Trick or Treat?

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

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

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

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

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The Chicken Murderers

Jim is the tall guy in the center.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chicken drying/packaging rack.

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

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

Photos courtesy of Lisa Richards

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God of Miracles

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then, yesterday. . . everything changed.

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

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

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

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

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

But the story still didn’t end there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The story continues.

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Nice Ride!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He did not believe me.

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

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

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

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

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

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The New Girls

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

Let’s be real.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Getting Ready for Winter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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