Obituary

Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who has been with us for many years. No one knows for sure how old he was, since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape. He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as: Knowing when to come in out of the rain, why the early bird gets the worm, life isn't always fair, and maybe it really was my fault. 

Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you  earn) and reliable strategies (adults, not children, are in charge).

His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well-intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place. Reports of a 6-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate, teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch, and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition. 

Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job that they themselves had failed to do in disciplining their unruly children. It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer sun lotion or an aspirin to a student but could not inform parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion. 

Common Sense lost the will to live as the churches became businesses and criminals received better treatment than their victims. He took a further beating when you couldn't defend yourself from a burglar in your own home and the burglar could sue you for assault. Common Sense finally gave up the will to live after a woman failed to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement. 

Common Sense was preceded in death by his parents, Truth and Trust, by his wife, Discretion, by his daughter, Responsibility, and by his son, Reason. He is survived by his 4 stepbrothers: I Know My Rights, I Want It Now, Someone Else Is To Blame, and I'm A Victim. 

Not many attended his funeral because so few realized he was gone. If you still remember him, pass this on. 

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Sccool?

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

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SUCCESS!!!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then—breakthrough!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Grandson's Eagle Scout Project

Click to enlarge so you can read it:

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

If the sun’s up, the animals are up—and if the animals are up, so am I.

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

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

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

Enter Roxie and Jack.

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

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

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

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

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

Roxie and Jack don’t punch a clock. They don’t ask for overtime. And they sure don’t take coffee breaks. But they do earn their pay—two squares a day, all the praise they can handle, and the occasional strip of bacon slipped under the table.

Good help is hard to find. But a good dog, especially one with a rocket for a nickname and a sidekick who thinks she hung the moon? Worth their weight in dog food, belly rubs, and the warmest spot by the woodstove.

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July 27, 1948 - A Very Important Date in History

July 27, 1948 — a day that should be circled on every calendar in the free world, etched into stone tablets, and possibly declared a global holiday. Now, if you consult the official historical record, you might be underwhelmed. There's no moon landing, no royal wedding, no world-shifting event that would stop the presses. But dig a little deeper (say… into the birthday section), and you'll find that this day did, in fact, gift the world with greatness.

Let’s take a look:

1. Peggy Fleming – Olympic gold medalist figure skater, Hall of Famer, and all-around glider of grace. She made it look like defying gravity was as easy as putting on socks. She brought home America’s only gold in the 1968 Winter Olympics and went on to twirl her way into our living rooms and hearts for decades.

   

2. Betty Thomas – Emmy-winning actress and director who proved that women could not only steal scenes (Hill Street Blues, anyone?) but also steal the director’s chair and make comedy magic happen (The Brady Bunch Movie, Private Parts, and many others). She’s got style, smarts, and sass — and I’d like to think that’s a theme for everyone born on this fine day.

3. ME!!! – Yes, yours truly. Born on this illustrious date, forever cementing July 27, 1948, as the day the world got just a little more interesting, a lot more sarcastic, and infinitely more stubborn about how things should be done. I may not have a gold medal or an Emmy (yet — hey, the day’s not over), but I’ve wrangled goats, raised a family, survived the 1970s and shoulder pads, and still manage to operate power tools without adult supervision. That’s gotta count for something.

So the next time you flip past July 27 on your calendar, pause for a moment of reverence. Light a candle. Bake a cake. Name a goat. Do something to honor the sheer awesomeness that this day represents.

Because on this day in 1948, history didn’t just whisper — it cleared its throat and said, “Buckle up.”

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3 Bean Salad

Well, look who's making a comeback — the garden! After suffering a tragic case of “death by goat” over the July 4th weekend (because nothing says ‘freedom’ like hoofprints in your broccoli), it's finally pulling itself together. Honestly, I wasn’t sure it would. I nearly held a memorial service next to the compost pile.

But hope springs eternal — or at least it re-sprouts if you replant fast enough and glare menacingly at the fence every time a goat walks by.

The squash and cucumbers are making up for lost time, flaunting more blossoms than a prom corsage stand. The beans and peas are hustling to prove they belong in the garden and not a petting zoo disaster film. The second-round broccoli and cauliflower are looking cautiously optimistic, probably muttering among themselves, “Just lay low. Maybe the goats won’t notice us this time.”

The tomatoes —, bless their squashed little hearts —, weren’t eaten, just flattened in the panicked goat exodus as my English Shepherds reenacted the Normandy invasion: barking, snarling, and herding like their doggie diplomas depended on it.

And now for the harvest update… drumroll, please…

I picked three green beans today.

Yup. Three.

Count ‘em: one, two, three. (Yes, I did. Out loud. In the garden. With the dog looking at me like I’d lost what’s left of my marbles.)

So, naturally, I’m having a Three Bean Salad for lunch. Heavy on the optimism, light on the actual salad. Might have to supplement it with a slice of cheese and a prayer.

But hey, it’s a start. Victory gardens didn’t win the war in a day either.

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Enter to win a Trekker 72-hour kit

Over at A Homesteading Neophyte you can enter to win a Trekker 72 hour kit from Emergency Essentials. You can also pledge to blog for 24 hours straight to raise money to help the Downed Bikers Association. It's for a good cause so take a click over there and check it out. The contest ends 7/31 at midnight.

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Talon Looks "Official"

Well folks, it’s happened. Talon got his harness this week, and let me tell you—he looks official. I mean, if there was a DMV for horses, this boy would be standing in line with his paperwork filled out, waiting to get his equine license and a vanity plate that says "HOOFINIT."

After a slow start—you remember, the whole “sensitive” thing (aka hiding behind the trainer and then behind a rock… yeah, that start)—he's finally decided he might not die from wearing tack. He's now actually ground driving, and looking pretty darn pleased with himself about it too. Blinders on, reins draped over his rump like he was born for it, head held high like, “Yes, peasant, I am majestic.”

Tomorrow I get to go visit, and I’m bringing his cart with me to replace the one the trainer has tried to introduce. No promises, but the trainer says he might be ready to hitch up in another week. I am cautiously optimistic and wildly giddy at the same time. Not sure who’s more excited, me, or Talon. Actually, no, it’s definitely me. Talon’s still deciding if the cart is a friend, a foe, or a mobile snack bar.

I’m also looking forward to learning how to drive myself. Hopefully it involves fewer bruises than learning to ride did. And fewer runaway moments that end with me yelling things like “I’m not ready for this level of horsepower!”

Seriously though—doesn’t he look like an old pro? I’m so impressed with how far he’s come. He’s traded in ‘shy guy’ for ‘show-off’ and it suits him just fine. 

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Now That Gets My Goat!

 

Why is it that on a farm with goats, the things that really get your goat almost always involve. . . well, goats?

Seriously, anyone who doesn’t have goats probably thinks they’re all sunshine, skipping, and milk commercials. Ha! Goats are like toddlers with crowbars and nothing but time. They spend every waking moment plotting how to break, eat, climb, destroy, or escape. And they’re brilliant. I’m not even convinced they’re animals—I’m pretty sure they’re a small, hairy demolition crew with hooves.

Take Saturday, for example.

It was a quiet morning—too quiet, as any seasoned farm gal will tell you. I was just about to sit down with my herb tea when the dogs went berserk. Not just the “Hey, someone’s pulling into the driveway” bark. No, this was the “INVASION! EVERYBODY PANIC!” bark.

I stepped onto the deck and saw it: my garden… my beautiful, hard-won, back-breaking, sweat-drenched garden. . . under siege.

And there they were—the goats. The inmates had organized a full prison break!

They weren’t just nibbling. Not even casually sampling. No, they were throwing a full-blown brunch. Frolicking like toddlers at a trampoline park, tails in the air, broccoli bits hanging from their lips like it was dollar margarita night at Applebee’s.

Peas? Gone. Broccoli? Gone. Cauliflower? Gone. Corn? Let’s just say it didn’t stand a chance. The blueberry bushes were untouched, but they had cleaned off every single blueberry. The only survivors were the tomatoes (which apparently didn’t pass muster), the summer squash and zucchini (miraculously unscathed), and the radishes—because, let’s face it, not even goats like radishes.

And do you think they looked even slightly guilty when I came stomping down in my barn boots like an angry landlady? Nope. They looked up at me like, “Oh hey, you’re just in time. We’re harvesting the garden for you.”

So, after wrangling the criminal element back into their pen (which is starting to resemble a goat version of Alcatraz), I headed to the farm store to see if they had any vegetable plants left. At this point in the season, I figured my best hope was a display of dusty seed packets and maybe a plastic carrot.

But miracle of miracles—they still had plants. Not great plants, mind you. These were the Charlie Brown Christmas Tree version of veggies: wilted, sad, probably already questioning their will to live. But they were five bucks for a full flat. And pumpkins were free. Free! I guess everyone else had given up on pumpkins this late in the game. Not me. With the way things are going, I might need a Cinderella moment before fall.

Then came the replanting. I picked the hottest day of the summer for this, because of course I did. I was sweating like a sinner at a tent revival, dirt in places I don’t even want to talk about, and one of the goats kept hollering from across the fence like she was the victim in all this. “Excuse me, human! We noticed you forgot to replant the kale!”

So now we wait. The frost usually hits us right around the first week of September, which gives my new plants about oh. . . three weeks to get their act together and produce something worth eating.

If we have a very warm summer. . .

If I fertilize like I’m prepping for the county fair. . .

If the goats don’t stage another jailbreak. . .

And if I can string up more fencing, add a padlock, a moat, and maybe hire a goat whisperer with a taser. . .
Then maybe—just maybe—we’ll end the season with a harvest instead of another episode of “Goat Gone Wild.”

Well—miracles can happen.

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