Returning to the Earth

I once lived that “other” life—the one with clocks and commutes, where tomatoes came from the produce aisle and meetings came with donuts that somehow didn’t make up for the soul drain. It had its moments, sure, but none that compare to these slower, dirt-under-the-fingernails years back on the farm. That other world had its perks—central air, drive-thru convenience, and nobody asking if I’d seen their missing chicken—but it never fed my soul. Honestly, it barely even fed my lunch break.

Now, in my so-called retirement (code for “I work twice as hard for zero pay”), I’ve come home—not just to a place, but to a feeling. A rhythm. A peace I didn’t know I was missing until I found it with dirt under my nails, goat hair on my shirt, and the faint smell of hay clinging to me like a stubborn houseguest. I’ve returned to the land, the quiet, and the chaos that only makes sense in the language of farming.

Nothing in that polished-up past comes close to picking a sun-warmed tomato right off the vine—so ripe it practically bursts with the pride of being homegrown. Or pouring a tall glass of fresh goat milk—slightly sweet and only as old as the time it took to strain and cool it. It’s food that doesn’t need a sell-by date. It has a soul—and a sense of humor, if you met the goat it came from.

Every morning feels like Christmas as I head out with my basket to the chicken coop—my version of Santa’s sack. What treasures have the girls left today? A half-dozen eggs? One hidden behind the feeder just to keep me humble? Or a sassy hen giving me the stink-eye while fiercely guarding the fake plastic training egg I put there to encourage proper laying habits—not in the hayloft, not under the wheelbarrow, and definitely not behind the feed bin where I’ll find it three weeks too late. Around here, it’s always a surprise. . . and always a gift.

I get my weather forecast from the goats and my emergency alerts from the dogs. If the herd starts acting like caffeinated toddlers and the big white guardians line up at the fence like they’re preparing for battle, I know something’s up—and I trust them more than any meteorologist in a $500 suit pointing at a green screen.

Come winter, when the fields sleep under a heavy quilt of snow, I enjoy the rewards of summer’s labor: shelves lined with jars of sweet corn, green beans, and asparagus—each one a love letter to July. The root cellar holds potatoes, squash, carrots, and beets like a treasure chest packed by Mother Nature herself. And when the wind howls and the driveway turns into a skating rink, one bite of those vegetables will have you swearing they were just picked.

They say the trick to happiness is building a life you don’t need to escape from. I’ve done just that—trading deadlines for dirt roads, boardrooms for barn boots, and memos for manure piles.

Retirement looks suspiciously like hard labor. . . but at least now I enjoy it.

Sun-warmed tomatoes and goat kisses—who needs a beach resort?

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They're Not Mine, I Swear

Let me just clarify something right off the bat: these ponies? Not mine. Nope. I have not taken leave of my senses and started collecting pasture pets. I didn’t impulse-buy miniature horses like someone panic-buys throw pillows. These two are strictly here on a summer internship. Their job? Mow down the overgrown pasture that the goats have taken one look at and said, “Hard pass.”

Contrary to popular belief—and every cartoon and children’s book ever written—goats do not eat everything. That’s a myth perpetuated by people who have clearly never tried to feed a goat swamp grass. Goats are browsers, not grazers. That means they want trees, shrubs, brambles, poison ivy, and your brand-new orchard saplings. Grass is for peasants. Especially this particular pasture, which is filled with something we call “swamp grass”—it’s tall, coarse, and by midsummer it gets sharp enough to double as paper-cut delivery devices. Goats? Offended. Absolutely not. They won’t touch it unless they’re staging a hunger strike for dramatic effect.

Enter the ponies.

These two little equine weed-whackers showed up like a lawncare crew with built-in charm. To horses, swamp grass is apparently the equivalent of a five-star buffet. Their motto seems to be “If it’s green, it’s keen.” They dove right in like they were late for brunch, munching through the thickets with the kind of enthusiasm you usually only see at county fair pie-eating contests.

They've settled in like they own the place—standing under the half-dead tree like it's a tiki bar, swishing their tails with casual confidence. From a distance, they could pass for decorative lawn statues. Pastoral. Picturesque. Pooping lawn ornaments.

Meanwhile, the goats are loitering by the barn, clearly offended by the whole arrangement. They’ve been giving me side-eye for days. I’m fully expecting to find “TRAITOR” spelled out in hay bales or scratched into the dirt with a hoof. Goats are nothing if not passive-aggressive.

But once again—for anyone keeping track—they're not mine. Just seasonal help. Temporary pasture contractors. Freelance grazers. But yes, okay, I’ll admit it: they’re kind of adorable.

Don’t get any ideas. I’m not keeping them.

Probably.

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Spring – You Two-Timing, Backstabbing Trollop

Ah, spring is in the air.

The grass has started to blush green again here in the north country, the trees are putting on their little bud bonnets, and the birds are out there singing like Disney just handed them a recording contract. Robins have been back for weeks now, smugly yanking worms out of the ground like they own the place. Ducks and geese have returned to the ponds, paddling around like they never left, holding little reunions and probably judging my muddy boots.

Everything was going according to the Welcome to Spring script.

The goats have kidded and the babies are bouncing around the barn like caffeinated toddlers in a bounce house. New chicks are growing so fast, I swear one of them looked me dead in the eye yesterday and asked for the Wi-Fi password.

Yes, spring is in the air.

So WHY did I wake up this morning to a scene straight out of a snow globe?!

Not a charming, poetic “last hurrah” either. No. I’m talking full-blown, cover-the-yard, hide-the-daffodils, slap-you-in-the-face SNOW. AGAIN. Honestly, it looked like Frosty the Snowman threw a tantrum and exploded in my front yard.

One of the robins was standing on the porch rail with his feathers puffed up and his beak open like he was mid-complaint with corporate. The goats came out, took one look, and backed slowly into the barn. The chickens are madder than wet hens—because they are wet hens—and the ducks? Oh, they’re thrilled. Jerks.

I’m over it, Mother Nature. You hear me? OVER. IT.

We’ve shoveled. We’ve snow-blowed. We’ve made snowmen and pretended to enjoy hot cocoa while frostbite gnawed at our toes. I’ve run out of adjectives for “pretty” snow and started describing it as “aggressively white sky-dandruff.” We are DONE here.

You had your chance. Spring arrived. We were ready to forgive and forget. And you go and do this?

Listen. I don’t want to sound ungrateful—but if I see one more snowflake, I’m going to start mailing you passive-aggressive weather reports written entirely in goat hoofprints.

So unless this snow is part of some cosmic April Fool’s joke that got lost in the mail, please do us all a favor and CUT. IT. OUT.

Spring in the north country: where hope sprouts, then slips on ice and cracks a tailbone.

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As Much Fun As A Puppy!

What’s as much fun as a puppy, just as cute, twice as mischievous, and with more built-in bounce? That would be Vern, our brand-new house goat.

That’s right. House. Goat.

Vern came to us a little ahead of schedule in the “becoming part of the farm” department. His mama decided—after a brief trial run in motherhood—that she just wasn’t cut out for the whole nursing, cuddling, and loving-her-baby gig. You know how some women take one look at labor and say, “Nope, I'm out”? That’s Vern’s mama. So, as nature slammed that door, our living room opened a window.

At just two weeks old, Vern is too little, too chilly, and too unprotected to be out in the barn, so he’s bunking in with us for now. And let me tell you… he’s making himself very much at home.

He spends his days in the rooms with no rugs (because no one wants to shampoo goat poop out of an oriental carpet), bouncing off the walls—sometimes literally—exploring the mysteries of chair legs, table corners, and shoes. He’s convinced our slippers are just oddly shaped goats with no sense of humor, and he’s determined to befriend (or conquer) them.

The dogs? Oh, they weren’t quite sure what to make of this tiny, head-butting intruder at first. But he’s wormed his way into their good graces. Gabriel acts like he’s got a new recruit to train, Remi is pretending not to be interested but totally is, and Roxie… well, she’s still trying to figure out what species he is and if it’s edible.

Vern is a Boer goat, which means he’ll one day grow into a sturdy, muscle-bound fellow with a Roman nose and a serious job title: Baby Daddy. Hard to picture that right now when he’s doing zoomies across the hallway and getting his head stuck in a bucket for the third time today. But goats grow fast, and by next fall, Vern will be old enough to join the ranks of responsible breeding bucks. (Assuming, of course, he ever stops thinking that dust bunnies are friends and that my pant legs are edible.)

He’s got the curiosity of a toddler, the enthusiasm of a Labrador, and the bladder control of… well, a goat. But he's full of personality, big brown eyes, and a determination to follow me everywhere like a tiny shadow with hooves.

So if you're wondering what’s as much fun as a puppy but with more barnyard flair and significantly less regard for personal space?

It’s Vern. Absolutely, undeniably Vern.

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The Shooting Tree

You’ve heard of The Giving Tree. We had one too—only ours didn’t hand out apples or life lessons. It handed out target practice and the occasional splinter. We called it The Shooting Tree.

It stood alone in a little field out back, just past the garden and before the woods swallowed up the horizon. A quiet giant, perfectly placed—lone sentinel, with nothing but deep forest behind it. Over the years, it became our unofficial range. Targets were stapled to its broad trunk, one after another, year after year. And that tree? It stood still and took every shot without flinching.

I don’t know how many rounds it absorbed over the years—thousands, easily. Probably more lead in it than wood by the end. It was the place where kids first learned how to aim, standing shoulder to shoulder with a parent or grandparent, ears muffed, hearts pounding. Where grown-ups retreated after long days to lose themselves in the rhythm of recoil and release. It wasn’t just a shooting spot—it was a rite of passage, a lesson in respect, and a tradition wrapped in bark and powder.

That tree heard our laughter when the target flapped in the breeze and someone missed wide. It bore silent witness to quiet moments, loud frustrations, and family memories tucked into every hole and knot. It wasn’t fancy. But it was ours.

Then, the other day, a windstorm came through. Nothing serious—just a blustery reminder that nature still calls the shots. And when it passed, the field was the same… except it wasn’t. That tree, the one that had stood through more winters than some of our cars, was down. Just one tree toppled. That one. The Shooting Tree.

I guess even the strongest among us wear down eventually. Years of weather, wear, and lead quietly eating away at the core. Maybe it didn’t fall from the wind so much as from a deep exhale after a job well done. Like it knew it had done all it could do.

Now it lies in the field, stripped of duty but not of meaning. I stood there longer than I’d like to admit, just looking at it. Remembering. The echoes of shots long past still hung in the air somehow. The laughter, the teaching moments, the quiet companionship. That tree was part of our story.

We’ll find another place to shoot, sure. Maybe even plant a new tree nearby someday. But there won’t ever be another like it. That old pine gave us more than a place to aim—it gave us memories worth holding onto.

Rest easy, old friend. You stood your ground. You did us proud.

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