Welcome to the Neighborhood - Clothing Optional

You never really know a place until you’ve met the people. Sometimes it’s a handshake, sometimes it’s a wave from across the fence. . . and sometimes it’s something you could never have prepared for, no matter how many small towns you’ve lived in. When we moved to our northern hideaway I thought I’d seen every kind of neighborly welcome. I was wrong. Very, very wrong.

I grew up in a small town in southern New Hampshire, back before the interstate was open. That’s right—before GPS, before computers and smartphones, when TV stations went off the air at midnight, and when people still knew the names of the cows in the neighbor’s pasture. Our little town had the essentials: a small store with worn wooden floors and gas pumps out front, old men on the porch “whittling” while they gossiped, a part-time post office, a part-time library, a Chevy dealership, and a seasonal hamburger stand that served up greasy magic in a paper box. If you didn’t know everyone’s business you were either new or unconscious.

These days, suburbia’s swallowed the place. The general store’s now just another gas station. The cows are gone, everyone has matching lawn furniture, and people give you side-eye for saying hello. The charm’s gone, along with the days you could borrow sugar and a lawnmower in the same breath.

So in 2001, with retirement on the horizon and traffic jams stretching longer than an Easter sermon, my husband and I headed north. Not “just outside town” north. Not “up by the lake” north. No, we went full-tilt, as-far-north-as-you-can-go-without-learning-French kind of north. The kind where GPS gets confused, cell service is just a suggestion, and if you see moose tracks in the yard, well, that's just Tuesday.

We landed in a tiny town where more dogs are registered than voters, roads are barely paved, and distance is measured in time, not miles. The nearest “big town” has 2,000 people, no traffic light, and a volunteer fire department.

People here are a particular kind of wonderful. They’re simple, hard working folk who might be loggers, mill workers, carpenters or mechanics. Many work at the nearby Ethan Allen plant or are health care workers at the local 16 bed hospital. Many are locals who grew up here, and some are retired folks who moved here to disappear into the woods. Their hands are calloused, their trucks are muddy, and they’d give you the shirt off their back—though sometimes you’ll wish they hadn’t. These are folks who'll pull you out of a ditch with their tractor and never mention it again.

Which brings me to meeting my across-the-road neighbor.

We’d just moved in—boxes still stacked in the mudroom. I’d made a supply run to the “big city,” which is “close by” only if you think an hour and a half qualifies. It has a Home Depot, a Walmart, and a Burger King that gets your order wrong in the exact same way every single time. It was a late Saturday afternoon. I was tired, cranky, and just wanted to get home and unpack the slow cooker I swore I’d actually use this time.

That’s when I saw him.

Standing in the middle of the road. Stark. Raving. Buck. Naked. And drunk—couldn’t-pass-a-sobriety-test-if-it-were-multiple-choice drunk.

Not “lost track of my shirt” drunk. No, this man had been communing with the liquor cabinet in a biblical sense. He swayed like a pine tree in a nor’easter. Whatever he’d been drinking hit like three fingers of moonshine and a hug from Dolly Parton.

As I slowed my car (because who wouldn’t slow down for a man whose only accessory was a farmer’s tan?), he shouted, “Howdy, neighbor! I’m the guy across the road! Welcome to the neighborhood!”

Now, there are many ways to meet a new neighbor:

• A wave from across the fence.

• A plate of cookies.

• A dog wandering into your yard followed by an apology and an introduction.

This was not on the list.

He pointed to his house, just in case I thought he was some feral mountain man fresh from the woods. “That’s my place—right across from you!”

Yes, sir. That sure cleared it up.

I’d love to say I had a clever response—something neighborly like, “Nice to meet you. I’ll bring over a casserole. . . with a lid.” I didn’t. I did what any respectable New Englander would: nodded politely, like meeting someone’s uncle at a funeral, and kept driving. What do you say to a man standing in his birthday suit like he’s auditioning for a Calvin Klein ad on a budget?

Here’s the kicker: once he sobered up and found his pants, he turned out to be a fantastic neighbor. The kind who digs your car out of a snowbank, snow-blows your mailbox after the plow buries it for the fourth time that day, and shows up with jumper cables in January. And never mentions the time he greeted you wearing nothing but a hangover and a smile.

That’s what I love about this place—it’s unpredictable, real, raw. One day you’re chatting at the feed store, wondering if farmer Joe will get his hay in on time. The next you’re waving back at a man who clearly skipped a step in getting dressed that morning.

Moral of the story:

• Don’t let first impressions be your last impression.

• Don’t judge a man by his clothes—or noticeable lack thereof.

    Because sometimes, the guy who greets you in the nude turns out to be the one who’d give you the shirt off his back. If, you know. . . he remembered to wear one.

Out here, life between the fenceposts isn’t always tidy, predictable, or fully clothed—but it’s never boring.

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Apparently, My Chickens Live in Poverty

I’m just a country gal. Nothing fancy. If something works, I leave it alone. If it’s held together with baler twine and sheer stubbornness, I consider it a success. My style is practical, functional, and not likely to show up in any glossy magazine—unless there’s a Rustic Chaos special edition, which, honestly, should exist.

So you can imagine my reaction when I stumbled upon an article about a horse barn done up like a luxury hotel lobby. Brick walkway, laid in a herringbone pattern (naturally), crisp white walls, ebony-stained trim, and chandeliers. A whole row of chandeliers, twinkling above the stalls like the horses were hosting a gala. Because apparently, these days, your horses need mood lighting while they kick holes in the walls and smear poop everywhere.

But it didn’t stop there. Oh no. I’ve seen chicken coops—chicken coops—with vinyl flooring, matching curtains, wallpaper, and yes, more chandeliers. Apparently, if your coop doesn’t look like the cover of Poultry Palace Monthly, you’re just not trying hard enough. Meanwhile, back at my place, Hennifer Lopez and her feathered entourage are finally laying eggs in the nest box and defending it like it’s prime real estate. They don’t seem too concerned about the lack of interior design.

And just when I thought barnyard luxury had peaked, I saw it. A goat barn. Two stories tall, with a second-floor balcony. A proper balcony, mind you, complete with rocking chairs, a braided rug, and—you guessed it—a chandelier hanging gracefully above the whole setup. Because clearly, if you’re going to sip your sun tea while watching goats act like caffeinated toddlers on a playground, you deserve proper ambiance.

Oh, and the goats? They weren’t left to just stand around—no sir. They had their own full-blown playground. Jungle gyms. Seesaws. Climbing ramps. A proper goat amusement park. I half expected to see a ticket booth and a sign that said, “Next show: 2 PM.” Because nothing says “responsible livestock management” like building an outdoor adventure course for animals who will still, without fail, choose to stand on your car if given the chance.

I don’t even have goats anymore, but I’ll admit that balcony looked pretty inviting. I wouldn’t mind sitting up there, rocking gently, watching someone else’s goats bounce off the walls. But still—a chandelier. On a barn balcony. For goat-watching.

Back at my farm, the barn floor is plain wood, sealed with Blackjack 57, and topped with pine shavings. My lighting? Bare bulbs, exposed fixtures, no frills. They come on when I flip the switch, and that’s good enough for me. No one’s throwing a cocktail party out there. My sheep think tipping over their water bucket is the height of entertainment. If I hung flowers in their pen, I'd come back to bare stems and zero apologies.

I admire folks who style their barns like magazine spreads. I truly do. They’re creative. Dedicated. Probably exhausted. Me? I’m just trying to keep the barn swept, the grass mowed before I lose a chicken in it, and the animals fed before they stage a revolt.

Maybe one day I’ll hang a chandelier in the barn—strictly as a perch for the chickens. Functional and decorative. That’s my kind of style. Until then, I’ll stick with pine shavings, and bare bulbs. Because let’s be honest: the animals don’t care. And neither do I.

As for that balcony? I’m not saying no. I’m saying not yet.

In the meantime, I’ll be on my imaginary balcony, rocking away, watching the chaos I call a farm—and loving every minute of it.

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The Guinea Fowl Debacle: A Cautionary Tale

I’m in several Facebook groups dedicated to chickens, sheep, and various other forms of controlled barnyard chaos. These groups are equal parts helpful, terrifying, and wildly entertaining—kind of like watching a soap opera, only with feathers, hooves, and the occasional goat climbing a kitchen counter. They’re the kind of virtual hangouts where people post photos of poop and ask, “Is this normal?” They swap advice on everything from worming schedules to whether their rooster might be emotionally unstable.

This morning, in one of the chicken groups, the topic took a lively detour into the world of guinea fowl—those screechy, helmet-headed, weirdo guard dogs of the poultry world. One person raved about how they’re great watchdogs (watchbirds?), alerting you to anything even slightly unusual: predators, falling leaves, suspicious clouds, possibly ghosts. Another chimed in about their excellent reputation for drastically reducing the tick population. And then one brave soul asked the real question:

“Do they ever shut up?”

Cue the collective sigh from everyone who’s ever tried to own guineas and live a peaceful life.

I was instantly transported back to my guinea fowl misadventures. Yes, plural. You’d think I’d have learned the first time. I’ve tried them—really, I have—but I’ve never successfully managed to keep them around or stay sane.

Try #1: The Great Guinea Getaway

It all began with 15 adorable, chirping keets (that’s baby guineas, for those blissfully unaware). I was feeling optimistic, full of hope, maybe a little cocky. (Pun intended.) I raised them like royalty—fed them well, kept them warm, gave them love. I was the Mary Poppins of poultry.

The moment they got their flight feathers? Whoosh! They peaced-out like a group of teenagers who just found out the Wi-Fi password at someone else’s house.

No goodbye. No farewell peep. Gone. Vanished. No note. No text. Just a puff of dust and the faint sound of flapping wings. Straight into the woods and gone forever. Probably joined a gang. I’m still bitter.

Try #2: Guinea Math and Desperate Neighbors

The second time, I didn’t mean to get guineas. Fast-forward a year or two—I went to pick up a sheep. Just one sheep. But the farmer was drowning in guineas and looked desperate.

"Please take some," he begged.

You’ve heard of chicken math? You know, that phenomenon where you go for one and end up with 20? This was guinea math—only a darker, louder force of nature.

We drove home with one sheep and four guineas, two mated pairs. I tried to do things right this time, keeping them in a large wire dog crate for a week so they could get the lay of the land, fall in love with the coop, maybe write a few songs about it, and learn where home was.

Apparently, “home” was not to their liking.

As soon as I let them out, they strutted around the farm like they were on a real estate tour, then decided the neighbor’s yard had better amenities. Every day, they’d eat breakfast at my place like freeloaders, then head off to the neighbor’s to scream at squirrels, admire their own voices, and park themselves right in front of his sliding glass doors like tiny, feathered salesmen who refused to leave.

My neighbor called.

"Uh… Sandy? Did you. . . by any chance. . . happen to get some guineas?"

"Yes," I said cautiously.

"Well, they’ve adopted my porch. They’re watching us like feathered surveillance drones. They stare at us for hours. And they. . . Never. Stop. Yelling. Can’t you do something to keep them home?" he asked, sounding like a desperate man planning an emergency trip to the hardware store for chicken wire, porch netting, and possibly a priest.

I told him they were edible—kind of like pheasant but less gamey—and he was welcome to have them for dinner. He didn’t appreciate that suggestion. Something about his kids being traumatized if dinner came with a name and a staring problem.

Enter the Mirror of Doom

Desperate, I turned to the internet and discovered a fun guinea fact: they are ridiculously vain. Like, full-on feathered narcissists. Apparently, they love staring at their own reflections in a mirror.

Cue Operation Narcissus.

I found a large, old mirror in the barn and propped it up along their morning commute to the feed trough. I placed a large dog crate nearby and waited.

Right on schedule, the guineas strutted up, saw their reflections, and froze. It was like watching a poultry version of a high school prom photo shoot.

I imagine the conversation went something like this:

Martha: “Fred, do you see her? She looks just like me—stunning!”

Fred: “Indeed, Martha. And look at that dashing male beside her—quite the specimen. Honestly, a model.”

Sally: “Hold on, everyone. This one over here? Feathers like spun silk. I must know what shampoo she uses.”

Roger: “I don’t want to brag, but the guy in front of me? A real stud muffin. A true Adonis of the guinea world! Probably works out.”

While they fawned over themselves like barnyard Kardashians, I tiptoed up and gently nudged the crate closer. . . closer. . . BAM! They marched right in like it was a VIP lounge. Caught by their own vanity. I didn’t know whether to be proud or deeply concerned about what I’d just witnessed.

Almost Freezer Camp… Almost

I couldn’t just let them go again, so I stuck them in an empty chicken tractor—a bottomless mobile pen you can move around the yard for fresh grass. They weren’t happy about it, but I reminded them that this was Plan B. Plan A was to stay in my barnyard, but that ship had already sailed.

Jim had plans to send them to “freezer camp” that weekend. But before we could sharpen the knives, Mother Nature got involved.

One blustery afternoon, I looked out the window just in time to see the chicken tractor take flight across the field like a low-budget barnyard production of The Wizard of Oz. It flipped upside down on the far side of the fence, and the guineas shot out like feathered cannonballs. They headed for the woods at top speed, squawking a final, offended farewell.

Gone again. Of course.

A Mystery for the Ages

The next summer, I overheard some folks chatting at the feed store:

"Have you heard about that wild flock of guineas over by Ridge Road?"

"Yeah! Weird, right? Wonder where they came from."

I just nodded politely and said, “Huh. That is strange.” Then I walked away. Slowly. Casually. Like a woman with nothing to confess and no regrets. . . except for the part where I ever brought home guineas in the first place.

Let’s just say I’ve retired from guinea fowl ownership. If anyone asks, I’m strictly chickens and sheep these days. Chickens might be mini velociraptors, and sheep might think a strong breeze is a valid reason to panic, but at least they don’t spend their afternoons admiring themselves in mirrors or heckling the neighbors. Usually.

If you’re thinking of getting guineas, here’s my advice: Don’t. Unless your neighbors really need more excitement in their lives. Or you have an extra mirror lying around and a lot of patience. Or you just really enjoy poultry that screams all the time.

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Want to swap livestock war stories? Or maybe just confess how many chickens you really have?  Share it in the comments! Misery loves company—and so do livestock owners.

Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.

The Great Fluffpocalypse

It was grooming day here at the farm—also known as “The Great Fluffpocalypse.”

Dora, a Cockapoo, is our needy child. She has that wonderful, non-shedding poodle coat and had just gone to the groomer last week for her usual shampoo, haircut, and diva treatment, so she was in zero need of a brush. But don’t tell her that. The second she saw the grooming tote, she assumed the position like a diva about to take center stage. Stump of a tail wagging, butt wiggling, eyes sparkling, vibrating with the chaotic energy of a toddler who just ate three chocolate bars—she needed this. I gave her three pity brushes, praised her like she’d won Best in Show, and sent her back inside. She strutted off like a celebrity leaving a red carpet event and resumed her nap on the couch with the satisfaction of someone who knows they’re fabulous.

Next up: Shaymus. Terrier mix of mysterious origin. Part dog, part tumbleweed with legs. When we adopted him, he didn’t shed. At all. We thought, “Wow! How lucky to find another non-shedding pooch!” Turns out, he just didn’t have an undercoat because of the poor nutrition common to stray street dogs. Fast forward to now—he’s healthy, thriving, and shedding like he’s in a competition to clone himself. I brushed him for 15 minutes and produced enough hair to stuff a futon. My porch looked like a dog exploded in slow motion. There was fur in my hair, on my teeth, inside my eyeballs, in my soul. Shaymus just sat there with the smug grin of a dog who knows he’s both the problem and the prize.

And then came Gus. Gus is our livestock guardian dog: massive, goofy, and under the impression that grooming is just an extreme sport version of cuddling. The moment he saw the brush, he belly-flopped like a sack of flour with fur and rolled over dramatically, ready for what he assumed was a 90-minute belly rub. Trying to brush Gus is like grooming a beached manatee that won’t stop wiggling. Every time I made a little progress, he rolled over like a furry rotisserie chicken and smiled like, “Was this the experience you were hoping for?” I had to use one hand to brush and the other to shield my face from joyful, slobbery kisses. By the end, I smelled like dog, mud, and despair.

We finished with a mountain of hair large enough to qualify for its own zip code. Dora was still napping like royalty. Shaymus was actively shedding in the breeze. And Gus was trotting toward the newly mowed pasture to roll and color himself green.

So yes, it was grooming day. I’m wearing enough fur to be mistaken for a border collie and my dignity is somewhere under the pile of fluff on the porch. But hey—it’s all in a day’s work on the farm. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got fur in my mouth, slobber on my shirt, and a giant green dog to tackle before he gets captured by a leprechaun. Let’s roll.

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June 21st: The Worst Day of the Year (Don’t @ Me)

Ah yes, June 21st. The sunniest of all sunny days. The longest stretch of daylight we get all year. Birds are chirping. People are frolicking. Instagram is ablaze with flower crowns and iced coffee.

Meanwhile, I’m over here side-eyeing the sun like it just double dipped at a potluck. Why? Because this—this bright, chipper, UV-saturated day—is the beginning of the end.

That’s right. We peaked. It’s all downhill from here. The days only get shorter now. Every evening, a few more seconds of light get snatched away like nature's version of daylight robbery. It’s a slow-motion horror film for those of us who like to finish chores without a headlamp strapped to our foreheads.

And I know what you’re thinking: “But summer is so beautiful!”

Just so we’re clear, I’m not anti-summer. I enjoy a good watermelon. I’ve been known to frolic occasionally. But what really grinds my gears is that from this point on, every morning sunrise is a little later, every evening sunset a little earlier. By the time August hits, I’m already mourning the light. Because I know what’s coming. I’m emotionally preparing for the return of seasonal depression and frozen windshields.

Yep. Come winter, I’m out in the chicken coop stringing up bulbs like it’s Studio 54. Chickens need 12 to 14 hours of light a day to keep laying eggs, and let me tell you—those divas do not perform under poor lighting conditions. So there I am, running extension cords through snowdrifts so Henrietta can keep dropping eggs like the little oviparous prima donna she is.

Which brings me to my favorite day of the year: December 21st.

The shortest, darkest, most Vitamin D-deficient day on the calendar. While the rest of the world is clutching their SAD lamps and threatening to move to Florida, I’m out here in my thermal underwear doing a victory lap around the barn. Because that day? That day means we’re on the upswing. More daylight tomorrow. Even more the day after that. Eventually—gloriously—I get to unplug the chicken light.

And it's not just any unplugging. Oh no. This is a ceremony. There’s pomp. There’s circumstance. There may or may not be a bathrobe involved. I march out there like the Queen of Daylight, extension cord in hand, chickens watching with mild confusion as I declare, “Ladies, the sun hath returned! Lay at will!”

And just like that, we’re back on track.
No more electric bills for your eggs, Henrietta.

So while the rest of you are out twirling through the summer solstice in your flip-flops, sipping sun tea and pretending not to notice the mosquitoes, I’ll be in the shade with my iced herb tea and a countdown clock to winter.

Happy First Day of Summer.
Let the shrinking begin.

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Back in the Barn Boots --- Again

Or How I Gave Up Retirement for Hay, Hens, and a Whole Lot of Fence Fixing

In 2019, Jim and I did what any sensible, slightly stir-crazy couple does after years of livestock, mud, and frozen water buckets—we sold the animals, bought a 26-foot travel trailer, and rode off into the sunset like a pair of geriatric cowboys chasing 70 degrees.

We became snowbirds. Not the kind that nest in RV parks with satellite dishes the size of dinner tables. We zigzagged through the southern states (excluding Florida—because even in winter, it feels like soup in your shoes). We swapped barn boots for sandals and mud for sand. And for a while, it was great.

But then… things changed - again.

We sold the trailer, settled back into home life, and something strange started happening. I missed it.

Not the trailer. Not the questionable campground bathrooms. But the work. The real, gritty, unglamorous kind of work that makes your muscles sore and your back say things your mouth shouldn’t repeat.

Turns out, daily walks and beach chairs don’t keep you strong. Who knew? So I did the only reasonable thing: I got a dozen chickens, a few sheep, and started reacquainting myself with the joy of hay splinters, grain bags that laugh in the face of gravity, and fencing that mysteriously breaks only when it’s raining sideways.

And you know what? I love it.

This blog is my way of getting back to the roots—sometimes literally, when I trip in the pasture. I’ll be sharing the ridiculous, heartwarming, occasionally muddy realities of life on a (very) small farm. Expect animal shenanigans, fence-related swearing (edited from what my brain may be thinking), and the occasional life lesson courtesy of a hen with no sense of personal space.

Thanks for stopping by. Kick off your boots—or leave them on if you’re chasing chickens. Either way, grab a cup of coffee or hot chocolate. It’s going to be a good ride.

P.S. – Before I came crawling back to the barn, I wrote a travel blog during our RV days. If you want to see how we fumbled our way across the country (and how many times I said, “Did you lock the trailer?”), check out crosscountrycruzin.blogspot.com. It’s got sunsets, scenic views, and at least one emergency involving a black tank.

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Best Laid Plans!

We had quite the day here on the farm.

A friend brought her two goat kids over for disbudding. Along for the ride were their mama goat (lounging in the back seat like a hairy queen), and her adult son, who has Down syndrome, riding shotgun. She had thoughtfully lined the back seat with a tarp and some big towels to catch any stray poops. They’re Nigerian Dwarf goats, so they didn’t take up much room—physically. Chaos-wise, they’re full-sized. The seat coverings would have been a great idea. . . if the thing that happened next hadn’t happened.

You know what they say about best laid plans.

She pulled into our parking area, turned off the car, got out, shut the door, and walked over to let me know she’d arrived. You see where this is going, right? You can probably already hear the ominous dun-dun-DUN in the background. She left the keys in the car. Her son, who is deathly afraid of dogs (and honestly not wild about the goats in the back seat either), heard our dogs bark and did what made perfect sense to him—he locked the doors. All of them.

She tried everything to get him to unlock them. Nope. Not happening. I think he was pretty sure that if he let her in, she’d try to drag him out into the Land of Barking Dogs. He’s nonverbal, but he understands some sign. She signed for him to unlock his door. He pointed at her door like, “Nah, you go open yours.” She signed back that her door was broken and she needed him to open his. He stared her down, then slowly turned his head like, “Nice try, Mom. Not falling for it.”

So we called the police. They don’t cover our town. They gave us the state police number. Called them—they don’t unlock vehicles anymore but would be happy to send a wrecker. I called my neighbor with a tow truck—he’s in South Carolina visiting family. Of course he is.

This, friends, is why God invented AAA.

The first thing they did was thank me for my 21 years of membership. Touching. Really. But what I wanted was someone to come unlock a goat-filled, poop-sprinkled vehicle before it turned into a rolling barn. They agreed to send someone—about 45 minutes away. Not ideal, but it’s not like we were in a position to negotiate. I should also mention that the weather was freezing rain and roads were getting slicker than a greased pig. Our AAA guy was not going to be happy.

So we waited.

She kept trying to coax her son into unlocking a door—any door. The goats, meanwhile, were staging a slow-motion barnyard uprising. They stomped the tarp, shuffled the towel, and began sprinkling goat berries into every single crevice of the back seat. I’ve seen better containment in glitter explosions.

We ordered pizza and passed the time by watching the steady spread of poop distribution.

When the AAA guy arrived, he looked confused. He saw someone in the passenger seat and assumed we’d gotten back in and forgot to cancel. She sprinted over to explain that no, the man in the passenger seat was not a willing participant. Nor were the three goats in the back.

He got to work. Less than 10 seconds later, pop—door open. And suddenly he’s face-to-face with three goats. I don’t know what he was thinking, but I’d bet money it was something along the lines of, “This isn’t in the employee handbook,” follo
wed closely by, “Please never send me here again.”

And here’s the kicker: one of the back windows was cracked open an inch. My husband had tried earlier to wedge a pole through it to reach the lock in the front—but couldn’t quite get to it. Turns out, the AAA guy just slid his tool straight down and popped the back door lock in one try.

Hubby admitted he hadn’t considered that. In his defense, maybe it was because goat heads were pressed to the glass, and trying to eat the pole like it was an hors d'oeuvre on a stick.

We tipped the AAA guy for braving freezing rain, my friend hugged him, we finished our pizza, and then finally got around to the original reason for all this: disbudding the goat kids. She made it home safe, though the roads had gotten worse by then.

The rest of the day was calm. Actually, a little boring by comparison.

But I guarantee she’ll be finding goat berries in that car for the rest of its life. And that next time, she’ll take her keys. . . and maybe a shop vac.

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It's Been A While!

It’s been a minute! If you're reading this, I’m sure you’ve noticed the long silence on my blog. But I’m back in the saddle (figuratively, not literally—I’m still avoiding the horse for now)! A lot has changed around here, and I thought it was high time I dust off this old blog and bring you up to speed.

So, let’s start with the big changes. First off, more goats. Yep, I went full-on goat lady. No more sheep, though—they’re off to greener pastures, literally.

But the big loss around here? Our old Pyr, who we had to send over the rainbow bridge. He lived a good life, but it was his time. Our older girl, bless her heart, is now enjoying retirement, and we’ve got two little Pyr pups to fill her paw prints. They’ve got a lot to live up to, but so far, they’re doing well.

But wait, there’s more! I finally did it: I created a farm website. I know, I know—it's been long overdue. I’m not exactly the tech-savvy type, and let’s just say that the internet and I have an understanding: I try not to break it, and it tries not to break me. But with a lot of help from an awesome friend (who, by the way, spent three years learning how to design websites), I managed to get it up and running. It's still a work in progress, but it’s live! So, if you’ve been wondering where I’ve been hiding, check out americanwayfarm.com and see what’s new.

One thing that’ll be a constant on the site is sales of mini-Saanens and mini-Nubians come late spring and summer. So, if you’re into goats (or want to be), keep an eye on the “For Sale” page.

And if purchasing goats isn’t your thing, maybe you should consider getting a few. Trust me, you need them in your life. Have you ever wondered why the phrase “That really got my goat” exists? It's because goats are the true masters of mischief. They’ll eat things they shouldn’t, escape from places they shouldn’t, and basically bring new meaning to the word “aggravation.” But that’s part of the charm. They’re funny, personable, intelligent, and yes—adorable, especially when they’re kids.

I hope to reconnect with some of you who I’ve lost touch with (I know, I’ve been a terrible blogger!). If you’ve unsubscribed, please consider re-subscribing. And if you thought I fell off the face of the earth, leave a comment and say “Howdy!” I’ll do my best to be more consistent, I promise.

And remember—life’s more fun with a few goats around. Or maybe, just more frustrating... either way, it’s never boring.

Happy farm days.

Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.

Still Got It!

Clare Boothe Luce once said, “No good deed goes unpunished.” And while I’m sure she meant it in some deep, philosophical way about the human condition, I’m convinced she was secretly talking about farm life. Because the last time I tried to “help” a friend, I ended up with what can only be described as a hoof-shaped exclamation point right between my eyes.

Yes. A goat kicked me. In the face.

Before you send flowers or start a GoFundMe for my reconstructive surgery, let me clarify—it wasn’t intentional. And it wasn’t a human foot, thank heavens, although honestly, I might have preferred that at this point.

It all began when my friend Elaine needed help trimming her goats’ feet. Naturally, I volunteered. Why? Because apparently, I have a subconscious death wish and an overinflated sense of my own goat-wrangling skills. This is the same kind of misplaced confidence that brought you my Sheep Wrangling saga. Basically, I am the Lucille Ball of livestock.

The problem was one particular yearling who could have been drafted for the NFL—specifically as a running back for the New England Patriots. This goat was faster than a caffeine-addicted squirrel, zigzagging around the barn like she was avoiding sniper fire. We chased her for several minutes, which was ridiculous because Elaine and I were both hovering around 70, and the only marathons we run are when the bathroom is on the far end of the hallway.

After five minutes of wheezing and mutual glaring, I decided to get clever. My plan—if you could call it that—was to grab her back leg the next time she zipped by, hold on tight, and stop her dead in her tracks. Logical, right? Safe? Reasonable? HA!

The goat flew by, I reached out, grabbed her leg—and instantly found myself in a goat-powered drag race. My boots were skidding, my free arm was flailing, and for a few seconds I was basically water-skiing across the barn floor without the benefit of water. Then she stumbled and fell, taking me down with her. Then WHAM—her other leg came around like a steel-toed missile and clocked me square between the eyes.

And not just a light tap. No, ma’am. This was a Looney Tunes knockout punch. Stars. Fireworks. Possibly the sound of distant church bells. If Thor’s hammer had a baby with a pogo stick, that’s what hit me.

Did I let go? Of course not. This is the Sandy way: hang on until you either win or have to be airlifted out.

While I was staggering and seeing visions of my ancestors, Elaine—God bless her—had gone full WWE and was pinning the goat to the floor in a move that would have impressed The Rock. If goats could submit, this one would have been tapping the mat and begging for mercy. And you know what? We won.

Two senior citizens. One goat. And a victory dance (ours) that was mostly just us leaning on the barn wall trying to catch our breath.

After my face re-inflated to its original shape, I started laughing so hard I nearly fell over. Because if you’ve never seen two out-of-breath, borderline decrepit old women wrestle a goat, you’re missing out on the greatest slapstick comedy ever performed. Someone needs to follow
me around with a camera—we’d have a reality show in no time: Goat Takedown: The Senior Edition.

In the end, the goats’ feet got trimmed (because we’re nothing if not professionals), and my face now has a great story attached to it. Will I help Elaine again? Absolutely. Because if I survived this, the next time will obviously be fine.

Probably.

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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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The Shooting Tree

You’ve heard of The Giving Tree. We had a special tree too, only ours didn’t hand out apples. 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, a lone sentinel with nothing but deep forest behind it. Over the years, it became our unofficial shooting 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 couldn’t tell you how many rounds it absorbed—thousands, easily. By the end, there was probably more lead than wood in its core. But it wasn’t just a tree full of bullet holes—it was a classroom, a proving ground, and a kind of family altar. Kids learned how to aim there, standing shoulder to shoulder with a parent or grandparent. Big, steady hands covered small, nervous ones. Tiny fingers curled around triggers for the first time, ears muffed, hearts pounding, eyes shining with both fear and pride. And their grandfather’s voice—calm, patient, steady—wrapped around them like the safest place in the world: “Easy now. Line it up. Breathe. Squeeze.”

It was where grown-ups went too, after long days of work, to find rhythm in the simple cadence of recoil and release. Where laughter echoed when a target flapped in the breeze and someone missed wide. Where silence settled in when life got heavy, and the sharp crack of a shot carried farther than words ever could.

That tree bore witness to all of it—quiet lessons, loud frustrations, the joy of a perfect bullseye, the disappointment of a wild miss, and the triumph of a child’s grin when they finally hit the paper. Layer by layer, year after year, it held our family history in its bark. It wasn’t fancy. But it was ours.

Then, one day, a windstorm came through. Nothing serious—just a blustery reminder that nature still calls the shots. And when it passed, the field wasn’t the same. 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.

And here’s the part that stopped me cold: it didn’t just fall. It snapped clean through, right where the target had always been pinned. The same spot we all aimed for, the place that carried every lesson, every laugh, every careful shot—it finally broke right there. Like it had been holding that weight for decades, and in the end, it let go exactly where we had asked the most of it.

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 given us everything it had to give.

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 that still seemed to hang in the air somehow—the laughter of children, the calm guidance of their grandfather, the sound of three generations woven together in powder and bark. That tree wasn’t just wood. It 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.

And though the tree is gone, the echoes still carry—laughter, lessons, and the steady rhythm of generations finding their mark.

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The Never Ending.....

We’ve all had that song stuck in our heads. You know the one—“This is the song that never ends, yes, it goes on and on, my friend. . .”? Yep. That little earworm that loops itself into your brain until you start twitching involuntarily and muttering lyrics under your breath in the produce aisle. Or maybe you remember The NeverEnding Story movie—complete with the giant flying dog-dragon thing that looks like it belongs in a Lisa Frank binder.

Well, today I didn’t have a song or a story stuck on repeat. Today, I had The Never Ending Kitchen.

It began, as these things always do, with good intentions and a pile of dirty dishes. Now, I could have done them last night, but let’s be honest—Sunday is the Lord’s day, and I firmly believe He wouldn’t want me elbow-deep in dishwater when I could be on the couch under a blanket pretending not to hear the chaos in the kitchen.

So Monday morning greets me with a mountain of crusty reminders that last night’s supper was, in fact, a thing. First chore: clean kitchen. That includes unloading the dishwasher, refilling it with every dish in a 20-mile radius, scrubbing the pots and pans that didn’t make the cut, and wiping down the counters and stove so it looks like I have my act together.

Next? Out to do the goat milking, collect eggs, and take care of barn chores. Then into the milk room—or as I like to call it, “The Barn Kitchen”—because why limit the madness to one building?

Back in the house, time for breakfast. Which— you guessed it—creates more dirty dishes. Clean kitchen.

Toss in a load of laundry. Then decide to make a batch of cajeta because I like to overachieve on Mondays. (If you don’t know what cajeta is, consider yourself lucky—you don’t know what you’re missing. If you do know, grab a napkin. You’re drooling.)

Cajeta on the stove. Clean kitchen.

Switch laundry to dryer. Get a snack. Dirty plate. Clean kitchen.

Check email. Go for a walk with the goats and dogs because, at this point, I need to be outdoors or I will fuse to my kitchen floor.

Return home. Lunchtime! More dirty dishes. Clean kitchen. Fold laundry. Cajeta’s done. Strain it, jar it, refrigerate it. Clean kitchen.

Make a batch of ricotta because apparently I’ve given up on sitting down today. Clean kitchen.

By the time Jim rolls in from work, I’m back at it again—cooking supper and mentally preparing myself for the next round of. . . yep. . . you guessed it: Clean. Kitchen.

Are you picking up on a pattern here? Because The Never Ending Kitchen is real, folks. I think it’s been cursed. Or enchanted. Or possessed by the ghost of June Cleaver with a bad attitude and a sink fetish.

Now, I know some folks would say, “Why not just do it all at once? Let the mess build up and clean it once at the end of the day.” And to those people I say: “How do you live like that?!” I can’t function in chaos. I start twitching when the spatula’s in the sink instead of the drawer. It’s not a choice—it’s survival.

So I clean as I go. And go. And go. Some days, it feels like I’m trapped in an endless loop of suds and crumbs, like I’ve been sentenced to some sort of culinary purgatory. But at least I’m not barefoot and pregnant. Just barefoot and mildly unhinged.

Stay strong, my fellow dish warriors. We may not win the battle, but we will wipe down that counter one more time.

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Well, Well, Well

The work crew showed up this week to start digging the new well for our fancy-pants geothermal heating system. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled at the idea of not having to spend another winter hauling in enough firewood to heat a small village. But my lawn, folks. MY LAWN.

It was beautiful. It was lush. It was the result of years of careful neglect, the kind of natural beauty that only comes when you let the grass grow wild, mow it semi-regularly, and raise broiler chickens on it. And now? Now it looks like a herd of caffeinated hogs held a motocross tournament.

Seriously, if you dropped someone in my yard right now, blindfolded, they’d swear we were digging for Civil War artifacts. Or hiding a body. Or both.

My grandson, in his innocent voice—you know the one: soft, sweet, and usually followed by a comment that’ll make you reevaluate your parenting skills—looked out the window and said, “Gram, how long did it take you to grow the grass that nice?”

I just stared at him. “Longer than your last three Call of Duty marathons, your summer vacation, and that awkward family reunion where Aunt Linda wouldn't stop talking about her bunions.” That grass was a masterpiece. It had texture. It had soul. And now it’s just battlefield debris.

But you know what? If it means I don’t have to get up at 5 a.m. to thaw my eyelashes and split wood like a pioneer woman possessed, then so be it. Let the dirt fly. Geothermal is the future. And if I have to reseed the entire yard while muttering like an over-caffeinated groundskeeper, then that’s just part of the price of progress.

Now, of course, no construction project on this farm would be complete without the OGOC (Official Goat Oversight Committee.)

The moment the truck pulled up, the goats swarmed like a group of nosy neighbors who heard a rumor about free food and outrageous gossip. Heads high, ears twitching, and tails wagging with anticipation, they lined up to supervise like they were union foremen with performance quotas to meet.

If you’ve never been stared down by a team of goats while someone’s operating heavy machinery, let me tell you, it’s unsettling. There’s something about that wide-eyed, sideways glance they give you that says, “You didn’t measure that trench properly, Steve. And we both know it.”

One particularly bossy doe, Alice, took up a post next to the trench like she was waiting to give a TED Talk on soil composition. Another made a grab for the neon survey flag like it was a salad bar special. Twice. I caught a third attempting to climb onto the drilling rig, presumably to check the hydraulic fluid or give the operator a critique on his digging technique.

At one point, however, the work crew threatened to mutiny if I didn’t get the goats behind the fence. Apparently, it’s difficult to operate heavy machinery with a goat licking the control panel, another chewing on your tool belt, and a third trying to scale your leg like you’re a human jungle gym. One of the guys said it felt like working in a petting zoo run by anarchists. I told him, “Welcome to the farm. Now duck—she’s about to sneeze hay in your face.”

So we compromised. I bribed the herd with a bucket of grain and herded them into a pen, where they immediately began plotting their escape like it was the final act of The Great Escape: Ruminant Edition. They bleated their displeasure loud enough to make the drilling rig backfire.

But the hole got drilled, the piping is in, and someday soon that warm, toasty heat will be flowing into the house without me having to split another log or sweep up a metric ton of bark chips.

And as for my poor, mangled lawn? It’ll come back. Eventually. Hopefully. If not, I’ll turn it into a goat yoga studio and call it landscaping with purpose.

So if you’re ever feeling too confident about your home improvement project, just invite a few goats to supervise. They’ll humble you real quick, destroy your sense of order, and by the end, you’ll be grateful if all they ate were your blueprints.

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