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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