And The Miracles Continue

You may remember the story I shared not long ago about the fire that tore through the farm where I recently bought three beautiful goats. That family lost nearly everything. The barn. The animals. The tools and supplies that make a life out of hard work and hope. What they didn’t lose, though, was their spirit.

Lately, I’ve found myself thinking about them more and more—how they must be trying to pick up the pieces, rebuild not just their farm, but their daily rhythm, their income, their identity. And I realized… maybe I could help.

See, I had purchased five does from them—three new girls and two others a while back, both in milk now. They were good goats, solid goats. I’d been toying with the idea of selling them, but hadn’t found the right buyer. Or so I thought.

I sent off a quick email, just to offer. No pressure, no expectations—just a “hey, would you be interested?”

The next morning, bright and early, the phone rang. Her voice cracked as she said, “We want them. All seven.”

Seven. All seven. The 5 I bought from her, plus 2 more high quality gals that were similar bloodlines.

And just like that, I had goosebumps. The kind that run down your arms and stop you in your tracks. The kind that whisper, this was never random.

When I look back at how this all came together, it’s impossible not to see a pattern stitched by something greater than chance. Call it divine timing. Call it fate. Me? I call it God.

I only meant to buy two new goats. That was the plan. But when I called this woman—whose goats I knew and trusted, and already had a few from her—she said she had three. I sent a check for two and tried to leave it at that. But something nudged me. A whisper I couldn’t explain. A week later, I called her back. “I’ll take the third.”

I also had a buyer for two of my does. A buyer appeared—then vanished. No deposit. No response. Just… gone. I tried to follow up, but couldn’t reach her. I was frustrated, but I let it go.

When I sent that email to offer the goats, it went straight to her spam folder. And—this part gets me every time—she told me she never checks her spam. But that night, something made her look. And there it was. My email. Waiting. Right on time.

I can’t explain it away. I don’t want to.

These goats—these quirky, demanding, utterly lovable souls—aren’t just going to a new home. They’re going back to the place they came from. Back to the arms that raised them. Back to a family who needs them now more than ever.

And yes, my heart aches. Every goat I’ve ever owned has wrapped herself around a little piece of my heart and refused to let go. These girls are no different. I know each bleat, each nudge, each attitude-filled toss of the head. I know who likes their grain soaked and who screams bloody murder if the hay isn’t exactly right. They have been my morning chaos and my evening peace. My laughter and my therapy.

But this… this is bigger than me. This is what grace looks like. When all the wrong turns somehow lead exactly where you need to be. When pain is turned into purpose. When letting go becomes a gift instead of a loss.

They’re not leaving just yet—the family is still making space for them in the new barn. So I have a little more time to soak them in. A few more mornings of being yelled at for being three minutes late with breakfast. A few more evenings of head scratches and nose kisses and warm milk.

And when the day comes, I’ll help load them onto that trailer. I’ll stroke their soft ears one last time, whisper a promise that I’ll never forget them, and watch them head down the road toward something beautiful.

Not an ending. A beginning.

Because the story doesn’t stop here.
The story continues.

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Trick or Treat?

Well, I guess Mother Nature didn’t think the Halloween treats were good enough this year—because we woke up to this trick instead. Snow. On Halloween. Nothing says “festive” like brushing two inches of frozen betrayal off the windshield before coffee.

The goats were not amused. The chickens staged a walkout (waddle-out?) and refused to leave the coop. I’m pretty sure one of the pigs tried to climb back into his straw bale like a reverse groundhog—if he sees his shadow, we get six more months of attitude.

On the bright side, it does make the pumpkins on the porch look very… seasonal. Like someone handed a snow globe to a gremlin and said, “Have fun, kid.”

(P.S.—This reminds me I really need to change the date on my camera. Today is definitely the 31st. Though the weather seems to think it's mid-January.)

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The Chicken Murderers

Jim is the tall guy in the center.

Every farm community has that group—the one that shows up when someone’s in trouble, tools in hand, ready to tackle whatever disaster life has cooked up. Ours just happens to call themselves The Chicken Murderers. It’s possible we should be concerned.

Last week, a fellow farm family lost their barn to a fire. Total devastation. No water, no power, and not even a chicken coop left standing. Only the broiler chickens out in the field survived. So naturally, our ragtag New Hampshire Small and Beginning Farmers group rallied the troops.

Jim (my husband and resident “Head of All Things Sharp and Pointy”) joined five other generous souls from around the state—some driving up to three hours just to say, “Hey, want us to kill your chickens for you?” Because nothing says we care like rolling up to your burnt-out farm and offering to process your poultry.

Since the fire left the original farm more like a pile of kindling with charred memories, the whole chicken shebang was moved to a nearby farm with functioning water, power, and, importantly, a place where feathers could fly freely.

Enter: the mobile poultry processing unit. This isn’t your average backyard setup. This thing is a trailer of doom on wheels. Stainless steel everything, cones lined up like a poultry guillotine, a scalder the size of a hot tub, and a plucker that looks like it could double as a wood chipper. It’s like the Batmobile of backyard butchering. Normally you rent it, but something tells me this gig was more of a “pay what your conscience allows” situation.

The rig rolled in around 9:30 AM, full of promise and potential chaos. The chickens made their entrance at 10:00, riding in high style in a horse trailer. You could tell they were suspicious. There’s just something about arriving at a party where nobody clucks back that feels… off.

Setup took a while, as these things do. The cold well water took forever to heat, which gave the crew plenty of time to stand around rearranging equipment eight different ways and pretending to know where everything goes. Meanwhile, deep conversations blossomed—everything from livestock guardian dogs to soap that smells like lavender instead of barnyard funk. It was like a farmer’s TED Talk with feathers.

And then... 2:30 PM hit. The water was finally hot. The cones were lined up. The plucker was spinning menacingly. It was go time..

Let’s pause to appreciate that five hours were spent preparing for one hour of poultry pandemonium. But once they got rolling, it was a well-oiled (and slightly feathery) machine. Chickens in, chickens out. Heads off, hearts out, into the bag, onto the ice. There’s something oddly poetic about a group of folks bonding over a shared task involving beheading 50 birds. It's like the most morbid barn dance you’ve ever seen.

By late afternoon, 50 chickens had been properly dispatched, cleaned, bagged, and iced. The family had food. The community had stepped up. And Jim came home smelling like wet feathers, scorched water heater, and... Eau de Chicken.

Chicken drying/packaging rack.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about farmers, it’s this: when things go up in smoke, we don’t run away—we run toward the smoke, with coolers, knives, and coffee strong enough to dehorn a bull.

Also, apparently, we give ourselves serial killer nicknames. But hey, every good support group needs a little dark humor. And a plucker.

Photos courtesy of Lisa Richards

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God of Miracles

Sometimes it's not the big miracles that shake us—it's the small mercies. The quiet nudges. The seemingly ordinary moments that turn out to be anything but.

A few weeks ago, I bought three young Saanen does from a farm several hours south of here. The plan was simple: pick them up at the end of October. Nothing urgent. Nothing pressing. Just one more farm errand penciled on the calendar.

But then, on a Monday afternoon several weeks earlier, I found myself with an unexpected day off for a Tuesday. No explanation, just an open day like a blank page. And I felt a nudge. Not a shove. Not a sign in the sky. Just a whisper: Go now.

So I called the woman I was buying the goats from and asked if I could come the next day. She said that’d be fine, and we settled on a pickup between noon and 1:00.

I called a friend and asked if she was up for an outing. She was. It was a long drive, seven hours round trip, and when we got there, the place was empty. We waited. We went to lunch. Came back. Still no one. It would have been easy to be frustrated. Easy to call it a wasted day. But something told us to wait. We took a leisurely walk. And waited some more.

Around 4:00, a big van finally pulled in. Out spilled a gaggle of school-aged kids, laughing and loud. The woman stepped out looking overwhelmed and apologetic—she had completely forgotten. A new foster child had arrived the night before, and the whole day had been spent enrolling him in school and trying to make a frightened child feel safe in a new place. My heart softened. Life happens. People do their best.

We loaded the goats, made the long drive home, and rolled into the driveway well after dark. Tired, but grateful. That could’ve been the end of the story.

But then, yesterday. . . everything changed.

The farm I’d just been to a few days earlier caught fire. Fortunately, a neighbor arriving home late, saw the blaze, called 911, and banged on their door to wake everyone up. They all got out safely. But the devastating blaze took the barn, damaged the house, and claimed nearly everything. All their sheep. All their chickens. Most of their goats. Gone in one terrible night.

And then it hit me—those three young goats I brought home? They were in the back section of the barn. The part that didn’t survive. They weren’t milking yet, so they’d been kept in the pens with the other young does. The ones that burned.

If I hadn’t had that day off. If I hadn’t made that call. If I’d stuck to the original plan. They’d be gone too.

That Tuesday—quiet, unremarkable, and off-script—saved their lives.

I went out to the barn the next morning, still shaken, and knelt down beside those three gentle does. I ran my hands over their soft coats, choked up with tears I didn’t bother to hide, and whispered a promise to take care of them. For me. For their former family. For whatever reason they were spared.

But the story still didn’t end there.

I had already purchased two more does from that same farm a while back. Both are in milk now. Solid girls. I’d been debating selling them, but hadn’t found the right buyer. Or so I thought.

The family that lost everything. . . they were trying to rebuild. Not just buildings, but a life. A rhythm. An identity. An income. And I realized maybe I could help.

So I sent an email—no pressure, no expectation. Just a simple offer: Would you be interested in any of the girls I bought from you?

The next morning, the phone rang. Her voice cracked. “We want them. All seven.”

Seven? Not just the five I’d gotten from her, but two more high-quality does with similar bloodlines that, for some reason, I was thinking of selling. This felt right. And in that moment, goosebumps. The kind that whisper: This was never random.

Looking back now, every step feels stitched together by something greater than chance. I only meant to buy two goats. She had three. I sent a check for two, tried to leave it at that, but something nudged me to call her back and say, “I’ll take the third.”

I had a buyer lined up for the previous two I bought from her. That buyer vanished. No deposit. No reply. I was annoyed—but I let it go and had decided maybe I wanted to keep them.

Then the email I sent to the family? It went to her spam folder. She never checks her spam. But that night, something told her to look. And there it was. My message. Right on time.

I can’t explain it away. I don’t want to.

These goats—these bossy, bleating, grain-demanding, absolutely irreplaceable souls, aren’t just going to a new home. They’re going back. Back to the arms that raised them. Back to the family who needs them now more than ever, who need them more than I do.

And yes, it breaks my heart a little. Every goat I’ve ever owned has claimed a piece of my heart, and these are no different. I know their quirks, their voices, their routines. I know who screams if the hay isn't fluffed just right and who won’t eat unless I hum to her. They've been my chaos, my calm, my therapy.

But this. . . this is grace. The kind you don’t see coming. The kind that rewrites stories with second chances and open doors.

They’re not leaving just yet. The family’s still getting the new barn ready. So I’ve got a little time. A few more breakfasts met with impatient bleating. A few more nights of nose kisses and head scratches. A little more of the story, before the next chapter begins.

And when that trailer pulls in, I’ll help load them up. I’ll stroke their soft ears one last time. Whisper a promise that I’ll never forget them. And watch them ride down the road, not to an end, but a new beginning.

Because this story, full of heartbreak and healing and holy timing, it doesn’t stop here.

The story continues.

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Nice Ride!

It’s a beautiful, sunny day here in northern New Hampshire. One of those perfect early fall days when the breeze carries the scent of dropped apples fermenting in the grass, the air is crisp with just the tiniest bite of the cold that’s coming, and the sun warms your back like an old friend with a cozy quilt. The trees are putting on their party dresses, the birds are in a good mood, and for once the goats aren’t trying to disassemble something important.

So naturally, it seemed like a perfect day for a buggy ride.

Talon thought so too. He stepped out like a champ, proud and official-looking in his harness, ears perked, tail swishing like he was auditioning for a calendar photo. We were out about a mile, trotting along past one of the local dairy farms, when the Trouble happened.

Let me set the scene: we’re clip-clopping along peacefully, enjoying life, when bam! Out of nowhere—cue ominous music—a cow.

Not just any cow. No, this bovine had clearly broken free from her pasture and was now loose in the middle of the road, minding her own business and chewing her cud like a creature with zero appreciation for the trauma she was about to cause.

Talon came to a screeching halt. And I do mean screeching. He threw on the brakes so hard I thought we were going to reverse through time. Ears forward, eyes bulging, nostrils flaring, tail flagged like a white warning banner—he had locked onto that cow like it was a dragon in disguise.

As far as Talon was concerned, this was no ordinary farm animal. This was a hoofed horror, a snorting specter, a fanged, winged demon disguised as a Holstein and bent on our destruction. In his mind, she was about to sprout bat wings, swoop over, devour us both, and floss with the lines from his harness.

So I did what any logical, buggy-driving, horse-loving human would do: I got out and tried to reason with him.

“It’s just a cow,” I said soothingly. “You’ve seen cows before. That’s a normal, non-lethal cow. I promise not to let it eat you.”

He did not believe me.

I tried leading him. I tried bribing him. I tried every version of “there-there” I had in my repertoire. Talon wasn’t having it. That cow was clearly Satan’s minion, and I was clearly delusional for walking toward it like it didn’t breathe fire.

So, we turned around. Slowly. Carefully. With the cautiousness of someone disarming a bomb. It took a while to get him settled enough that I could climb back into the cart and head for home, but we made it.

Lesson learned: Cow exposure therapy is best done not while attached to a rolling vehicle.

And in case you’re wondering why there’s no photo of the cow—well, I was a little busy trying to not die. You’ll just have to take my word for it. There are moments in life when survival outranks photography.

Maybe next time I’ll bring backup. Or better yet, a cow costume. For desensitization purposes, of course.

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The New Girls

We have new additions to the farm. I’d like to tell you they came in with grace and poise, immediately befriended everyone, and settled in like they’d always lived here. But I’d also like to tell you my goats never break into the garden, my dogs never roll in chicken poop, and my pigs are dainty eaters who use napkins.

Let’s be real.

The New Girls arrived a few days ago, wide-eyed, trembling, and plastered so tightly into the corner of the pen I had to double-check that I didn’t accidentally adopt goat-shaped wall art. They were completely convinced I was a mountain lion, the hay was poisoned, and the Great Pyrenees standing politely outside their pen was a woolly death beast sent to finish what the trailer ride started.
By day two, things had improved—slightly. They emerged from the corner just long enough to fling themselves into the opposite corner when I walked by. I offered hay. They sniffed it like I was handing them an IRS audit. I tried sweet talk. They blinked at me like I was speaking ancient Sumerian. I even played the goat version of peace offerings: raisins. They acted like I’d just hurled goat grenades.
But this morning… this morning, the tide turned.

I opened the barn door and there they were—standing front and center like small, fuzzy revolutionaries who’d overthrown their anxiety and installed a new regime based on snacks and entitlement.

“Excuse us, New Mom. We have some thoughts.”

Apparently, overnight they had discovered 1) the feeder, 2) how to empty it, and 3) that I am the human who brings the food, therefore I am their new favorite person, until proven otherwise.

“We understand that when we arrived we were a bit… unapproachable. A little shy. A touch dramatic, maybe. But we’ve done some soul-searching, and we’ve decided that your farm isn’t trying to kill us. In fact, we rather like it here. The hay is tasty, the ambiance rustic, and the entertainment top-notch—especially that fluffy white dog who keeps doing perimeter laps like he’s training for the Barnyard Olympics.”

“Also—and this is important—this feeder is currently empty. Bone dry. Not a hay stem in sight. And while we appreciate the midnight buffet you accidentally left out, we assumed breakfast would follow shortly. It’s now 6:07 a.m. and we’re frankly appalled. What sort of establishment are you running here?”

I gave them a fresh flake of hay and they dove in like goats possessed. Ten minutes later, they had hay in their ears, their eyes, their water bucket, and somehow even on my boots. One tried to eat my jacket. The other bleated at a passing chicken like she was placing an order.

After their gourmet hay binge, they sauntered up to the dividing fence, side-eyeing the rest of the herd like mean girls scoping out the high school cafeteria.

“Those are the others? Hmmm. Bit rough around the edges, but we’re confident we’ll be running the place by next week.”

They’ve clearly decided they’re ready for integration. I'm still deciding whether the rest of the crew is ready for them. Because if their current attitudes are any indication, they’ll have the herd organized, the grain ration renegotiated, and union benefits drafted before the weekend.

So, welcome to the farm, girls. You’ve gone from terrified little wallflowers to pint-sized prima donnas in under 72 hours. Congratulations. You're going to fit in just fine.

Now excuse me while I go refill your feeder again, Your Royal Goats-nesses. Heaven forbid anyone on this farm has to wait more than 30 seconds for second breakfast.

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Getting Ready for Winter

Ah, winter—when the roads are halfway decent because the snow fills in the potholes. Free infrastructure maintenance, courtesy of Mother Nature.

The garden has officially tapped out. The last of the vegetables have been yanked, and what’s left of the plants now lives its second life as pig snacks. They seemed thrilled. Of course, pigs are always thrilled—unless you’re late with breakfast. Then you’re dead to them, and they’ve already started writing your obituary.

The hay is all in, wrapped tight in those big white marshmallow bales lining the driveway like we’re preparing for some kind of giant’s campfire cookout. All I need now is an equally giant graham cracker and a chocolate bar the size of a barn door. S’mores for 400—BYO ladder.

Next on the never-ending to-do list: processing the broiler chickens, ducks, and meat goats. Yes, freezer camp is officially in session. And let’s be honest—we all knew where this was going. I raise them with love, but I also raise them with gravy in mind. You can be both sentimental and well-fed.

Sometimes people ask me how I can eat something I’ve raised. But knowing what goes on in commercial farming, the better question is: “How can you eat something you didn’t raise?”

The yard is slowly getting cleaned up. Very slowly. “Organizing” the yard is a bit like trying to tidy up after a tornado with a rake and a good attitude. We’re wrangling tractor implements into their winter homes, tightening up the barn, and trying to convince the goats that, no, the rafters are not a jungle gym. They disagree. Strongly.

We’ve started migrating the pigs toward their winter quarters one fence panel at a time. Turns out they have an uncanny memory of where the old electric fence was, and to them, that invisible line may as well be the Berlin Wall. So we move the fence in increments, like coaxing toddlers down a dark hallway. Once the ground freezes, driving in fence posts is like trying to spear a brick with a popsicle stick. And frankly, I’ve got better things to do than hurl tools at frozen dirt and invent new words you wouldn't say in front of your grandmother. Not many better things, but still.

The snow blade will go on the tractor last, of course. It’s the traditional final act before the snow gods dump three feet on us the very next morning. Oh, and I never did put the summer tires on the truck. Didn’t forget—just didn’t care. And now, while everyone else is battling for appointments at the tire shop, I’m sitting here feeling smug with my already-winter-ready wheels. Lazy? Or brilliant? You decide. (Hint: it’s brilliant.)

This year’s big upgrade: a wood-fired hot-air furnace. Yep—central heating with a thermostat. A thermostat! What is this, the Ritz?! Jim’s got a cement pad to pour, a chimney to install, and ductwork to run. But hey, we got all the parts before the tax credit deadline, so at least the government and I will both be warm and happy this winter.

Of course, my beloved wood stove isn’t going anywhere. Jim wanted the outdoor furnace, I wanted the wood stove—marital bliss is all about strategic compromise. I still love firing it up for the ambiance, the smell, and the smug satisfaction of heating with real flames like a frontier woman. But heating the finished basement with something other than fumes and a whispered prayer? Now that’s going to be a luxury.

And in the “fun but completely unnecessary” department, I’m ordering sleigh runners for the buggy. Because if I’m going to freeze my face off, I might as well do it while pretending I’m in a Hallmark movie. Talon will have to get used to sleigh bells on his harness. He’s been a pretty good sport about everything else—except fly spray. That evil spray bottle is clearly trying to kill him. Good thing flies don’t come out in the snow, or he’d never leave the barn.

So yes, we’re getting ready for winter. Slowly. Grudgingly. With the usual mix of determination and a few muttered not-so-nice words. But we’re getting there. Because like it or not, winter’s coming—and she’s already circling the block looking for parking, tapping the steering wheel, and humming “Jingle Bells.”

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Sponsor A Cheese, Save A Dairy!

I'm sharing this very important information via The Never Done Farm. Let's all stand together to protect our consumer rights to choose our own food.

One of our members over at the Homesteading Today forums is currently under attack for selling raw milk cheese. Now mind you they have been doing so for 30 years, have never had a case of illness from their cheese and have a substantial client base that is happy with their product. Here is a news article on their story. You can follow their saga on their blog here. One of the members over at HT came up with the idea to "Sponsor a Cheese" to help out Morningland Dairy and to help show that people are willing to stand up for our family farms. Here is her idea:

Sponsor A Cheese, Save A Dairy!

I'll assume most of us are aware of the assault against Morningland Dairy that began back in August, and has resulted in anti-raw milk pencil pushers (and toadies of corporate dairy concerns) demanding that the dairy destroy all their cheese in stock (SIX MONTHS WORTH OF PRODUCT!) -- despite the fact that all FDA testing done at the dairy proved that there is absolutely NO contamination of their healthy food.

So... I had an idea. Here's what I am going to do, and if you'd like to do the same, I certainly encourage you to join the Un-Cheese Party!

Here's the low down:

If Morningland can't sell the cheese because the Missouri Milk Board and the FDA are against wholesome food, they may well lose their family business of THIRTY YEARS. (And through all those years they are able to boast the NO ONE has EVER been made ill by their cheese!)

I'm not going to let that happen if I can help it.

I'm going to "sponsor" a few pounds of that embargoed cheese. I invite anyone else who is interested to join me in our

CYPER-SPACE UN-CHEESE PARTY!

There are 50,000 pounds of cheese slated for destruction. This is not counting the cheese destroyed due to the recall.

Here's how to SPONSOR A CHEESE:

The average price per pound is $5. You can paypal a donation to

morningland@centurytel.net

Or, you can send your sponsorship checks or money orders directly to the dairy. Just let them know what the money is for, and a note of encouragement would certainly be appreciated.

Morningland Dairy

6248 County Road 2980

Mountain View, MO 65548

Now, folks, this is a PARTY, so INVITE YOUR FRIENDS, your neighbors, your mere acquaintances to join us!

Plaster the message on other boards you frequent, put it on your Facebook Status, make a YouTube video and hey! maybe it'll go viral!

We have to stand together as raw milk consumers and producers, or we WILL see the day where we can't even grow food for our own consumption!

(see the thread, "Another threat against raw milk" [at http://www.homesteadingtoday.com/] for sample letters to write to your politicians to make an even bigger impact.)

Let's get Morningland back on its feet-

SAVE THE CHEESE!!!

We'll be sponsoring some cheese, how about you? If we, as small farmers and consumers, don't stand firmly together, it isn't just Morningland Dairy that looses, we ALL do! Below are some links that you may well find interesting and informative. The government, FDA, CDC, DHHS and others, have no business tellling you what you can consume and what you can't, but if SB510 passes that is exactly what will happen. Please call your Senators and let them know what you think and ask that they vote "NO" to SB510. There are proposals to ask for an amendment but IMHO this bill needs to be killed completely. I've even called our Governor asking that "if" this bill passes that they block it with state law. Remember it's your freedom of choice that is at stake and all because of the GREED and CONTROL of Big Industry!

http://usfoodtrace.com/information/political/sb510

Farm to Consumer Legal Defense Fund

Farm and Ranch Freedom Alliance

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Farewell to Melvin

Last night we had a bit of excitement on the farm. And by “a bit,” I mean it looked like a scene out of a wildlife documentary crossed with a Benny Hill skit.

It started innocently enough. A bear—yes, a bear—decided to drop by the pig pasture for a late-night snack. Apparently, word got out in the local wildlife grapevine that pigs are messy eaters (they are) and that there are always leftovers worth raiding. It’s basically the all-you-can-eat buffet for forest freeloaders.

Melvin's baby picture.

Now, imagine you’re a pig. You’re snuggled in with your litter mates, dreaming about the mythical slop fairy and all the glorious, goopy meals she might bring. Then you hear a rustle. Half-asleep, you think, “She’s real! The slop fairy is real!” You crack open one eye, expecting maybe an angelic glow and a sprinkle of cereal dust. Instead—BAM!—there’s a bear standing a few feet away, sniffing the ground and clearly not wearing a name tag that says “Hi, I’m Tinker Slopbell.”

Cue chaos.

Piglets—who, I should note, are now about 100 pounds each but still run around like drunk toddlers—erupted in panic, squealing and stampeding in all directions. Mama pig (bless her) did not take kindly to the intruder and went full berserker, launching an attack on the bear with the kind of fury only a mama pig can muster.

The dogs? Oh, they were delighted. Barking. Charging. Making it abundantly clear to the bear that he had overstayed his welcome. And then there was me—barefoot, in pajamas, wielding a spotlight like Lady Liberty on caffeine, sprinting across the yard screaming things I hope the neighbors were too far away to hear. (If not, I’m sorry, Edna.)

Honestly, at that point, I almost felt bad for the bear. All the poor guy wanted was a midnight snack. Instead, he got a full-blown production of Les Miséranimals.

Just before making his getaway over the fence, the bear made one last swat—maybe out of frustration, maybe aiming for a dog, maybe just wildly flailing—and clipped Melvin, our only spotted pig, squarely on the side. Poor Melvin went airborne like a cartoon pig in slow motion, landing with a thwump on top of a brush pile.

When the dust settled, and after doing a frantic headcount (one pig, two pig, red pig—where’s spotted pig?), we found Melvin. Not a scratch on him, but clearly not right. We got him to the barn for the night, hoping for the best. But by morning it was obvious he had internal injuries. No chance of recovery. Melvin was gently and humanely sent off to freezer camp.

So here’s to Melvin—the only pig in the bunch who looked like he’d rolled in polka dots. May you rest peacefully in slop heaven, forever feasting on leftover pancakes and apple cores, surrounded by bottomless mud pits and bears that know their place.

You were a good pig, Melvin. And now. . . you’ll be a good ham.

In the end, the bear fled, the pigs settled, the dogs got treats, and Melvin. . . well, Melvin made his final contribution to the farm. Life goes on—but we’ll always remember the night the slop fairy brought claws.

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Talon's Graduation

Grandson Nate in the driver's seat!

Cue the Pomp and Circumstance—Talon graduated from driving school today! That’s right, my big, beautiful, occasionally dramatic Gypsy Cob is now a certified, bonafide cart horse. He even got a diploma to prove it. (No tassel to turn, though he did try to eat it.)

Let me tell you, it wasn’t always smooth trotting. There were early days when he thought a bit was a medieval torture device, a harness was a straightjacket, and fly spray was a government conspiracy. But thanks to our trainer, who I now suspect is equal parts horse whisperer and saint, he’s blossomed into a fine, respectable young gentleman with hooves. She deserves a medal. Or a vacation. Or both.

Now that he's a graduate, we're ready to hit the trail—literally. And the timing couldn’t be better. We’ve still got some crisp, gorgeous fall days ahead before everything freezes solid and I lose all feeling in my extremities. I'm already eyeing sleigh runners for the cart, because nothing says “rural magic” like jingling down a snow-covered lane behind a puffball of a horse who looks like he stepped out of a Victorian Christmas card.

Honestly, I can't wait to see what adventures lie ahead. Romantic woodland drives? Yes. Festive parades? You betcha. Getting stuck in a snowbank while Talon tries to flirt with a moose? Very likely.

But no matter what, I’ll be out there with my proud-mama smile, yelling “Look at my boy go!” to anyone within earshot, or at least to the chickens and goats. They’re very supportive.

Here’s to the graduate—Talon, Class of Awesome.

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Sheep Wrangling

The other day, I made the questionable life choice of going to a friend’s house to help her deworm her sheep. Because apparently, I woke up that morning and said to myself, “You know what sounds like a fun way to break a hip? Playing tag with livestock!”

Now, my friend—bless her optimistic, wildly misguided soul—does not have a catch pen. That’s Farming 101 right there. It’s like going fishing without a net or raising toddlers without caffeine. Not technically impossible, but why would you?

Yes, sheep are dumb. Dumb as a box of rocks. But they’ve got this uncanny sixth sense that lets them detect one thing instantly: a stranger with a drench gun = probable death. Doesn’t matter if I’m smiling, speaking gently, or handing out free samples—they’re convinced I’m there to murder them one by one.

For the non-farming folks: a drench gun is a big syringe but instead of having a needle on the end, it has a long tube. Stick the tube w-a-a-y back in the animal’s throat, push the plunger, and voila!—liquid goes down. Easy, peasy. But, of course, you have to catch said animal first.

The first sheep was a piece of cake. She had been a bottle baby so she basically thought I was her mother, therapist, and personal chef all rolled into one. Deworming her was like giving a snack to a golden retriever.

But from that point on, the party was over.

The rest of the flock took one look at that drench gun and immediately filed a class-action lawsuit against me under the Sheep Geneva Convention. They scattered like I was handing out IRS audits. One by one, I managed to catch them and do the deed.

Then there was the last one. The boss ewe. Big. Hairy. Full of attitude. Picture a linebacker in a wool coat with the suspicion level of a TSA agent. She saw what I did to her buddies and decided she was having none of it.

She stayed exactly one corner away from me at all times. No matter where I moved, she mirrored me like we were in some weird barnyard version of Swan Lake. It was majestic. And infuriating.

So I turned to the universal sheep bribe: grain.

I tossed a little at my feet and casually pretended to be just another farm gal with zero ulterior motives. The other sheep—traitors—wandered over, shoving each other like they hadn’t eaten in three years. Slowly, Miss Mountain O’ Wool crept in too, lured by the intoxicating scent of molasses, cracked corn, and bad decisions.

When she got close enough, I went full ninja.

I simultaneously dropped the grain bucket and launched myself through the air like a deranged flying squirrel, latching onto her fleece with both hands. She shot off like a cannonball with me riding her like I was eight seconds from a rodeo championship.

She zigged. She zagged. She ran what felt like a full marathon with me clinging to her neck like a particularly determined burr. This panicked all the others, so now there was a full barnyard stampede. They had no idea where they were racing to—apparently, somebody yelled “RUN,” and they thought that was a good idea.

Finally—finally—she collapsed in a heap like she’d just done two hot yoga classes back-to-back. There I was, still on top of her, panting, covered in dust, and questioning every life choice I’ve made since 1973. Did I
mention she was extremely large? It was like doing a five-point restraint on a Shetland pony.

My friend, who I swear was selling tickets and handing out popcorn at this point, ran up, looped a rope around the ewe’s neck, and chirped, “Okay! I’ve got her. You can get up now!”

Oh, really? Right. I’ll get right on that.

I won't say I'm elderly just yet, but I can qualify for the senior discount most places. I’ve got a knee that sounds like bubble wrap when I move, a back that protests louder than a toddler at bedtime, and enough extra fluff around the middle to make gravity a real bully. And you want me to just hop off this woolly freight train like I’m dismounting a bicycle?

Yeah. No.

Eventually, through a series of loud grunts and what can only be described as interpretive flailing, I managed to get upright. Graceful it was not. But we got her dewormed.

And then?

She just stood there, staring up at me with her beady little eyes and this weird expression that clearly said: “Hey lady… that was kinda fun. Wanna go again?”

Final thoughts:

• Sheep are dumb.

• I’m dumber.

• And if anyone needs me, I’ll be icing my everything and rethinking my friendships.

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Jack, The Loyal Sidekick

Jack, bless his heart, is living proof that not every dog is kissed on the forehead by Athena. Roxie clearly got the goddess’s blessing—brains, strategy, timing, the works. Jack, on the other hand? Let’s just say he’s more of a Koalemos kind of guy. Koalemos, in case you missed that day in Greek mythology class, was the god of foolishness and poor judgment. And if Koalemos ever needed a mascot, Jack would already be waving a banner with his goofy grin.

Now, don’t take this the wrong way. Jack is as sweet as they come. He’s loyal, loving, gentle—everything you want in a farm dog. But intelligent? Let’s just say if Roxie is the CEO of Canine Operations, Jack is the unpaid intern still trying to figure out how the coffee machine works.

Both dogs love to chase balls. Roxie approaches it like she’s solving a complex military maneuver: eyes locked, calculations spinning, wind speed factored, trajectory mapped. She’s basically Athena with fur.

Jack? Jack just thinks, Oh boy, ball! and then kind of. . . wings it.

To save our shoulders, I bought one of those automatic ball launchers—the kind that flings tennis balls thirty feet with all the subtlety of a medieval catapult. It has a distinctive sound as it revs up: a whir that rises like an orchestra tuning before a grand finale. Roxie, ever the strategist, times her sprint perfectly. Just as the sound crescendos, she’s off like a rocket, already halfway there by the time the ball leaves the machine. She leaps, she soars, she catches mid-air—it’s poetry.

Meanwhile, Jack is crouched in front of the launcher like a turkey who just volunteered for Thanksgiving—wide-eyed, clueless, and about to regret his decision. He waits. . . waits. . . and only when the ball pops free does he start running. By then, Roxie is already doing her victory lap with the ball in her mouth. Jack trots back empty, panting happily, as if he’s also won something. (He hasn’t. Unless “participation trophy” counts.)

Here’s where things get dicey. If I’m not standing right there to coach him—“No, Jack, move over, buddy”—he plants himself directly in front of the launcher. Not beside it. Not near it. Dead center.

The machine winds up, whirs dramatically like Poseidon himself is about to hurl a wave, and then—THWACK!—the ball smacks Jack right in the forehead. Every. Single. Time.

He blinks. He stumbles. Sometimes he sneezes. And then he looks around with this dazed expression that says, “Who threw that?” Meanwhile, Roxie is circling like an F-16 fighter jet demanding, “Excuse me? Where’s my ball?”

I sometimes wonder if Jack’s lack of brilliance is innate or if it’s simply the cumulative result of being beaned in the noggin by thirty-foot fastballs. It’s not exactly a brain-health program, let’s put it that way. One good season with the launcher and I’m pretty sure Koalemos is clapping in approval from Mount Olympus.

Still, Jack doesn’t let it get him down. He’ll happily line up again for another round, tail wagging, ready to get nailed in the forehead all over again like he’s auditioning for a doggy version of America’s Funniest Home Videos.

But here’s the thing: Jack may not be the brains of the outfit, but he is absolutely the heart. He’s the Samwise Gamgee to Roxie’s Frodo—loyal, steadfast, and occasionally baffled about why they’re walking so far just to throw away jewelry. He’s the Robin to her Batman, the Watson to her Sherlock, the guy who doesn’t quite understand what’s happening but is absolutely determined to be there for the ride.

At the end of the day, Roxie may outthink him, outmaneuver him, and out-fetch him. But Jack will never be out-loved by anyone. And maybe that’s why Athena skipped him—because loyalty, sweetness, and an unshakeable devotion don’t come from wisdom. They come from the heart.

Even if that heart is housed in a head that’s been bonked by a ball launcher one too many times.

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8/28 Restoring Honor Rally

The media initially reported that there were over a thousand people who attended the rally. If you look at the picture I'd say that was an understatement! They did later keep upping their estimates but I'm not sure they even came close to how many people were there. The reflecting pool area holds 200,000 people. Another field holds between 250,000 to 300,000 people. Those were full, as were the areas behind the memorial and people were filling up across the street and filling in around the Washington Monument. My husband, his son with wife and daughter, another grandson, my daughter and her 2 children with her uncle and aunt, are all in that crowd somewhere, looking like ants at a family reunion picnic. In DH's very eloquent words "It's AWESOME!" I can't wait to see all the pictures he took and hear about it in more detail, but in the meantime I got this picture from Glenn Beck's website. For those who want to watch a great video about this incredible event click on this C-SPAN link.

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Camera-less

Well, folks, here I sit—camera-less and teetering on the brink of a full-blown nervous breakdown. Two solid weeks like this. Fourteen whole days in rural America with animals, unpredictable weather, and a daily chance of headline-making chaos. . . and the only thing I’ve got to document it is a dusty old cell phone that should be in a museum.

Jim left for work Monday, which is normal. What’s not normal is that he packed up my camera and my video recorder like he was heading o
ut to film National Geographic: The Untold Squirrel Wars. He’s off to Washington, D.C., for the 8/28 Restoring Honor Rally, and apparently, restoring my sanity didn’t make his to-do list.

Now, I do technically have a phone with a camera. But let’s be honest—it’s a dumb phone with delusions of grandeur. It takes photos that look like they were shot through a potato. And worse, I have no clue how to get those photos into the computer. Does it use a cord? A cloud? Carrier pigeons?

In my moment of desperation, I turned to my grandson—the resident tech guru and the reason the cordless phone system survived instead of meeting a hammer-related fate. He’s the one who figured out the DVD player, the TV with three remotes, and the defrost feature on the microwave. If anyone could help me, it’d be him.

Nope.

He looked at the phone, scratched his head, and said, “Yeah. . . I got nothin’.”

Excuse me? What. Do. You. Mean. You. Got. Nothin’?

This is the same kid who built a gaming PC from scratch and programmed the thermostat to turn the heat up at 6 a.m.—but apparently, getting a photo off this relic is beyond his powers.

To be fair, cell phones don’t really work out here unless you climb a tree, hold a metal bucket over your head, and sweet-talk a passing satellite. So I guess I shouldn’t expect him to work magic with a device that probably runs on coal.

So here I am—technology-challenged and trapped in what can only be described as Polaroid Purgatory. If someone were to ride a goat bareback through the garden wearing my Sunday hat and belting out “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” all I could do is try to remember it later. And given my memory, it might not even last past breakfast.

If anyone out there in the digital ether knows how to coax photos out of an ancient cell phone and into a Windows computer—without sacrificing a floppy disk or firing up a dial-up modem—I’m listening.

At this point, I’d happily mail the phone to someone and have them fax the pictures back to me.

Because, as we all know, Murphy’s Law of Farm Life is crystal clear:
If you don’t have a camera, the pig will dance, the goats will juggle, and the barn cat will give birth to kittens right on top of your best lace tablecloth. . . while wearing a tiara.

And I’ll miss it. Every. Last. Bit.

So until my camera returns, I’ll be documenting life the way our forefathers did—by shouting across the yard, "Hey! Remember this later in case I forget!"

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Bored Kids

Ahh, the dog days of summer. You know the ones—when it’s too hot to do chores without melting, too early for school to rescue you, and too late for the kids to remember how not to die in the pursuit of fun.

So what do you do when you’re a teenage boy with time on your hands, a bike, a few equally deranged friends, and access to every scrap piece of lumber on the property? Why, you build a ramp, of course. A ramp that launches you and your Walmart special straight into the pond. Bonus points if you can do a flip. Triple bonus points if you don’t knock out any teeth.

This particular adventure features my grandson Nathanael and his two partners-in-chaos, Roger and Michael, who, despite having survived ceiling demolition with their heads and other such near-death experiences, still seem determined to give Grandma a heart attack before they graduate.

As I stood there watching them adjust the incline, add "just one more" board for extra launch power, and test it first by sending a lawn chair down the ramp (may it rest in peace), I thought to myself, do boys ever grow up?

Only if they live long enough.

And just so you don't think I'm exaggerating, there's video evidence attached. Yes, actual footage of these three daredevils taking flight like caffeinated ducks on a trampoline. There’s yelling, there’s a splash, and there’s one triumphant, dripping boy shouting, “I made it!” (The bike did not.)

By the way, if anyone finds a bicycle helmet floating near the cattails, please return it to Michael. He swears it came off after he hit the water. Uh-huh. Sure it did.

Stay cool out there, folks. And keep the ER on speed dial. Because summer boredom is the ultimate extreme sport!

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Sheep Withdrawal

I sold the last of the sheep yesterday. Just loaded them up, gave them a nod of thanks, and waved goodbye like they were heading off to college. Honestly, it was a practical decision. We originally got the animals to manage the land—goats for brush, pigs for stumps, and sheep to mow the pastures like wool-covered Roombas.

But last year, we brought in a horse. And here’s the thing: horses and sheep eat the same vegetation, and we don’t have enough pasture to support both. So it came down to a choice: the nervous little lawnmowers or the majestic, carrot-demanding hay burner.

Let’s face it—you can’t ride a sheep. You can’t harness a flock of them up to a buggy and take the grandkids out for an afternoon drive (well, you could, but it would involve YouTube, duct tape, and a very flexible definition of “fun”). On the flip side, you can’t eat a horse. I mean, technically you could, but unless you’re stranded in the Yukon, it’s frowned upon. So yeah. . . I picked the one with the saddle and the dramatic flair. Bye-bye, sheepies.

That said, I didn’t expect to miss them. Sheep, after all, are afraid of everything—including me. Even after years of feeding them treats and talking nice, they still looked at me like I was Hannibal Lecter holding a lamb chop. Living with that level of suspicion would hurt a less secure woman’s feelings.

Goats—now they are more my speed. Bold, obnoxious, curious, and bent on mischief—basically my spirit animals. They ignore fencing like it’s a polite suggestion, think “no” means “try harder,” and approach every task with the enthusiasm of a toddler who’s just discovered permanent markers. They are chaos in hooves, and I love them for it. They may eat your roses and your wiring, but at least they do it with confidence.

But even surrounded by all that goat-fueled energy, this past week just felt. . . off. No real reason—nothing tragic, just one of those weeks where you’re mildly grumpy, your head feels like it’s hosting a Morse code convention behind your eyeballs, and you catch yourself muttering at chairs.

I blamed the weather (85 in the sun, 40 in the shade, and the bugs have unionized). Then hormones (at my age, if any are still hanging around, they’d better be doing chores). Finally, I chalked it up to farm stress: ongoing projects, a garden under siege since the Great Goat Escape of July 4th, and a creeping suspicion I’ve forgotten something important—like my own name.

But then I went to the feed store.

I walked in, shoulders slumped, probably looking like someone who’d just lost a staring contest with a fence post. Doug, the owner and resident philosopher-in-overalls, looked up and cheerfully asked, “How’re you doing today?”

I replied with a sigh so deep it probably disturbed the tectonic plates. “Honestly? I’ve been out of sorts all week.”

Without missing a beat, Doug said, “Ah, sheep withdrawal. I’ve heard of it. Never seen a live case, though. Should I call a vet? Or maybe a shepherd?”

That did it. I laughed so hard I scared a display of fly spray off the shelf. My headache, sensing it was no longer welcome, packed up and left in a huff.

The truth is, Doug might be onto something. Maybe I am going through sheep withdrawal. The barn’s too quiet. The pastures look freshly mowed, and not a single soul is giving me the “I know what you’ve done” look when I walk through the gate. For all their skittishness and that eternal sense of doom, the sheep added a certain. . . ambiance. A woolly Greek chorus bleating in judgment. A steady, if paranoid, presence.

Now it’s just me, the goats (agents of entropy), the pigs (bacon with opinions), the dogs (always hoping for extra points), and the horse, Talon, who thrives on drama, carrots, and admiration. Nobody runs from me anymore. Nobody trembles when I wear a raincoat. Nobody stares at me with eyes that say, “Please not today, I have plans.”

I’ll admit it—I kind of miss being feared.

So yeah, maybe it is sheep withdrawal. Or maybe it’s just farm life doing what it always does: surprising me, challenging me, and occasionally handing me a week where everything feels just a little sideways.

But even in those moments, I’m grateful. Grateful for sarcastic feed store wisdom. Grateful for a barnyard full of four-legged weirdos. And grateful that when one species leaves, something else is always ready to step up and chew on the barn door.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go shout “Baaa!” into the pasture. If nothing answers, I’ll just shrug and feed the goats—because around here, silence never lasts for long. 

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