Out here on the ranch, we are at the peak of our egg season. Most of my fully grown hens lay an egg a day during the summer, which equals 5 to 6 eggs per day. In the fall, my little ones will start laying as well.
In the winter, they lay far fewer eggs. We have chosen not to artificially light our coop, which means our girls take their natural “break,” molting and slowing down their egg production for the season.
Next summer, I will be swimming in eggs. With a dozen chickens joining our flock this year, hopefully all hens, I will be getting well over a dozen eggs a day.
Beautiful, fresh eggs from spoiled rotten chickens.
Many of you know that eggs are at a premium right now, with the avian flu taking out millions of commercial birds at a time. Additionally, California is finally legislating more humane conditions for laying hens; if you ask me, that’s a step in the right direction, but it will also require an increase in egg prices. (God willing, other states will follow suit.)
All of this is just to say that, for the first in any sort of recent history, commercial egg prices are starting to creep up close to organic prices.
We pulled down the lane to sprawling pastures, rustic buildings. There was a pen full of horses to our right. The horses were screaming and running around like lunatics as two young handlers seemed to be working to catch them, or maybe just calm them down.
“That doesn’t look encouraging.”
Jeremiah shook his head no, exasperation apparent.
“Part of me just wants to turn around and leave now.”
We had just pulled into the drive at a local summer camp. A new client of Jeremiah’s, they had called for trims earlier in the week. He scheduled with them–seventeen local trims in an afternoon is nothing to sneeze at–but he was vaguely nervous about the whole experience. He last experience with summer camps had led him to a corral full of ill-behaved horses with completely green handlers. (And by that I mean that they literally had never worked with horses before. Ever.) He was concerned that this one would be the same, an accident just waiting to happen.
I came along just in case. If no one there knew how to hold a horse for trimming, I was there to pick up the slack and try to keep Jeremiah safe. I would be able to manage vaguely naughty animals, but if they were truly dangerous, we would leave.
They were screaming and carrying on as we pulled up next to the horse barn and parked alongside a beater truck that probably belonged to the camp. As we climbed out, we were introduced to the director of the equine program at camp. She was on the shorter side with long, dark hair. Only twenty years old, a fact that she kept apologizing for, she was the one in charge of the seventeen horses in the corral and soon to be in charge of all the children who would ride them. As we made introductions, I watch another girl, her helper, climb out of the horse pasture carrying a fawn.
The director glanced over.
“I’m so sorry about the horses. They were spooked by the fawn just a few minutes ago and took off running.”
I think Jeremiah may have breathed an audible sigh of relief at that. When spooked, even good horses sometimes behave badly.
I watched the helper carry the fawn to the shade.
“How’s Bambi?” I asked.
The director shook her head. “Bambi got trampled by the horses, and I think she has a broken leg. I don’t think she’ll make it.”
… Continue reading “Oh Honey.”→
A few weeks ago, I spent most of a Saturday building a turkey playpen in the yard. You guys remember our little turkey peeps, don’t you? The three little misfits my husband brought home around the middle of April?
I’ve been amazed by these little guys. They are remarkable social birds, both amongst themselves and with us. They decided early on that we were pretty awesome (probably because of our apparent never-ending supply of mealworms), and they call and coo for us when they see us nearby.
Well, a few weeks back, I decided that they were big enough to spend some of their time outdoors, especially while I cleaned their brooder, so I set this up in the front yard.
Nothing fancy. Just four panels with chicken wire and garden netting, held in place by zip ties. I would haul the turkeys out of the basement in a cat carrier and leave them in their playpen for the afternoon while we did work around the farm. But honestly? They liked it best when I sat with them. They would prance around, but coming running back to me peeping when frightened, such as when the barn cat seemed to think they’d be tasty.
I really grew to like the turkeys, but one of them, named Igor, became an easy favorite. He came running when he saw us. He liked being picked up. When he was frightened, he not only came running back peeping, but he tried to jump into my lap as I sat, legs folded, in the grass.
I named him Igor because of a slight limp.
At first, the limp seemed quirky. I had a chicken with a similar issue, and she did just fine. She sort of waddled like a duck when she ran, which was actually kind of endearing and cute.
But, unlike my hen, a heritage breed chicken, Igor started growing really fast. And the limp got worse.
I remember sitting in the playpen with the turkeys and noticing that when Igor ran, he tripped, occasionally falling. I thought maybe it was an issue with the un-level ground. We called the vet to ask if there was anything that could be done. Maybe the leg could be splinted? Perhaps there was something lacking in their diet?
Jeremiah and our vet had a lengthy conversation about turkeys. (Our vet is good for lengthy conversations.) Among other things, we were informed that our peeps were not, in fact, the native turkey species of our area. Rather, they were a genetically modified variant bred to look like the native species. Our guys were created to be fast growing, quick to move from brooder to supper table.
Therein lay the problem. My poor Igor, never destined for the supper table, was growing more size more quickly than his bone structure could support. His leg was splaying out from the hip. And the vet said there was nothing at all that we could do to help him. The leg couldn’t be fixed.
We held off doing anything for a couple of days. Then one day Jeremiah noticed that Igor couldn’t stand up in his brooder or on the cement basement floor. And it sucked so hard, but we knew when he couldn’t stand that the kindest thing was to put him down.
I walked in to check on our chicks before bed, and I realized that there were only two turkey peeps in their brooder. Moment later, Jeremiah walked in, gun in hand. He didn’t say anything, but I knew straight away what had been done.
He didn’t tell me first, but I can’t blame him for that. It took everything in him to end things for Igor, even if it was the only kind thing to do. And, I helped make the call. The responsibility rested on both of us, but he was the one who had to pull the trigger, and I don’t envy him that.
I was sad about it for days. Both of us were.
…
Our two remaining turkeys moved into the chicken coop a few days ago. They have mostly adjusted, even though our rooster was a bit of an ass about it, and they are generally doing well. They still run to greet us, and they happily eat from our hands and allow us to pet them.
I like them. And they may be Jeremiah’s current favorite creatures. But I haven’t named either of them. I’m not sure why.
…
And here’s what I’ve been thinking ever since: A few weeks ago, we had to shoot our pet because his body couldn’t quite withstand the way people had genetically modified his species.
And it made me think about the way we tinker with nature. Halter horses bred for such a dished face that they can’t breathe properly. Bulldogs that can’t give birth without a C-section. Turkeys and chickens that grow too big, too fast and can’t walk for the meat weight they carry.
And I’m left wondering, what on earth makes us think we have the right?
Author’s note: I know a lot of people have very strong feelings on this sort of thing. Feel free to express your opinion…politely.
So, out here in the Midwest Springtime means a lot of things: Warmer weather. Longer days. Allergies (or is that one more just me?). And… mushroom season.
Morel Mushrooms are wild, and delicious, and native. Unlike their cousins that you find in supermarkets, they’re almost impossible to cultivate. If you have a taste for them, you have to search them out in the woods (or pay roughly $50 a pound for them…).
I’m a very casual mushroom hunter. I’m thrilled when I find them, but I kind of just use them as an excuse to disappear into the woods for an hour or two. There are other people who nearly make a religion out of the hunt, paying homage to the mushroom god Morel and telling tales of their encounters time and time again. The pilot lounge at the airport (where I work) has been abuzz with rumors of sightings for the last week. So I thought I’d check things out.
Jeremiah thinks I’m nuts…or that I’m going to poison myself. I keep telling him that no other mushroom can be mistaken for a morel, but I’m not sure he believes me.
I changed into long sleeves and threw on a hat. Jeremiah asked me if it was my mushroom hunting hat; I said that it’s my “I really hate ticks and don’t want them in my hair” hat. He seemed astonished.
“Ticks? In your hair?”
Apparently, with his flat-top haircut, this is unheard of. But I’m not crazy, right? Getting ticks in your hair is totally a thing.
I took off down our back road, wandering past the llama barn where the llamas paid me no mind.
In fact, no one paid me any mind…except my sweet old man, Cinco.
Cinco followed me along the fence line of the horse pasture, stopping in front of me to request some of the long grass that had grown up along the other side of the fence (where the grass really is greener…).
Then I popped out to look at the site of my future outdoor arena. I knew I wouldn’t find any mushrooms there, but I like to wander out and stare at it sometimes. And dream about the day when we can afford to haul in the materials to finish it.
And dream about all the time I will spend riding my ponies under the pines.
Isn’t it lovely?
Then, since all quests need a villain, and this mushroom quest is no different, I present to you POISON IVY!
I’m not sure what these are, but they kind of look like little stars. And they’re lovely. And they’re all over this time of year.
And of course, the wild violets are everywhere. A ground cover in places.
When I was little, I used to pick bouquets of wild violets for my mom and put them in a tiny vase with dandelions. The violets I used to pick were purple or lavender or white.
I didn’t even know they came in yellow until I was older.
The may apples are up as well, covering our trails.
But they aren’t blooming yet.
Then I walked under a fallen reminder that we need to clear the trail if we ever want to ride back here with horses
And I noticed a tree just beside that one that had been down so long it had almost taken care of itself. Ashes to ashes…to ummm…moss.
These little flowers are all over. They remind me of bleeding hearts, but instead of hearts, their tiny flowers look like butterflies.
Another tree across the trail, this one more recent. I had to climb through it. *Mumbles something about needing to clear trail*
More flowers! Bluebells!
Anybody notice what I hadn’t seen yet? If you’re thinking mushrooms, you’re right. I kind of think it’s still a little early. Or maybe I just missed them.
Here’s the thing about morels: they aren’t very big, and they’re roughly the same color as the forest floor.
Hey, look! A Jack-in-the-Pulpit .
Also, can we just take a moment to appreciate that this is in my backyard?
But alas, still no morels.
So back down the trail to our farm road. I’ll try again when the may apples bloom.
Wish me luck!
P.S. – My blogger friend over at The Wicked Chicken takes a weekly walk kind of like this one but with better photos. If you’re into nature photography, you should check her out.
There are days when our little corner of the world starts to feel like the Island of Misfit Toys…except, instead of toys, we have creatures, and they don’t really seem in a hurry to leave.
Still, just from where I sit in our sunroom, I see a one-time alley cat who hates outside, a one-time barn cat who was literally too dumb to survive in the barn, and a German Shepherd with hip dysplasia and allergies to pretty much everything (like me!). Out in the pastures, I have two mini-ponies rescued from New Holland, an off the track thoroughbred who wasn’t nearly fast enough, and more rescued llamas than you can shake a stick at… And, in my basement…Turkeys.
Our latest misfits are Turkeys. I am now officially sharing my home with large poultry (but only until they’re big enough to go outside).
My husband brought them home…
You see, my husband…
Well, some of you are familiar with him…
Let Him Eat Cake!Kilt ManPilot in Command…
He’s…different…
Erm…I mean complex.
On the one hand, he’s a former professional firefighter, former cop, trained farrier, trained sniper who has been in more intense situations than anyone else I’ve ever met. (Jeremiah once called me to let me know that he had gotten in a fistfight with a professional boxer who had been beating on his girlfriend…SWAT ended up being called in that day.) On the other hand, he’s a total goofball and one of the most compassionate people I’ve ever known. (Such aspects of his personality are lesser known; this post is totally going to mess with his image…)
A few weeks ago, while I was at the office, he was charged with running to the feed store to pick up some of the farm necessities that we always seem to be running out of. While he was there, he wandered over to the chicks. All they had were turkeys, and three of them were separated out from the rest. Apparently, those three were picked on by the other, bigger turkeys, necessitating their move.
As he was speaking with the clerk, a big guy in camo wandered by. Upon hearing that the little ones in front of him got picked on, he interjected.
“Oh, that’s easy. If they get picked on you just kill ’em younger. Makes good eatin.”
And that’s when my firefighter, cop, sniper, farrier husband who forges his own swords said, “Nope. They’re mine. I’ll take them.”
Moments later, he posted this photo to Facebook
“Cherity left my unsupervised and they looked sad… I have peeps!”
I’m not sure what we’re going to do with our turkey friends once they get bigger, but I do know they won’t end up on our dinner plates. This trio is safe.
For now, they’re living it up in the basement…
Shakin’ their tail feathers…
And discovering the joy of mealworms. These guys think Jeremiah is pretty great; they follow him around with enthusiasm when given the chance.
And really, when you have 50+ animals, what’s three more misfits???
P.S. – Welcome to all of you recent subscribers. I’m so glad to have you here!
My husband is prone to mayhem. I’m not sure why (though I do have a theory that’s loosely based on the Percy Jackson novels) but weird things happen to him, or around him, almost daily. (Want an example? He’s been dead three times…) Nothing surprises me anymore.
So, Monday morning, as we drove out towards the highway on our way to Wildlife Prairie State Park with an injured Turkey Vulture in the backseat, I found myself in a state of disbelief that this felt so completely normal. And when the vulture sharted on my backseat cover, I just took another sip of my coffee. We rolled the back windows down. And we kept trucking.
We called the Turkey Vulture Dante. Jeremiah had nearly hit him with my Jetta the day before; the poor thing had been stumbling around a road, nearly blind and dazed by a brush with an automobile. Jeremiah had watched him in the rearview mirror for a few moments before stopping the car and going back for him.
“Well, sometimes God puts obstacles in your way that are rather hard to avoid. Like, you will take out the ditch trying to avoid them kind of obstacles. Everyone, I would like you to meet my obstacle of the day, the injured and blind turkey vulture that wandered out into the road. His name is Dante, and we will traveling together today.”
He gave Dante his lunch and they began the drive back to the ranch together.
Dante with Jeremiah’s lunch
On the ride home, Jeremiah learned some new vulture facts. For example, when a vulture poops in your car, the only course of action is to evacuate the vehicle…and wait. Also, vultures (or maybe just Dante) grow agitated when listening to Taylor Swift, but they chill out and jam to Johnny Cash. (They listened to Johnny Cash all the way home after making this discovering, because no matter how much you enjoy listening to “Blank Space,” it isn’t worth an agitated vulture in the backseat.)
Dante during the Jetta evacuation
Jeremiah planned to find a rehabilitator or rescue for Dante, but it was Sunday evening, so the search had to wait until the next day. In the meantime, Jeremiah laid down some straw in our feed room, hooked up a heat light, and gave Dante some food and water. We left him there through the night, basking soundly in the glow of the heat lamp.
Dante basking under the heat lamp
I know this may sound strange, but I’m a fan of vultures. A few years ago, I attended a information session about birds of prey that featured some rehabilitated birds. Though not nearly as striking as the eagles or the owls, the turkey vultures stole the show. They were funny and interactive and seemed to really enjoy showing off for the people. Vultures get a bad rap, but they serve a vital purpose in the ecosystem. Rather than kill prey, these birds feed on what has already died. Their digestive systems sanitize what they eat, preventing the spread of disease throughout a population. They are nature’s clean up crew, and they really are very cool animals.
The next morning, Jeremiah began the search for a rehabilitator, planning to look locally first, then start to work through a list that my blogger friend over at Day by Day the Farm Girl Way sent me. Fortunately, Wildlife Prairie Park (less than an hour away) agreed to take him, so we loaded him up in the backseat and drove out.
We pulled around at the front entrance where they were expecting us. They had a small kennel set up for Dante, where he would wait until their bird keeper picked him up. We made a small cash donation towards his care and left, feeling grateful that someone was willing to give him a shot.
…
Unfortunately, Dante had to be euthanized later that day. He had more injuries than we knew, and he went into seizures. I was saddened by the news, but glad that Jeremiah had picked him up off the road, that the old guy hadn’t died slowly on the side of the highway, scared and confused. The night Dante spent in the barn, it had brutally stormed. Trees came down; thunder crashed so loudly that I woke halfway through the night. And I was glad that the old guy was tucked in safe and sound and warm. Even though no one could have saved him, we helped make his last night far more comfortable, and that is something that all God’s creatures deserve.
…
I emailed my blogger friend when I found out that Dante was euthanized. I knew I would post about it, and I wanted to tell her via email before she read about it on my blog.
I wrote, saying,
“I plan on posting about this whole experience, but I wanted to let you know first. We got an update from wildlife that they humanely euthanized Dante yesterday. He was apparently very old (the zoologist used the word ancient) for a vulture, and he had a head trauma. By the time she saw him, he was having seizures. There was nothing they could do beyond give him a peaceful end.
I wish it would have turned out better, but I’m glad he didn’t die alone, terrified, and confused by the side of the road. There was a massive storm across the Midwest the night he stayed with us, and he got to spend it in a dry room with a heat lamp instead of dying in a ditch.
Thank you for your help. Thank you mostly for your reassurance that we did the right thing.”
Her reply was sweet and thoughtful. I asked her permission to share it with you.
“Cherity, I’m so sorry. I had a feeling he might have been old by the looks of his head. I’m also not surprised at his injury. Many large birds are hit while feasting on roadkill. Especially this time of year when parents are looking to feed their young. Forrest and I have transported many male owls and hawks to WildCare during the spring and summer months… hit by vehicles. I suspect since the males do most of the feeding of the young and the female (after the eggs hatch), they are very busy looking for meat to feed all of those mouths!
Dante was a magnificent bird… and you and Jeremiah are fortunate to have shared in the last of his life’s experience. You are the benefactors, and his life was not lived in vain (not that it would have been in vain at all – we are all here for the experience of knowing God/Universe). When you write about him, and your experience, you will have made his life all the more influential on humans. It was his gift to mankind to be a cleanser of the earth all of his life… and in the end, he was a gift for all of us, to understand showing kindness to those who need our help.
I believe that animals/birds/all life forms, read or sense energy. Dante knew the kindness of humans. He felt your touch, and your energy. Wouldn’t that be the best way to have the ending of life here on planet Earth? To know the kindness and love of another? Gentle hands placed on you with soft words and a sense of being cared for? When Jeremiah removed Dante from the chaos and terror of the pavement, he had to have known or sensed that something greater was happening. He probably knew his end was near… and death was imminent, but because of the kindness of you and your husband, and the people at the wildlife rescue, he knew goodness and kindness.
I am so proud of both you and Jeremiah. Thank you for including me in this experience. I look forward to reading your blog post about Dante. It is a beautiful story that should be shared with others.”
…
My husband was asked why he bothered to pick up a wounded buzzard. Jeremiah simply replied, “Because God put him in my way.” I think God puts opportunities to show kindness in our way, and I think Dante was one of those opportunities. And no kindness is ever wasted, even if it is just shown to a wounded buzzard.
A post by a fellow blogger reminded me of the days when we used to use the llamas as therapy animals. I wrote about it a long time ago and posted it when I had just a handful of followers. Here it is again. I hope you enjoy.
Some of you have expressed interest in learning about the critters, so I decided to start with the one who, for me, really started all of this crazy. Minnett Mann, my first gelding, is, and always has been, my sweet boy. I wrote the following during graduate school, about five years ago.
Just a Minnett
I’ve never been good at goodbyes, and, in August of 2005, when I stood at the gate of the Illinois State Fair cattle ring, waiting to show my favorite llama for what was supposed to be the last time, it felt far too much like a goodbye. He was four, considered an “adult male,” and was misbehaving. I was nineteen, barely an adult myself, and trying very hard not to cry. I knew that I would never walk into the show ring with Minnett again. I was going away for three months, and he would…
The scrap of metal against cedar shingles and the crashing sound the shingles made as they hit the ground outside of my living room told me that Jeremiah was still hard at work on the roof. He had been stripping that section for most of the day, an effort to get a watertight tarp over the leaking part before our near-week of rain began on Monday.
I didn’t want to bother him for evening chores, so I pulled a sweatshirt over my tank top and wandered out to the barn on my own to fill hay nets and otherwise attend to things. I walked into one of the stalls on the young side of the barn and untied a nearly empty net. The barn was mostly vacant, but First Class, a younger, white gelding, stood alone in the next stall munching hay.
First Class chillin’ in the barn.
First Class was born at the ranch. He was a cute as a button as a cria. (Cria, by the way, is the appropriate name for a baby llama or alpaca.) He used to be one of our most trustworthy, easy llamas. When he was younger, he accompanied us to nursing homes and preschools. He seemed to really enjoy that job, staying calm when other animals would have been thoroughly freaked.
He went to a new home when he was an adult. A very nice lady with a couple of goats and sheep bought him as a herd guard. She was new to llamas, but I worked with her myself for well over a month, teaching her to handle him properly. They were getting along splendidly.
Then she left for vacation.
When she came home, he was like a completely different animal. He ran away from everyone. He kicked. He spit. Suddenly, this gelding, who had been so good, was acting like an abuse or neglect case. It was as though he had been chased or threatened, and I wondered if teenagers (or someone) had spotted him from the road and slipped into his pen “to pet a llama” and that things had devolved from there. (And yes, when you have livestock, these are the sort of scenarios that you have to worry about…) All of that is really just supposition, but I was, and am, nearly certain that some kind of traumatic event occurred while she was gone. We tried to fix it, but he was scared or angry and she was timid and afraid. The combination made my efforts with them completely fruitless.
Eventually, once it became apparent that his behavior (fear, anger, whatever) was beyond his owner’s capabilities, L did what many breeders refuse to do and offered to take him back. He’s gotten somewhat better since then, but he still hates to be handled. I have my suspicions that with a lot of daily work he might be able to move past whatever hang up he has. At this point, I don’t have that much time to spare, so he is largely living the life of a lawn ornament. We really only mess with him when we have good reason.
Unfortunately, it was getting to be one of those times.
I’ve known for a while that his toenails desperately needed trimmed. (What law of the universe is it that ensures that the animals who like being handled the least end up needing it most often?) They were over long and starting to curl a bit. Typically, we keep the llama toenails trimmed regularly, and they never look like that, but First Class has a talent for turning a simple chore that should be done in roughly three minutes into a three ring circus.
I’ll just say that has a way of making us a bit lax getting his toes done.
But I was there, and he was there, so I shut the stall door, haltered him, and grabbed my trimmers from the feed room.
Usually, my very talented farrier husband does the toenail trimming around here, but, unlike the horses’ hooves that I wouldn’t dare touch, I am capable of trimming the llamas and alpacas. He quicker than me, and he tends to be able to trim shorter than I am able–I use hand shears; he uses nippers–but I’ve been doing that particular farm chore since well before he and I met.
Working as quickly as I could, I was able to trim three feet before First Class really started to get pissed. But at that point, he was kicking at me and spitting a warning in the air. That last foot wasn’t going to happen the way things were going.
I left him in the stall (to chill a bit) and wandered down to the back of the house where Jeremiah was working on the roof, asking him to give First Class a shot to calm him down a bit. He obliged, and I waited. In fact, I trimmed and wormed three other llamas (who wandered in to check on dinner) waiting for the shot to kick in.
Except it never did. Sometimes, with difficult llamas, their adrenaline and sheer force of will can trump lower level sedatives. I should have known First Class would pull off that trick.
But he was still there, and we were still there, and the damn toenails were still there with the very real capability of making him lame if we waited too long to trim them.
So I held his head, and Jeremiah pulled out his nippers. First Class spit. He tried to kick Jeremiah in the head. He laid down in the middle of the process, tucking his legs squarely underneath him. Basically, this llama pulled out every trick in the book to prevent us from completely a very basic task. When the llamas and alpacas stand as they should, it’s a task that literally takes two minutes. He was going on closer to twenty or thirty.
Pissy Face
…
By the time we finished trimming First Class, everyone involved was upset on some level. Jeremiah was irritated. First Class was still mad. I was emotionally exhausted and smelled faintly of llama spit. And it’s strange, because I was simultaneously upset with the adult gelding in front of me whose behavior was so antagonistic and sad for the cria I knew who had had such potential. And I wished I understood more what had happened to turn the one into the other, and I wondered if the cause mattered when either way I was left to deal with the effect.
But honestly, somewhere along the line, his issue boils down to the same issue that so many rescues have: at some point, a human failed him.
…
I have a friend halfway across the country dealing with the same issue with a horse she used to own. The mare had been sold young. She met her again years later. In the meantime, there had been trauma. (In the case of this mare, likely repeated and intentional trauma.) My friend bought the mare back, paying more than the animal was worth, to save her. For quite some time, she deemed the mare so dangerous that she wouldn’t allow anyone else to even pet her for fear that she might hurt them. (Of course, horses are capable of being far more dangerous than even the worst llama; my friend’s actions take far more bravery than mine, which mostly just require patience.)
…
In the days since the toenail incidents, something occurred to me: For all the drama that First Class still provides, a few years ago, it was worse.
Those first three toenails I managed on my own? That never would have happened. A few years ago, he had to be completely knocked out by the vet to be shorn and have his toenails trimmed.
And I guess I had hope.
Whatever happened to him, I think maybe it’s slowly working its way out of his system. Granted, it won’t happen quickly, and I have no doubt he will spend several more years making things more difficult than necessary, but I’m beginning to think he’ll come back around again.
…
My friend’s mare is slowly coming around again as well. We both occasionally see flashes of the animal we used to know, reminding us why we keep trucking along. For both of us, for both of the critters, there’s a solid chance we’re looking at a long road, but, now that I think about it, sometimes long roads are the path to the very best of destinations.
First Class, who for all of his issues, is still basically adorable.
I left for Costa Rica, and my husband went on quests and turned himself into a Legolas (yum) /Gandalf (ummm….) hybrid for the week. And by quests, I mean taking care of the farm and constructing things (like exceptionally apt signs), and by Legolas/Gandalf hybrid, I mean he did so while carrying a quiver and wearing a wizard’s hat.
(Interesting side note: He took this photo by himself using his skid steer as a tripod.)
This photo pretty much perfectly sums up my life. Here on the ranch, we live at the intersection of adult responsibilities and utter nonsense.
Just yesterday, someone asked me when I possibly find time to “just relax.” He was astounded that we both work outside jobs while renovating the house(s) and running the farm. I sort of laughed because that question has a different answer depending on the day.
On the one hand, sometimes it gets to be a lot, and I really question why I’m not the sort of person who goes to the spa or travels extensively, instead of the sort of person whose horses eat all my spare money in the form of hay…
On the other hand, there is a sort of Zen that comes from cleaning stalls, or grooming horses, or walking my fields. And very little gives me as much satisfaction as a good training session with one of my critters, or watching the flowers that I plant bloom, or making breakfast with eggs I collected from my own chicken coop the day before.
I mean, really, does life get any better than watching a chicken ride a llama???
When the coop door blew shut during the day, Miss Marilyn took stock of her options and decided that Joker would make a pleasant roost.Joker opened the feed room door to alert Jeremiah that a chicken was roosting on his butt. He required assistance to remove her.
(The llama was less amused than we were…He was very polite to her, but Jeremiah said it was clear he preferred his butt to be chickenless.)
…
These days, things are greening up, and we are starting to shift focus to a whole new sort of work. Fences need mending. Our farm road is in need of repair. The gardens need weeding. Shearing is just around the corner for the llamas and alpacas. New chicks are on order to come in a few weeks. (Sadly, I’ve lost a few chickens to predators this week…but that’s a different post.) Horses will be starting back under saddle soon. And hopefully the ponies will start work towards their eventual jobs as therapy animals this year. There is so much to do, and we seldom check anything off our to-dos without adding more. But this place and this work is my “relax.”
Come to think of it though, I wouldn’t say no to a nice massage to wind down from “relaxing”…
Women in America are doing alright. I mean, the majority of the people living here agree that women are people with rights, they are allowed to vote, they can wear pants, etc. It’s just accepted that while they *can* do everything, they might not be as good at it—women aren’t as strong, so they aren’t as important in the military or any sort of heavy manual labor, and their brains are too clouded with emotions to handle science or math. They have their strengths talents though—they are much better at cleaning, and their constant, shrill nagging is how dumb man-beasts function once they become husbands, and especially after becoming fathers (dads are the DUMBEST).
This is what I’m picking up from modern, American advertising, anyway. After watching one hour of daytime television, I’ve compiled a pretty thorough list of items that men and women use, and who uses what.
Almost Farmgirl 