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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Sccool?

I found this just over the border into Vermont. I think the painters need to attend the nearby school for spelling lessons. Now this brings a question to mind - when you misspell a word on the road do you use black-out to correct it? Apparently this road crew didn't have any so they just painted over it, probably hoping no one would notice.

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SUCCESS!!!!!

Ahhh, the sweet, sweet smell of success. Or maybe that’s just the fly spray, sweaty saddle pads, and a whiff of manure that somehow made it onto my glove. Either way, SUCCESS!!!

After two and a half months of what can only be described as the equine equivalent of kindergarten drama club, Talon has finally done it—he’s officially hitched to the cart and being driven. By an actual human. Who’s sitting in the cart. And not being dragged, trampled, or ignored. Cue the trumpets! ?

Now, to be fair, Talon’s journey into cart horse-hood wasn’t exactly the straightest of lines. This is the same horse who, when asked to walk across a tarp, acted like it was a portal to hell. A few highlights from his "training montage" include:

• Fly spray:
  “You want me to stand still while you coat me in the smell of betrayal and broken promises? No thank you. It feels like a million tiny ninjas attacking my skin. Hard pass.”

• Plastic bags:
  “Why would a bag make that sound? That is not a noise things should make. That’s the sound of danger. Of doom. Of something that wants to EAT ME WHOLE.”

• The bit:
  “Excuse me, but I’m not a sword swallower. You could’ve at least warmed it up, or dipped it in molasses, or something! You want me to carry metal in my mouth while I work? Would you like to carry a spoon around all day? No? Then hush.”

• Group turnout:
  “I know those other horses. They looked at me funny. I saw one flatten his ears. I'm pretty sure one of them mouthed, ‘Nice legs, loser.’ So yeah, I hid behind the trainer. That’s called strategy, not cowardice.”

For a while, it was starting to feel like Talon might only ever drive me crazy and not, you know, an actual cart.

But then—breakthrough!

A few days ago, the trainer hitched him up to the cart and decided, with the calm confidence of someone who knows what they’re doing (unlike me), to climb in. I held my breath. Talon didn’t. He just flicked one ear back like, “Finally. I’ve been waiting for you to catch up.”

I swear, if horses could talk, he’d have said:

“Oh thank heavens, you're finally doing something that makes sense. I’m a Gypsy Cob, for crying out loud. Cart-pulling is LITERALLY in my job description. What did you think these feathered legs were for? Ballet?”

And just like that, he was off—ears forward, legs moving with purpose, chest puffed out like he was on parade.

You’d never know this was the same horse who once tried to hide behind a boulder because a pony two paddocks over sneezed.

Apparently, he’s decided that everything else we tried to teach him was optional. Lunging? Optional. Standing tied? Optional. Not flinching when the barn cat sneezes? Optional. But the cart? Now that was finally worthy of his attention.

“Now that we’ve gotten past all the nonsense,” he said (probably), “let’s proceed with my career. I expect carrots, applause, and a dramatic entrance at every outing.”

So now, with blinders on, reins over the rump, and just the slightest air of superiority, Talon is officially a driving horse. Or, in his words:

“I am now Talon the Magnificent. Cart Horse Extraordinaire. Ambassador of Swagger. Destroyer of Plastic Bags.”

Well, okay, he still flinches at plastic bags. But hey—progress is progress.

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Grandson's Eagle Scout Project

Click to enlarge so you can read it:

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Farmhand Follies: Why Good Help Is Worth Their Weight in Dog Food

Mornings on the homestead are a whirlwind of chores, as any self-respecting farmer, homesteader, or country-dweller with more animals than sense will tell you. There’s feeding, watering, cleaning pens, collecting and washing eggs, milking, mucking, and making sure no one ends up on the wrong side of a fence (again). It’s a full production, and that’s all before breakfast.

Thankfully, I’ve got help. My 17-year-old grandson takes the lead, flanked by our English Shepherds: Roxie—also known as The Red Rocket—and Jack, her loyal sidekick who takes his cues from her like he’s trying to pass a final exam he never studied for.

First stop: the pig pen. Now, if you’ve never tried feeding a bunch of porkers who think every second between snacks is a personal insult, let me paint you a picture: it’s a bit like walking into a Black Friday sale with arms full of electronics and no security.

Enter Roxie and Jack.

They fan out like seasoned bouncers at a dive bar, keeping the pigs politely distanced until the feed is safely dumped. No one gets knocked over, no boots are lost in the mud, and the pigs live to eat another day.

Same routine with the buck goat—he’s a bit of a territorial drama queen. The dogs keep him in line like two Secret Service agents, escorting my grandson through the pasture with practiced professionalism.

From there it’s off to the goat buck’s domain. Now, our buck thinks he owns the place. Struts around like he’s some kind of land baron. But Roxie’s got zero patience for posturing, and Jack, bless his blank little head, backs her up like a well-trained but slightly confused bodyguard.

At milking time, the dogs become goat traffic controllers. Each goat files from her pen to the milk stand like it’s a TSA checkpoint, and back again in an orderly line. At least, that's the plan. One time a goat decided she was done following rules and made a run for the other side of the barn. Roxie spun into action, cutting her off mid-stride with all the authority of a drill sergeant. Jack, naturally, ran in right behind her, ready to assist in whatever was happening. I’m pretty sure he had no idea what the plan was, but by golly, he was gonna do something.

Once everyone’s fed and milked, the dogs sweep the barn like a couple of living leaf blowers. “I said OUT! NOW!” Roxie charges down the aisle barking orders and clears the barn like it's closing time at the bar. Jack follows suit, barking two seconds behind her like an echo with fur. In less than half a minute the barn is empty, orderly, and silent—except for the triumphant panting of two very proud dogs. Efficiency at its finest.

Now, about those eggs. Roxie and Jack haven’t quite figured out how to collect them. In fact, they seem to think “egg collection” means “egg sampling.” And by sampling, I mean slurping. But at least they make sure no hens wander into forbidden zones. Any chicken caught sneaking off gets herded back with a “Don’t make me come over there” look from Roxie and a frantic bounce from Jack, who just wants to be helpful.

Roxie and Jack don’t punch a clock. They don’t ask for overtime. And they sure don’t take coffee breaks. But they do earn their pay—three squares a day, all the praise they can handle, and the occasional raw egg bribe.

Good help is hard to find. But a good dog—especially one with a rocket for a nickname and a sidekick who thinks she hung the moon? Worth their weight in dog food, bacon, and maybe even a slice of cheese.

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