December 27th, and it’s gray. The Midwest has a way of graying out during the month of November and staying gray until February. Days like today, it looks mostly the same outside at 8:00 am that it does at 4:00 in the afternoon.
I’ve been feeling as gray as today’s sky. I think we all have times like this, times when each day is just a push from morning to night, an effort to get from the start of your day to the finish in one piece. If I’m being completely honest, 2015 has been one of the most difficult years on record for me. I’ve felt in chaos more than I’ve felt safe, and more days have proved a struggle than I care to admit. It’s easy to get lost in that, forget that everything with a beginning eventually has an end.
How I’ve missed you. Last I posted, I wrote about how we can do hard things. Since then, well, I’ve mostly been doing those hard things. Under my breath, every day, “I can do hard things…I can do hard things…I can do hard things.” And guys? It’s getting easier. (My mother-in-law bought me a print, just to remind me; I hung it on the wall in my bedroom. (It’s an Etsy thing; you can find the print here if you like.) It’s one of the first things I see when I wake up and one of the last things I see before I go to bed. And I think it helps.) Continue reading “Autumn –Or– We can still do hard things.”→
Jeremiah pulled the covers back and kissed me goodbye at about 7:30. I was still in bed, unmotivated to get up and start my Sunday.
“I put fly masks on the horses and scrubbed the trough. The stalls are clean, and the water buckets are filled. The chickens are fed. The barn cats are let out. And don’t let our cats convince you to give them second breakfast” [for those of you who haven’t met them, our house cats are basically hobbits…] “because I just fed them too.”
I rolled over to say thank you when a rooster crowed in the distance, as though he knew he’d been left out.
“Oh, right,” Jeremiah continued, “I let the chickens out too.”
Jeremiah is gone a lot for work, especially lately, but when he has time, he does a sweep of the barn before leaving so that I don’t have to worry about such things immediately. He will be gone for four days, another trip east. This one is to outfit his shoeing trailer and ride with a fellow farrier for a few days. The last trip was for three clinics. The next will be for a clinic and a number of distant consult cases and closer client stops. While he’s gone I’m here with the creatures, and the property, and my job. Everyday looks like sixty-two creatures, two barns (eight stalls), one very big chicken coop, and that’s just before I go to work…
Usually, it’s fine. I love this place and these creatures, and, I’ve said it before, there is a certain zen to cleaning stalls that I have yet to find anywhere else except maybe a yoga studio. (Like yoga! But with manure!!!)
But, if I’m telling the truth, the yoke of this place is heavy, heavier to carry alone. And there is always uncertainty in it. The skid steer is broken right now. It needs five-hundred dollars worth of repairs. And we will get it done. We always do. But my car needs tires too, and the house needs a new roof desperately. And the propane bill is coming due…and, and, and… Continue reading “I can do hard things.”→
Several months ago, I was asked to host my sister’s bridal shower. (She’s getting married in August.) I agreed. A date was set. All I had to do then was everything else.
Here’s my confession: Generally speaking, I hate “showers” (the party, not the method of cleaning oneself…just to clarify). Baby showers. Bridal showers. Not sure if it’s the cheesy games or the social obligation or just the fact that I’m a raging introvert, and I find such parties (populated largely with people I don’t know) completely exhausting, but I just don’t enjoy them. I attend them willingly and fairly often, knowing that attendance at such events and the gifts we bring do mean something, but I have never been the sort of person who gets excited about them.
Anyway, when faced with hosting such a party myself, I decided that I wanted it to be different from “normal” bridal showers. Mostly, I decided, hosting a normal bridal shower would make me want to stab myself in the eye with a fork, and that seemed unpleasant. So, like any good millennial, I went straight to Pinterest. And I typed “bridal shower” into the search bar. And it came back with a million and one possibilities, most of which seemed to involve making “wedding gowns” out of toliet paper…because that’s totally a thing. There were wine tasting bridal showers and coffee shop bridal showers and strawberry field bridal showers…the list of possibilities is endless really. But none of them seems quite right. And while it was tempting to throw a bunch of wine at a commonly boring party and see what happened, it also seemed a little dangerous.
“No wine.” I thought, sadly, clicking on yet another list of themes. And so it was that I found our theme, a blip on the radar. Hmmmmm…Alice in Wonderland. And it all sort of came flooding back. The trip to Florida where my sister played “Alice” over and over and over in the van’s VCR. Nothing else allowed. (As younger sister I didn’t really have a say.) The “Alice” dress she cherished with the white rabbit on the apron. It was decided. For better or for worse, my sister’s bridal shower would be “Alice in Wonderland” themed.
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.
Almost Farmgirl 