July 27, 1948 - A Very Important Date in History

July 27, 1948 — a day that should be circled on every calendar in the free world, etched into stone tablets, and possibly declared a global holiday. Now, if you consult the official historical record, you might be underwhelmed. There's no moon landing, no royal wedding, no world-shifting event that would stop the presses. But dig a little deeper (say… into the birthday section), and you'll find that this day did, in fact, gift the world with greatness.

Let’s take a look:

1. Peggy Fleming – Olympic gold medalist figure skater, Hall of Famer, and all-around glider of grace. She made it look like defying gravity was as easy as putting on socks. She brought home America’s only gold in the 1968 Winter Olympics and went on to twirl her way into our living rooms and hearts for decades.

   

2. Betty Thomas – Emmy-winning actress and director who proved that women could not only steal scenes (Hill Street Blues, anyone?) but also steal the director’s chair and make comedy magic happen (The Brady Bunch Movie, Private Parts, and many others). She’s got style, smarts, and sass — and I’d like to think that’s a theme for everyone born on this fine day.

3. ME!!! – Yes, yours truly. Born on this illustrious date, forever cementing July 27, 1948, as the day the world got just a little more interesting, a lot more sarcastic, and infinitely more stubborn about how things should be done. I may not have a gold medal or an Emmy (yet — hey, the day’s not over), but I’ve wrangled goats, raised a family, survived the 1970s and shoulder pads, and still manage to operate power tools without adult supervision. That’s gotta count for something.

So the next time you flip past July 27 on your calendar, pause for a moment of reverence. Light a candle. Bake a cake. Name a goat. Do something to honor the sheer awesomeness that this day represents.

Because on this day in 1948, history didn’t just whisper — it cleared its throat and said, “Buckle up.”

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3 Bean Salad

Well, look who's making a comeback — the garden! After suffering a tragic case of “death by goat” over the July 4th weekend (because nothing says ‘freedom’ like hoofprints in your broccoli), it's finally pulling itself together. Honestly, I wasn’t sure it would. I nearly held a memorial service next to the compost pile.

But hope springs eternal — or at least it re-sprouts if you replant fast enough and glare menacingly at the fence every time a goat walks by.

The squash and cucumbers are making up for lost time, flaunting more blossoms than a prom corsage stand. The beans and peas are hustling to prove they belong in the garden and not a petting zoo disaster film. The second-round broccoli and cauliflower are looking cautiously optimistic, probably muttering among themselves, “Just lay low. Maybe the goats won’t notice us this time.”

The tomatoes —, bless their squashed little hearts —, weren’t eaten, just flattened in the panicked goat exodus as my English Shepherds reenacted the Normandy invasion: barking, snarling, and herding like their doggie diplomas depended on it.

And now for the harvest update… drumroll, please…

I picked three green beans today.

Yup. Three.

Count ‘em: one, two, three. (Yes, I did. Out loud. In the garden. With the dog looking at me like I’d lost what’s left of my marbles.)

So, naturally, I’m having a Three Bean Salad for lunch. Heavy on the optimism, light on the actual salad. Might have to supplement it with a slice of cheese and a prayer.

But hey, it’s a start. Victory gardens didn’t win the war in a day either.

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Enter to win a Trekker 72-hour kit

Over at A Homesteading Neophyte you can enter to win a Trekker 72 hour kit from Emergency Essentials. You can also pledge to blog for 24 hours straight to raise money to help the Downed Bikers Association. It's for a good cause so take a click over there and check it out. The contest ends 7/31 at midnight.

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Talon Looks "Official"

Well folks, it’s happened. Talon got his harness this week, and let me tell you—he looks official. I mean, if there was a DMV for horses, this boy would be standing in line with his paperwork filled out, waiting to get his equine license and a vanity plate that says "HOOFINIT."

After a slow start—you remember, the whole “sensitive” thing (aka hiding behind the trainer and then behind a rock… yeah, that start)—he's finally decided he might not die from wearing tack. He's now actually ground driving, and looking pretty darn pleased with himself about it too. Blinders on, reins draped over his rump like he was born for it, head held high like, “Yes, peasant, I am majestic.”

Tomorrow I get to go visit, and I’m bringing his cart with me to replace the one the trainer has tried to introduce. No promises, but the trainer says he might be ready to hitch up in another week. I am cautiously optimistic and wildly giddy at the same time. Not sure who’s more excited, me, or Talon. Actually, no, it’s definitely me. Talon’s still deciding if the cart is a friend, a foe, or a mobile snack bar.

I’m also looking forward to learning how to drive myself. Hopefully it involves fewer bruises than learning to ride did. And fewer runaway moments that end with me yelling things like “I’m not ready for this level of horsepower!”

Seriously though—doesn’t he look like an old pro? I’m so impressed with how far he’s come. He’s traded in ‘shy guy’ for ‘show-off’ and it suits him just fine. 

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Now That Gets My Goat!

 

Why is it that on a farm with goats, the things that really get your goat almost always involve. . . well, goats?

Seriously, anyone who doesn’t have goats probably thinks they’re all sunshine, skipping, and milk commercials. Ha! Goats are like toddlers with crowbars and nothing but time. They spend every waking moment plotting how to break, eat, climb, destroy, or escape. And they’re brilliant. I’m not even convinced they’re animals—I’m pretty sure they’re a small, hairy demolition crew with hooves.

Take Saturday, for example.

It was a quiet morning—too quiet, as any seasoned farm gal will tell you. I was just about to sit down with my herb tea when the dogs went berserk. Not just the “Hey, someone’s pulling into the driveway” bark. No, this was the “INVASION! EVERYBODY PANIC!” bark.

I stepped onto the deck and saw it: my garden… my beautiful, hard-won, back-breaking, sweat-drenched garden. . . under siege.

And there they were—the goats. The inmates had organized a full prison break!

They weren’t just nibbling. Not even casually sampling. No, they were throwing a full-blown brunch. Frolicking like toddlers at a trampoline park, tails in the air, broccoli bits hanging from their lips like it was dollar margarita night at Applebee’s.

Peas? Gone. Broccoli? Gone. Cauliflower? Gone. Corn? Let’s just say it didn’t stand a chance. The blueberry bushes were untouched, but they had cleaned off every single blueberry. The only survivors were the tomatoes (which apparently didn’t pass muster), the summer squash and zucchini (miraculously unscathed), and the radishes—because, let’s face it, not even goats like radishes.

And do you think they looked even slightly guilty when I came stomping down in my barn boots like an angry landlady? Nope. They looked up at me like, “Oh hey, you’re just in time. We’re harvesting the garden for you.”

So, after wrangling the criminal element back into their pen (which is starting to resemble a goat version of Alcatraz), I headed to the farm store to see if they had any vegetable plants left. At this point in the season, I figured my best hope was a display of dusty seed packets and maybe a plastic carrot.

But miracle of miracles—they still had plants. Not great plants, mind you. These were the Charlie Brown Christmas Tree version of veggies: wilted, sad, probably already questioning their will to live. But they were five bucks for a full flat. And pumpkins were free. Free! I guess everyone else had given up on pumpkins this late in the game. Not me. With the way things are going, I might need a Cinderella moment before fall.

Then came the replanting. I picked the hottest day of the summer for this, because of course I did. I was sweating like a sinner at a tent revival, dirt in places I don’t even want to talk about, and one of the goats kept hollering from across the fence like she was the victim in all this. “Excuse me, human! We noticed you forgot to replant the kale!”

So now we wait. The frost usually hits us right around the first week of September, which gives my new plants about oh. . . three weeks to get their act together and produce something worth eating.

If we have a very warm summer. . .

If I fertilize like I’m prepping for the county fair. . .

If the goats don’t stage another jailbreak. . .

And if I can string up more fencing, add a padlock, a moat, and maybe hire a goat whisperer with a taser. . .
Then maybe—just maybe—we’ll end the season with a harvest instead of another episode of “Goat Gone Wild.”

Well—miracles can happen.

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You Might Be A Redneck If... Your Parade Float Has An Outhouse!

Now where is my camera when I actually need it?! Of course, not in the truck, not in my purse, and definitely not in my hand—because otherwise, I'd have photographic proof instead of folks trusting my “I-swear-I-saw-this” version of events.

It started innocently enough. I was in town on the 4th of July, running errands and pretending I was “just swinging by for one thing.” (The biggest lie since “the check’s in the mail.”) I cruised past the parade float lineup—pure Northern New England Americana in all its glory: patriotic bunting flapping in the wind, kids sticky with popsicle juice, fire trucks so polished they could blind you, and the high school band wheezing out “Yankee Doodle”. Even the Boy Scouts were there, standing at attention like little soldiers bribed with root beer floats and the promise of extra s’mores at the next campfire.

And then… it happened.

A float that stopped me dead and made me rethink what had brought me to this curb.

I don’t know what group, company, or loose coalition of third cousins twice removed sponsored this thing, but what it lacked in branding it more than made up for in sheer, unapologetic commitment. Imagine a hillbilly porch slapped on a trailer, overalls (shirts optional), a couple of guys with guitars—two of which were actually in use—and, the crown jewel: an outhouse.

Not just any outhouse. This one had only the bottom half of the walls. Waist-up? On full display for Main Street to enjoy. And inside—sitting proud, serene, and apparently at peace with all his life choices—was a man leafing through what looked like a vintage Sears catalog, as if auditioning for “Rustic Bathroom Chic: The Calendar.” And to top it off, t
hey were playing “Ode to the Little Brown Shack Out Back.” (If you’re not familiar with this, it’s a little ditty sung by Billy Edd Wheeler in the 1960s—a sentimental ballad to, you guessed it, the outhouse. Go ahead, look it up!)

I wish I was making this up. I’m not. My imagination isn’t this deranged.

The man had the air of someone living his absolute truth. He might have been humming. I don’t know—I was too busy praying to every saint in the book that they weren’t about to toss Tootsie Rolls into the crowd. Because we all know exactly what that would’ve looked like.

It’s not the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen in this town. . . but it’s a firm top-five contender.

So here’s the takeaway from the curbside, front-row seat to pure Americana:
You might be a redneck if you ride in an outhouse in a parade—I assume fully clothed, catalog in hand, waving to the crowd like you’re the Grand Marshal of Bathroom Breaks.

And yes, even in Northern New Hampshire—where duct tape is legal tender, and your neighbor’s goat might be better dressed than you, somehow. . . this still won’t be the strangest thing I see all summer.

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