society". My opinion is that we have very low crime rates here in the Great North Woods because most everyone is armed. We have a population of hunters, farmers, lumberjacks etc, and our tourists are sportsmen, snowmobilers, 4-wheelers and the like. Most everyone is well equipped to defend life and property. The only break-ins are to vacant weekend/seasonal camps. You never know who's armed and who isn't so it's just not worth the chance. Enjoy the video, and feel free to leave a comment. I love comments!



P.S. A few people have told me they can't play this video but most people can. So if you're one of those who have trouble here's the direct link - it's worth a "look see". Shopping in Texas

Hot Pole Dancer in the Great North Woods!

Hey, just because I live in the mountains, far from what most would call civilization (I have to travel 1 1/2 hours to the nearest Wal-Mart or traffic light) doesn't mean we don't have entertainment. Check out this exotic, HOT pole dancer. (OK, so this video was actually taken in Glacier National Park, and the bear is a grizzly. But it COULD be a black bear, and it COULD happen around these parts. Just saying.)

Obituary - Androscoggin Rooster, 2006-2009 (Approximately)

We gather today—briefly, and with appropriate caution—to mourn the passing of Androscoggin Rooster, a strikingly handsome Partridge Rock with a flair for drama and a taste for human ankles. He died today at American Way Farm in northern New Hampshire, following a brief but ill-advised scuffle with his owner, Sandy.

In recent weeks, Androscoggin and Sandy had reached what could best be described as a tense truce. There had been. . . incidents. And discussions. And a few choice words. And, for a time, there was peace in the barnyard.

That illusion shattered yesterday.

Perched on a fence post like a feathered gargoyle, Androscoggin launched a surprise aerial assault while Sandy attempted the simple act of opening a gate. He was promptly confronted and retreated to the safety of the henhouse like the overconfident barnyard bully he was. Another “come-to-Jesus” conversation ensued, in which Sandy clearly laid out the terms: one more incident, and it would be his last.

Apparently, Androscoggin did not take her seriously.

This morning, as Sandy was lovingly tending to a newborn lamb—a pure, gentle moment of peace and maternal devotion—Androscoggin saw his chance for vengeance. Like a mustache-twirling villain in a bad Western, he charged. He flapped. He flogged. He bit off more than his spurs could handle.

Sandy, channeling the wrath of every woman who’s ever had one too many things go sideways before breakfast, left the lamb, fetched the .22, and ended the skirmish with a single shot. He was dispatched swiftly, and his body was tossed over the fence into the waiting jaws of the dog for natural processing. All that remains are a few loose feathers, some entrails, and the faint echo of a warning crow.

A brief memorial service will be held this evening from 8:00 to 8:01 p.m., or until the subject of dinner is introduced.

No charges are being filed, as authorities have ruled it a clear-cut case of barnyard self-defense.

Androscoggin is survived by 12 hens, none of whom appear particularly broken up about it. In fact, morale in the coop seems noticeably higher.

Condolences and expressions of sympathy (or victory dances on behalf of the hens) may be posted in the comments section. In lieu of flowers, the family asks that you simply respect personal space and refrain from underestimating farm women in possession of firearms.