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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A Page Turns, A Chapter Ends, But The Book Isn't Finished

The quiet goodbye I didn’t want to write

Some chapters in life don’t end with fanfare or fireworks. They end in silence — in the quiet thud of a barn door closing for the last time, in the soft crunch of hay under boots that won’t make this walk again, in the weight of a phone call that begins with, “Yes, she’s for sale.”

This is one of those chapters.

After long, painful thought — the kind that haunts your sleep and leaves your chest aching — I’ve come to a decision I never thought I would make. My homestead, my dream, the living, breathing thing I built with my own two hands (and a lot of help from Jim and a few determined dogs), is coming to a close. I am letting it go.

And it is breaking my heart.

You don’t just do this kind of life. You become it. It wraps around your soul, changes your rhythm, gives you a different kind of heartbeat — one that syncs with the bleating of goats, the low rumble of a sow settling into her straw, the flap of chicken wings in the early morning mist. It teaches you what real commitment looks like. Not the Hallmark kind, but the cold-hands, sore-back, no-days-off, mud-on-your-face kind. And for years, I did it.

Happily.

Proudly.

Fiercely.

But something shifted.

Not overnight. No — the unraveling was slow. The kind of slow you don’t even notice until you stop one day, look around, and realize that the dream you were chasing has quietly drifted just out of reach. That the joy has been replaced by exhaustion. That freedom — something you didn’t even let yourself want — has started to whisper your name.

One of the cruelest truths about farming, especially on a small scale, is that it doesn’t give much back. Not in money. Not in rest. Not in time off. You don’t go on vacation. You don’t have long weekends. You don’t even really get to be sick. Animals don’t care if you’re tired or grieving or just hanging on by a thread. They need to eat. They need clean water. They need you.

And sometimes, the person you used to be — the one who could carry all that, who even found meaning in the weight of it — isn’t the person you are anymore.

I had plans. God, I had plans. A little commercial kitchen in the barn. Cheese-making. Retirement with purpose. I could see it so clearly — spring milkings turning into jars of chèvre, fall festivals where I’d sell wheels of hard-aged goat cheese wrapped in wax and pride. I saw community, creation, purpose.

But life doesn’t always follow our plans. Sometimes it knocks the cheese right off the cracker and leaves you staring at a mess you don’t know how to clean up.

So now I’m saying goodbye. Goodbye to the goats who made me laugh when I didn’t think I could. Goodbye to the chickens who followed me like feathery shadows. Goodbye to the pigs who rooted their way not just through the pasture, but through every tough spot in my heart.

And it hurts. It hurts in a way that I don’t have words for — a deep, raw kind of pain that sits behind the ribs and rises in your throat when you try to talk about it. These animals weren’t just livestock. They were chapters in my life, companions in my solitude, witnesses to my days.

I cry with every phone call I make. I write ads through blurry eyes. I whisper promises to each animal as they go, swearing they’ll be loved, that I’m not abandoning them, that this is the kindest choice I can make. Whether they understand or not, I need them to hear it.

And I need you to hear it too.

This isn’t a failure. It’s a transition. A pause. A breath between the chapters.

Farming is in my blood. I was made for this life — I know that with everything I am. And maybe someday I’ll find my way back. Maybe it’ll look different — fewer animals, less pressure, more balance. Maybe it’ll be a quiet little homestead tucked into the edge of a forest, with just enough to feed my soul. Maybe it’ll be a greenhouse, or a farmstand, or a pen with a single ridiculous goat who thinks she runs the place.

But not today.

Today, I am grieving. I am letting go. I am walking away from the life I built, not because it wasn’t good, but because I have changed. Because life has changed. And because even the strongest dreams sometimes need to rest.

To everyone who has walked alongside me — thank you. For your kindness, your laughter, your encouragement, your help mucking stalls or chasing escaped poultry. For reading these stories and caring about this farm as much as I did.

And to my animals — my sweet, chaotic, miraculous animals — thank you for letting me love you.

The farm may be quiet now.

But I’m not finished.

Not even close.

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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 a several hours south of here. The plan was simple: I’d pick them up at the end of October. Nothing urgent. Nothing pressing. But last Monday afternoon, I found myself with an unexpected day off on Tuesday. I couldn’t explain why—I just suddenly had the day free.

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

My friend and I made the long drive down—seven hours round trip. When we got there, the place was empty. We waited. We left and grabbed lunch. Came back. Still no one. It would have been easy to be frustrated, to feel like the day had been wasted. But we figured, well, they have to come home for evening milking. So we waited.

At nearly 4:00, a big van finally pulled in. Out spilled a gaggle of school-aged kids, laughing and loud. The woman came out of the van with a look on her face that said it all: she’d forgotten.

She was mortified. But I understood. A new foster child had arrived unexpectedly the night before, and she’d spent the day enrolling them in school, navigating paperwork, trying to smooth the trauma of a child being dropped into a stranger’s home with little warning and no time to process. My heart softened. Life happens. People do their best.

We loaded the goats and drove home, rolling in well after dark. I was grateful for my friend’s company—driving long after sunset makes my eyelids heavy, and she kept me awake with stories, snacks, and laughter.

And that would’ve been the end of the story. An inconvenience. A forgotten appointment. A couple of tired women and three new goats safe in the barn.

But then yesterday… everything changed.

The farm I got those goats from caught fire. A devastating, fast-moving blaze that leveled the barn and damaged the house. They lost nearly everything. A phone call in the middle of the night woke them just in time to get their family out.

But all their sheep. All their chickens. Most of their goats.

Gone.

Gone in a single night.

I sat in stunned silence, staring at the news. And then it hit me—my goats were in the section of the barn that didn’t survive. They weren’t milking yet, so they were in the back, in the pens that took the brunt of the fire.

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

It stopped me in my tracks. That quiet Tuesday, that small shift in schedule—it saved their lives.

I went out to the barn this morning, still shaken, and knelt down beside those three young does. They blinked at me with those gentle, trusting eyes, and I ran my hands over their soft coats and thanked God through tears I didn’t even try to stop. Then I gave them extra grain and whispered a promise to take good care of them—for me, for their former family, and for whatever reason they were spared.

I don’t have answers. I don’t know why some things happen and others don’t. Why some animals live and others don’t make it. Why some families get the fire, and others get the phone call that saved them from it.

But I do know this: God is near. Not just in the storms, but in the soft winds. In a day off. A phone call. A forgotten appointment. A long drive with a friend who keeps you awake. In the gentle nudge that says, “Go now.”

Please keep the family in your prayers. They’ve lost not just their livelihood, but beloved animals, their home, and their sense of normalcy. They are grieving in ways we can’t imagine.

And maybe—just maybe—pause today to look around and count your small things. A warm barn. A safe home. A day that went differently than planned. A life that was spared.

Sometimes the smallest mercies are the biggest miracles.

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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

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.

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.

Next on the never-ending to-do list: clearing out 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.

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.

We’ve started migrating the pigs toward their winter quarters one fence panel at a time. Because once the ground freezes, driving in fence posts is like trying to spear a brick with a popsicle stick. And I’ve got better things to do than throw tools and curse at dirt.

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 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.

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. I still like to light it up for the ambiance, the smell, and the smug satisfaction of heating with real fire like a frontier woman. But heating the finished basement with something other than fumes and prayer? That’ll be a treat.

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—except fly spray. That evil spray bottle is clearly trying to kill him. Good thing flies don’t come out in the snow or we’d never leave the barn.

So yes, we’re getting ready for winter. Slowly. Grudgingly. With the usual mix of determination and muttered profanity. But we’re getting there. Because like it or not, winter’s coming—and she’s already circling the block looking for parking.

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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.

Melvin's baby picture.

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.

Now, imagine you’re a pig. You’re snuggled in with your littermates, 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 pig-mama 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 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: 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 troughs 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

How I Got My Cardio, My Comedy, and My Comeuppance in One Afternoon

So 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 those 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 the animal's throat. Easy, peasy. But, of course, you have to catch said animal first.

First sheep? Piece of cake. A bottle baby. 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.

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 5 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 off now!”

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

I’m 62. 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 beast 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. Stared 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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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 consequently, on the brink of a nervous breakdown. For two solid weeks, no less. That’s 14 whole days in rural America with animals, unpredictable weather, and the daily potential for YouTube-worthy chaos... and I’ve got nothing but a dusty old cell phone to capture it.

DH left for work Monday, which is normal. What’s not normal is that he packed up both my camera and my video recorder like he was prepping for an award-winning documentary. He's heading to Washington, D.C. for the 8/28 Restoring Honor Rally, and apparently, restoring my sanity wasn’t high on his list of priorities.

Now, I do technically have a phone with a camera. But let’s be real—it’s more of a “dumb phone with delusions of grandeur.” It takes photos that look like they were snapped through a potato. And worse, I have no earthly idea how to get those photos into the computer. I don’t even know if it uses a cord, a cloud, or smoke signals.

In my moment of desperation, I turned to my grandson—resident tech guru and the reason I didn’t beat the cordless phone system into submission with a hammer. He’s the one who figured out the DVD player, the TV with three remotes, and the defrost feature on the microwave. I figured if anyone could help me, he could.

Nope.

He took one look at the phone and said, “Yeah... I got nothin’.”

What. Do. You. Mean. You. Got. Nothin’.

This is the same kid who once built a gaming PC from scratch and programmed the thermostat to automatically turn up the heat at 6 a.m. But even he can’t drag a picture off this dinosaur of a phone.

To be fair, cell phones don’t really work out here unless you climb a tree, hold a metal bucket over your head, and whisper sweet nothings to the nearest satellite. So I guess I can’t expect him to work magic with a device that might as well be powered by hamster wheel.

So here I am, technology-challenged and stuck in what I can only describe as Polaroid Purgatory. If someone were to ride a goat bareback through the garden while wearing my Sunday hat and singing Yankee Doodle Dandy, all I could do is tell you about it. Which, let's be honest, is so last century.
(And let's be really honest—around here, that's not out of the question.)

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 having to sacrifice a floppy disk or fire up a dial-up modem, I’m all ears.

At this point, I’d even consider mailing the phone to someone and having them fax the photos back to me.

Because let’s face it—Murphy’s Law of Farm Life clearly states:

If you don’t have a camera, the pig will dance, the goats will juggle, and the barn cat will give birth to kittens on top of your best lace tablecloth... while wearing a tiara.

And I’ll miss it. All of it.

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

It’s been a bit of a rough week around here. Nothing tragic, no major disasters—just one of those weeks where you're mildly grumpy, inexplicably tired, and carrying around a headache that feels like it’s being delivered via telegram directly behind your eyeballs. You know the kind. Not a migraine, not enough to justify hiding under a blanket with a heating pad and a book of questionable life choices, but just enough to make you want to mutter at furniture and question your life decisions.

At first I blamed it on the weather. We’ve hit that part of summer where it's 85 in the sun, 40 in the shade, and every flying insect in the county has decided your ears are a landing strip. Then I blamed it on hormones, though at this point in life, if hormones are still hanging around, they should at least be helping with the dishes. Then I figured maybe it was just cumulative stress from normal life: chores, projects, goats that believe fencing is a suggestion, and a garden that’s been under siege since the Great Goat Escape of Independence Day.

But today it all came to a head at the feed store. I walked in to pick up feed for the crew (which seems to be growing despite my best efforts), and Doug—the owner and resident wisecracker—looked up from the register and said, “Well hey there! How’re you doing today?”

I replied with a sigh that probably came from somewhere near my spleen: “Honestly? I’ve been out of sorts all week.”

Doug didn’t miss a beat. He leaned on the counter, looked at me with mock seriousness and said, “Ah. See? I knew you were gonna miss those sheep. I've heard about 'sheep withdrawal' before, but I’ve never actually witnessed a case. You might be the first documented one. Should I call a vet? Or a therapist? Or maybe a shepherd?”

I laughed so hard my headache packed its bags and left like a teenager who’s just been told to clean the garage.

Now, Doug may have been joking, but let’s be honest, there might be a sliver of truth buried in that sarcasm. After all, I did just sell the last of my sheep. The barn seems a little too quiet. The pastures look suspiciously... mowed. And nobody is giving me the patented “You’re definitely going to murder me” look when I walk through the gate holding a bucket.

For all their skittishness and tendency to collectively lose their minds over a fluttering leaf, the sheep had their place. They were like a woolly Greek chorus in the background of my farm life—always bleating, always judging, always mildly alarmed. But reliable.

Now it’s just me, the goats (who live for chaos), the pigs (who live for food), the dogs (who live for approval), and the horse (who lives for… well, carrots and compliments). Nobody’s panicking when I crinkle a feed bag. Nobody’s running like it’s a horror movie when I open the barn door wearing a raincoat. Nobody’s looking at me with eyes that say, “I knew this day would come.”

Sheep may not be the brightest bulbs in the barn, but they sure did have personality—in that sort of “I’m pretty sure you’re a serial killer” kind of way. And now that they're gone, I’ll admit it, I kind of miss being judged so hard by a herd of vegetarians.

So yeah, maybe it is sheep withdrawal. Or maybe it’s just farm life doing what it always does—keeping me guessing, making me laugh, and occasionally handing me a week where my brain’s running on dial-up.

Either way, today I’m grateful. For Doug at the feed store, who has the uncanny ability to call it like it is and make me laugh when I’m feeling crabby. For a farm full of oddballs that keep me humble. And maybe, just maybe, for the realization that when one chapter closes (or one species moves on), there’s always something else waiting to step up and chew on the wiring.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go stand in the pasture, shout “Baaa!” into the wind, and see if the goats react. If not, I guess I’ll have to teach Talon to bleat. Or just accept that I’ve traded neurotic wool for four hooves and a flair for the dramatic.

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No More Sheep!

"See, I told you they wanted to eat us!"

I sold the last of the sheep yesterday. We got the animals as a way to manage the land. The goats clear out the brush and kill the smaller trees by stripping the bark off. The pigs dig up all but the largest stumps. The sheep kept the new pastures mowed. Last year I got a horse which eats the same vegetation as the sheep. Since we don't have enough pasture for both, I had to make a choice between the horse and the sheep. Let's see - you can't ride a sheep or harness it up to a buggy and take the grandkids out for an afternoon drive. On the other hand you can't eat a horse (well, I suppose you could but most people, including me, wouldn't). Hmmm..... the horse is eminently more fun, so.... bye bye sheepies.

"Who us? Cute? You betcha!"

Some say I'm a masochist for keeping goats over sheep. Personally, I prefer goat personalities. Sheep are afraid of everything. Even though I feed them every day and give them yummy treats, they act like today is the day I'm going to eat them. It must be tough to live life in constant fear of being the main course. The goats on the other hand, are inquisitive, mischievous, bold, and stubborn, getting themselves in trouble more often than not. Sort of like me I guess. Plus, I don't think you can get much cuter than goat kids. And you can't get much more fun than a horse.

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Obituary

Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who has been with us for many years. No one knows for sure how old he was, since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape. He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as: Knowing when to come in out of the rain, why the early bird gets the worm, life isn't always fair, and maybe it really was my fault. 

Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you  earn) and reliable strategies (adults, not children, are in charge).

His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well-intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place. Reports of a 6-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate, teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch, and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition. 

Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job that they themselves had failed to do in disciplining their unruly children. It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer sun lotion or an aspirin to a student but could not inform parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion. 

Common Sense lost the will to live as the churches became businesses and criminals received better treatment than their victims. He took a further beating when you couldn't defend yourself from a burglar in your own home and the burglar could sue you for assault. Common Sense finally gave up the will to live after a woman failed to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement. 

Common Sense was preceded in death by his parents, Truth and Trust, by his wife, Discretion, by his daughter, Responsibility, and by his son, Reason. He is survived by his 4 stepbrothers: I Know My Rights, I Want It Now, Someone Else Is To Blame, and I'm A Victim. 

Not many attended his funeral because so few realized he was gone. If you still remember him, pass this on. 

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