Jack

We have a new English Shepherd pup named Jack—and I’m pretty sure he’s made of fluff, mischief, and some kind of voodoo that makes you hand over your snacks without even realizing it. He’s impossibly cute, smells like puppy breath and sawdust, and has already climbed the ranks to become Grandkid's Favorite and Local Celebrity.

Nate, who’s almost 17 and suddenly aware that girls exist, took Jack to a local soccer game and returned glowing with success. Jack, it turns out, is better than cologne, a gym membership, and a pickup truck with a lift kit. He drew in the girls like moths to a porch light. Now half the teenage boys in the area want to rent Jack for their own social advancement. I may need to start charging a handling fee.

Fun fact: Jack is Roxie’s half-brother, which means they share DNA but not personal space. On the ride home, Roxie gave him the full “older sister” treatment—glared at him, huffed dramatically, and made it crystal clear that sitting on her tail would be considered an act of war. But after a long car ride and a post-arrival nap, she discovered he plays tug-o-war like a pro and decided maybe he could stick around as long as he remembers who’s boss. (Spoiler: it’s not me.)

Now I’m surrounded. Today I was minding my business, working on my computer, munching a peaceful bowl of popcorn, when two fuzzy heads slowly popped up on either side of my screen like a screen like a furry periscope. I swear they rehearsed it. I held out for about ten seconds before crumbling like a stale cookie.

So, Jack’s officially one of us. Roxie’s accepted him. The kids are obsessed. And I’ve learned that it’s impossible to say no to a tag-team of furry con artists with eyes like melted chocolate and a well-timed head tilt.

Welcome to the farm, Jack. Try not to chew through any electrical cords before breakfast.

Don't forget to leave a comment below so I know who stopped by. I'll come visit you as well.

Got Corn?

Not only does this farm sell fantastic corn, they have quite a sense of humor, as evidenced by their series of roadside signs.

Post a comment below so I know you were here. I really enjoy hearing from you.

Farmers Will Drive Lamborghinis

Jim Rogers, famous investor and all-around money guy, predicts that the next wave of wealth will come from farmers. Yep, you heard that right. Not Silicon Valley hotshots or crypto bros in their hoodies. Farmers. Folks with dirt under their fingernails and a list of chores that never ends. According to Rogers, farming is the vocation of the future.

Now, I don’t know if we’ll ever be rich. Around here, we’re still trying to get the chickens to stop pooping in their waterer. But I wouldn’t mind surviving better than most. You know—paying the bills without checking the bank account twice and maybe fixing that sagging gate, instead of replacing it, before it becomes a full-blown livestock jailbreak.

But let’s be honest: most farmers I know are far too practical to be caught dead behind the wheel of a Lamborghini. First of all, have you seen our roads? That thing wouldn’t make it down the driveway without bottoming out or collecting a full garden’s worth of mud.

And where would you even put the feed bags? Or the dog? Or your dignity, after the neighbors see you trying to pull a stuck hay wagon with a sports car that costs more than your barn?

No, if we suddenly struck it rich, we’d probably just buy a newer used pickup and maybe splurge on a zero-turn mower with cup holders. A souped-up tractor though? Now you're talkin’. Something with horsepower and hydraulics. Maybe even a cab with air conditioning, Bluetooth, and a seat that doesn’t make your backside go numb after two hours.

Let the Wall Street guys keep their flashy cars. We’ll take practicality and peace of mind, with a side of fresh eggs and the satisfaction of doing honest work.

But hey—if the day ever comes when a farmer does roll up in a Lamborghini, just know it’s probably hauling a sack of grain and has a chicken riding shotgun.

Please leave a comment below so I know you've visited. I'll come visit your blog as well.

Hint of Autumn

Up here in the north country, summer always feels like it’s trying to sneak out the back door before the party’s really over. Already, there's a nip in the night air—a quiet little whisper that things are about to change. Mornings greet us with that crisp stillness, the kind that makes you pull your sweatshirt a little tighter and breathe a little deeper. Change is coming, whether we’re ready or not.

The bright summer greens are starting to blush with yellow, not from embarrassment, but from exhaustion. The fields are going golden too—ragweed’s in full bloom, cheering us on into the next season whether we like it or not. And the trees? Well, some of them just can't wait. They're already trying on their autumn wardrobe like ladies in a dressing room, spinning in front of the mirror and asking the wind, “Does this crimson make my branches look bold?”

We're fast approaching my favorite season of all—Autumn. There’s something magical about it. The leaves put on the kind of show that no Broadway production can match, and the smell of ripe apples in the orchard makes you want to grab a basket and pretend you’re living in a simpler time. (Spoiler: you might be, if you live out here.)

I still find joy in scuffing through fallen leaves like a kid who forgot how grown-ups are supposed to act. There’s a simple pleasure in that sound—the crunch underfoot, the scent of earth and apple trees... and goodbye. Daytime sunshine is like a warm hug, and evenings bring that perfect kind of chill that makes sitting on the porch with a blanket and a mug feel like luxury.

Some folks say they can’t enjoy Autumn because winter follows close behind. That’s like refusing to eat pie because the plate might be empty after. Sure, winter’s coming. It always does. But right now, this moment—this golden, crunchy, apple-scented moment—is here. And it’s beautiful.

Summer and fall may be short up here, but that only makes them more precious. Each day is a gift, and I plan to unwrap every last one of them with both hands and savor them as long as possible.

Remember to leave a comment. I love hearing from you.

Some Days Are Just Like That

Some days start off sideways and just keep veering off into the weeds. Yesterday was one of those days.

It started out like any other charming day on the homestead—except my dog was limping, my patience was already on empty, and I had no idea I’d be involved in vehicular assault by 11 a.m.

Indy, our refined, older Weimaraner (read: moody senior citizen in a dog suit), started limping around like he’d just come back from a Civil War reenactment. His front paw was swollen, and since he’d already had a foot infection in the other paw. I figured we were just collecting them now, like vintage coins or unpaid parking tickets.

Since I needed the truck to get him to the vet, I had to get up at 5:00 a.m. to take my grandson to work. I came back, tried to sleep for twenty more precious minutes, then called the vet’s office right at 8:00. Or tried to. I got their cheerful little voicemail letting me know their hours are “from 8 to 6!” I guess that means for them, not for us poor saps who call. I’ve learned not to leave a message because they apparently check voicemail sometime between now and the Second Coming.

So I called every 15 minutes like a woman trying to win concert tickets on a radio station. At 9:00, someone finally answered. “Sure, bring him in at 9:45. We’ll squeeze you in.” Right. The vet’s office is about 45 minutes away, and I still hadn’t done the barn chores. So I made a mad dash to feed everyone, break up two chicken arguments, unhook the sheep from whatever weird thing they got into this time, and speed off like I was late for the Kentucky Derby.

I arrived at 9:55, breathless but victorious, only to spend the next 40 minutes in a waiting room that felt like the seventh circle of Dog Hell. A very enthusiastic teenage girl and her boyfriend sat beside me. She was taking photos of every animal that walked in. Then she showed me her entire pet photo album. I nodded politely like I wasn’t wondering if chewing off my own arm would be less painful. Her boyfriend didn’t say a word the whole time, which I think was a survival tactic.

Enter: Junior.

Junior was a boxer puppy. A very young, very enthusiastic, very untrained boxer whose sole purpose in life seemed to be pulling his owner’s arm out of its socket. And he was a “puppy” in the way a wrecking ball is a “pendulum.” His owner, a woman who clearly hadn’t planned for this level of chaos when she got dressed that morning, was practically choking him in an attempt to keep him from launching into orbit.

“Junior! Junior, come here!” “Junior, don’t eat that!” “Junior, get off the lady!” “Junior, that’s not a chew toy—that’s her leg!”

And then came the cat.

The vet has a couple of resident cats who clearly have a death wish, and of course one decided this was the perfect moment to strut through the hallway, like a Vegas showgirl, in front of a pack of drooling, under-medicated dogs. Indy was frozen like a statue, his whole body trembling with suppressed cat-homicide instincts. I could feel the leash vibrating like it was attached to a jackhammer. He lay at my feet looking calm on the outside, but inside he was screaming, “LET ME AT HER!”

Finally—finally—we got called in. After examining Indy (translation: poking his paw for 14 seconds while Indy vibrated like a tuning fork aimed at the cat buffet), the vet nodded and said, “Yup. Probably cellulitis again.” Then he added those magic words every dog owner dreads: “Just keep him quiet at home for a few days.”

Oh. Okay. Sure. Let me just explain that to my Weimaraner. You know, the breed that was specifically designed to chase things forever, run on nuclear power, and sleep only when dead. But, blessing of blessings, Indy was getting older and finally calming down.

I laughed. “What you see in here is not what he’s like at home,” I told him, as Indy continued trembling with unspent rage at the hallway cat and the scent of liver treats. “This whole vet office experience has him juiced. The other dogs, the cat—who he clearly sees as lunch—and the endless treat potential have his brain lit up like a pinball machine.”

“Honestly,” I said, “at home, he’s a couch potato. A nap-loving, snore-barking, sofa-hogging lump of fur. He’s basically a furry sack of potatoes with legs.”

The vet paused, looked at Indy, who was still trembling with violent hope that the cat would make a fatal hallway detour, and then turned to his assistant and said, dead serious: “That’s what my wife says about me. If I were a dog, I’d be this dog.”

And just like that, I didn’t need a vet degree to know this man gets it. Because honestly? I, too, aspire to be a dog that naps hard, snacks often, and only gets riled up when there’s drama in the hallway.

After a total visit of 5 minutes, including the conversation with his assistant, we had this: Diagnosis? Probably cellulitis—again. Prescription? $58. Time wasted? Somewhere between one and three years off my life expectancy.

I put Indy back in the truck and went back in to pay. While I was standing there, Junior decided he hadn’t done enough damage yet and tried to eat my shoe—while it was still on my foot. This dog was a one-dog demolition crew. I told the receptionist I wasn’t sure if the dog wanted a snack or just had strong opinions about footwear.

I paid the bill, headed out, and while backing out of my very tight parking spot in a lot designed for lawnmowers, I gently (and by gently, I mean barely) clipped the fender of the gray car next to me.

Not just any gray car. A gray car with a vanity plate that read “BIG GUN.”

Of course it did.

I sighed, walked back into the waiting room (now a circus missing only a guy in a top hat yelling, “Behold the bearded lady!”) and asked, “Who owns the gray car with the plate ‘Big Gun’?”

Guess who? Junior’s mom. Of course!

At this point, the woman practically short-circuited. She was leaving for Florida tomorrow and now couldn’t remember how to breathe. I told her it was a little dent, nothing major, and she still looked like she might throw Junior at me and flee the scene.

Out she came, dragging Junior, who by this time looked like he’d just done a marathon through a swamp—tongue hanging out, eyes wild, drool flying. Her daughter, who looked to be about ten and had braved tagging along, trotted behind them like this was all just another Tuesday.

While Junior the Wrecking Ball tried to body-check the bumper off my truck, she called her insurance company right there in the parking lot. I handed over all my info, took photos of her car (thanks to my daughter-in-law, who’s trained me to document every moment like I’m prepping for a congressional hearing), and wished her the best.

My truck? Unscathed. Her fender? Slight dent, paint scuff. Her dog? Still possessed. Her stress level? Catastrophic. Her vacation? Probably going to need another vacation from her vacation.

So yeah—some days are just like that. You wake up thinking, “I’ve got this day, no problem,” and by noon you’ve footed a vet bill, been photo-bombed by a teenager, had your footwear attacked, and accidentally assaulted a car named Big Gun.

Next time I’m staying in bed—with Indy.

Please leave your comment below. I really enjoy reading them.

Go Ahead, Make Our Day!

Dirty Harry's got nothing on these fellas.

This weekend, the backyard turned into a makeshift shooting range (because what else is a farm for if not a little old-fashioned target practice?). Jim’s oldest son, James, came to visit with our granddaughter Riley in tow. It wasn’t long before the menfolk seized the opportunity for some much-needed man time—translation: making loud noises, comparing firearms, and pretending they weren’t melting in the summer heat.

Lined up in the picture like a testosterone-fueled Mount Rushmore are, from left to right: 16-year-old Nate (our grandson who lives with us), James, and my husband Jim, looking every bit like a crew ready to defend the homestead from rogue soda cans and the occasional paper target.

And Riley? You may ask where she was while the guys were out channeling their inner Clint Eastwood. That gal was doing it right—curled up on the couch in the blessed air conditioning, living her best life and wisely avoiding the bugs, sweat, and bravado.

Now that’s my kind of smart.

Hairdos for Dogs

Who says fashion is just for humans? Meet our latest trendsetter in the canine world—a pup with naturally fuzzy head fluff that’s just begging for a little creative styling.

This morning, I looked at her and thought, You know what? With a dab of gel and a bit of nerve, I could give her a full-on punk rock makeover. Think Joan Jett meets Lassie. Or Sid Vicious, if he had four legs and a wagging tail.

I haven’t broken out the safety pins or leather collars yet, but give it time.

She’s not too sure about her new look, but I told her if people can dye their poodles pink and bedazzle their Chihuahuas, then a little punk attitude isn’t out of line. Next stop: maybe a mohawk.

Of course, I can’t roam around with a camera without having lots of help from the girls. Brownie, my favorite Nubian doe, is always the first one to offer assistance. Whether I’m trying to snap a photo or just breathe in peace, she’s there—supervising, photobombing, or trying to eat the lens cap.

Who knew farm life came with a built-in entourage?

We Have Not Forgotten

I received this very thought provoking e-mail today. It's one of those you're supposed to forward to your friends. Not only did I forward it, I think it's worth posting on my blog as well. I can't imagine myself in their shoes. I like relaxing on our nice comfy couch, watching a movie on our big-screen TV, taking a shower with hot water, my nice soft bed. Thanks to all you service men and women who live the hardships and put yourselves in harm's way to protect our freedoms. Here's the forwarded e-mail:


This came from a Marine unit over in Iraq . Their wish is to send it to as many people in the country as possible. (Be sure to read their note at the end of the e-mail). Hopefully we can help them achieve their goal.

SLEEP LAST NIGHT?

Bed a little lumpy? Toss and turn any? Wish the heat was higher? Maybe the a/c wasn't on? Had to go to the john? Need a drink of water? Scroll down:

Yes.. It is like that!

Count your blessings, pray for them, and the next time when the other car cuts you off and you must hit the brakes, or you have to park a little further from Walmart than you want to be, or you're served slightly warm food at the restaurant, or you're sitting and cursing the traffic in front of you, or the shower runs out of hot water, think of them...

Protecting your freedom!

The proud warriors of Baker Company wanted to do
Something to pay tribute
To our fallen comrades So since we are part of the only
Marine Infantry Battalion left in Iraq the one way that we could
Think of doing that is by taking a picture of
Baker Company saying the way we feel.
It would be awesome if you could find a way to share
This with our fellow countrymen.
I was wondering if there was any way to
Get this into your
Papers to let the world know that
'WE HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN'
And are proud to serve our country.
' Semper Fi 1st Sgt Dave Jobe .'

The attached photo was forwarded from one of the last U.S Marine companies in Iraq. They would like to have it passed to as many people as possible, to let the folks back home know that they remember why they're there and that they remember those who've been lost.

Send this to 13 people in the next 15 minutes. Go.

Don't You Just Hate Spammers?

Woke up this morning, stretched, poured myself a nice tall glass of peace and quiet… and then BAM—ambushed by a spammer named Susana. Ten comments on my blog. TEN. On different posts. I mean, if you're going to be a nuisance, at least be efficient.

Yes, she has a blogspot account. No, you can’t view her profile. She’s basically the digital equivalent of someone ringing your doorbell and sprinting off into the bushes. Real professional.

Beneath her very generic and heartfelt comments (and by that I mean they read like they were written by a malfunctioning toaster), was a link to a payday loan site she’s obviously an affiliate for. So if one of you kindhearted souls had clicked on it and signed your life away in 47% interest fees, she would’ve made a shiny commission. Isn’t that sweet?

Now don’t get me wrong—I’m not against affiliate marketing. If you’ve got a product you love and you're sharing it with people who actually want to hear about it, go on with your winning self. But commenting on my blog like you just threw darts at a keyboard? Oh no, honey. That’s where I draw the line in the dirt with my boot and say, “Not today, idiot.”

I spent the better part of an hour deleting her nonsense and locking the barn doors, so to speak. Comments are now on moderation. But fear not, real-life human friends! I check my email more often than my animals check the feed buckets, so your comments will still make it through quickly—provided you're not trying to sell me snake oil in the shape of a high-interest loan.

And let’s be honest, Susana might have gotten away with it… if her comments hadn’t made about as much sense as a chicken wearing flip flops. Not a pair either. Just one. On its head.

There’s a website called “Masterminds Need Not Apply” that highlights dumb crook antics. Honestly, Susana’s application is probably already in the mail. I’ll write her a letter of recommendation if it helps get her off my lawn.

Until then, I’ll be here—swinging my spam swatter like a ninja grandma with a fly problem. Back to farm shenanigans shortly.

Oh, So-o-o Good!

I had a major "snack attack" this afternoon. Wandered around the house wondering what would satisfy the cravings. No, it wasn't PMS - I'm well beyond that age. But it was a craving none-the-less. I found this recipe on the back of the Baker's unsweetened baking chocolate package, which is the only chocolate I can keep in the house. I already ate all the sweetened and semi-sweetened stuff. Oh my! They are just sinful. You're gonna love them. The hardest part was putting the dough in the fridge for an hour while it got to a workable consistency. I speeded that up a bit by setting the bowl in a pan of ice water. Okay, so I was really in a hurry. But they are definitely worth the wait.

Soft & Chewy Chocolate Drops
4 squares Baker's Unsweetened Baking Chocolate
3/4 cup (1-1/2 sticks butter)
2 cups sugar
3 eggs
1 tsp. vanilla
2-1/2 cups flour
Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Microwave unsweetened chocolate and butter in large microwavable bowl on HIGH 2 min. or until butter is melted. Stir until chocolate is completely melted. Add sugar; mix well. Blend in eggs and vanilla. Add flour; mix well. Cover and refrigerate 1 hour or until dough is easy to handle. Shape dough into 1 inch balls; place 2 inches apart, on greased baking sheets. Bake 8 min. or just until set. Do not overbake. Let stand on baking sheet 1 min.; transfer to wire racks (I just put them on a dish). Cool completely. Makes 5 doz. or 30 servings, two cookies each. (Bet you can't each just 2!)

They suggest a glaze which is made by placing 1 tub (8 oz.) frozen whipped topping like Cool Whip and 6 squares Baker's Semi-Sweet Baking Chocolate in a microwavable bowl. Microwave on HIGH 1-1/2 min. or until chocolate is completely melted and mixture is shiny and smooth, stirring after 1 min. Let stand 15 min. to thicken. Spread over cookies. Let stand until glaze is set. I didn't use the glaze for several reasons. 1) I didn't have any Cool Whip, 2) I didn't have any semi-sweet chocolate (see aforementioned reason), 3) I didn't want to wait that long to eat them, and 4) I figured with 6 squares of chocolate added to the already 4 squares in the cookie recipe I'd have such a chocolate high I'd have to be rushed to the hospital for an injection of Narcan!

Trying Not to Laugh

I try not to be cynical about our government, more specifically our elected government officials. But I just can't resist this.

President Obama has just made good on his campaign promise to cut $100 million of government spending. On the surface this may sound good but... (Bet you knew there'd be a 'but', didn't you?) Check out this video to see some of the areas where they've decided they can sacrifice.


And that $100 million? It amounts to only .006% of the estimated federal deficit. That what we country folk call "closing the barn door after the horse is out." Here's the Wall Street Journal for the full story. But try not to laugh.