The one where we moved in and then moved back out again…in less than a week.

I spent the morning riding a 17.3hh Friesian Sport horse.  It was a nice change of pace to do something purely for the enjoyment of it, not because it had to be done.  My lesson went exceedingly well, and I left feeling positively gleeful.  That was also a nice change.

The past few days have involved a lot of…erm…poo…hitting a really big fan…metaphorically speaking.  (Probably literally as well, but that’s just life in a barn that runs fans.  We don’t like to think about it too much.)

August 22nd marked the first night actually sleeping at the ranch.  (If you’ve been wondering why I haven’t been posting so much, that’s why.)  Over the past week, we have been nearly frantic with packing, then unpacking, painting and cleaning, and, of course, all of the things that we have to do every day to keep the animals happy and the farm running.  Our moving day began with a massive thunderstorm, then progressed into one of the hottest, most humid days of the summer.

And that was the good part.

After moving to the ranch, Jeremiah and I started to get ill.  First, I blamed my allergies.   My eyes were itchy.  I was sneezy.  (Incidentally, “Sneezy” is one of Jeremiah’s nicknames for me; I call him Grumpy in return.)  I had a vaguely sore throat.  Jeremiah had a headache.

Allergies, right?

But then it got worse.  I was fatigued.  I had stabbing pains in my abdomen.  My eyes went from itchy to burning (as in, I couldn’t even wear my contacts).  My sore throat became almost unbearable.  Jeremiah’s headache progressed from mild to near-migraine.  We both started having respiratory problems.

Turns out, the house has some issues.  We discovered the first issue when Jeremiah went downstairs to light a pilot light in the water heater.  To get to it, he had to make his way through one of the rooms with the previous owners’ belongings.  When he did, he discovered that the downstairs bedrooms have some serious mold going on.  That would explain my increased allergies.

The next day, when his mother came over and commented on the moth ball smell in the house, Jeremiah explained that moth balls are all over the place in the house, and that we had been removing them as we cleaned upstairs.  However, there are tons of them in the basement as well; we can’t remove them until the previous owners’ belongings move out.

She started thinking.

About an hour later she sent the two of us a text explaining the effects of moth ball poisoning.  Actually, it’s naphthalene poisoning, but you get naphthalene poisoning from moth balls, so moth ball poisoning.  Turns out, our symptoms read like a checklist of the early effects of exposure to naphthalene.

Did you know that moth balls are incredibly toxic?  Yeah…me either.

They can make you very sick if you breathe the vapor they produce as they break down.  They are also highly carcinogenic.  They can burn your retinas.  They can cause cataracts.  Turns out, they can even put you in a coma (but I’m pretty sure you would have to stir them up in your tea for that to happen).  Either way, nasty stuff.  If you have kids or pets, you probably shouldn’t have moth balls, and if you choose to use them, make sure that they are in a sealed container, like a garment or blanket bag.

But I digress…

Once my mama-in-law sent over that information, we started packing up (again).  Let me tell you, repacking household items only days after you had unpacked them is depressing.  I have no words really.  The first thing we did was load our pups into the car and take them to my mom’s place.  Tomorrow, I will bring them back to the Heights house, as we are temporarily set up again over there, but for the last day and a half they have been having a sleep over.  After that, we packed up the necessities and high tailed it back to the other house.

There is a plan in action to clean up the mold and the moth balls, so this is far from permanent, but for the time being, we’re back to managing the ranch from across the river.

This sort of thing is often referred to as a bump in the road.  Over the past few days, our road has gotten pretty darn bumpy.

The good news?  (And there is A LOT of good here.)

First, we figured this out RIGHT AWAY.  Long term exposure to either the mold or the moth balls can cause pretty nasty damage, so it is a huge blessing that we figured those things out when we did.  Props to Jeremiah’s mama for putting two and two together.  (Also, in case you were wondering, we’re both way better now; it took about 12 hours of being moved out of the house for pretty much all of our symptoms to go away.)

Second, we weren’t fully packed up, and a lot of what we unpacked can stay until this is remedied.

Third, we hadn’t moved any of the small critters.  The cats and hedgehogs were still in the Heights.  The moth balls could have caused serious problems for our hedgies delicate respiratory systems, so it’s fantastic that they won’t move in until this is cleared up.

The cats last night.  I think they were pretty happy to have us home.
The cats last night. I think they were pretty happy to have us home.

Fourth, even though it made us sick, living at the ranch gave us a bunch of time to get stuff done.  Half of the upstairs is newly painted.  The exterior of the house is about a quarter painted.  We got a bunch of cleaning done.

The house before Jeremiah started his work on it.
The house before Jeremiah started his work on it.
Slightly different angle on the same part of the house yesterday.
Slightly different angle on the same part of the house yesterday.

Finally, we both got a good taste of what it is like to wake up and be able to meander up to the barn to take care of the animals.  No drive.   No rush.  Bliss.  Even with all that has happened, I cannot wait for the day we can do that every morning.  I just have to get past a few bumps in the road first.

(SNEAK PEAK: Our fourth wedding anniversary is coming up in a few days.  I cannot wait to introduce you to…ummm…I mean show you…my present.  Stay tuned.)

 

The Seven Emotional Stages of Painting

The end is drawing nigh.  And by the end I think I mean the beginning, or possibly the middle.

(Is it apparent yet that I almost never have any real idea what I’m talking about?)

For the past week or so, we’ve been cleaning and painting in preparation for actually moving into the farm.  Now, we don’t have the whole house yet, as the previous occupants are storing some of their belongings at the ranch until they can have them moved (their new home is still under construction), but we do have most of the upstairs at our disposal, and, given that just the upstairs of the new house is more than twice the size of my present home, I think we can manage.

My goals before moving are as follows:
1. Finished Bedroom.
2. Clean and Functional Kitchen.
3. Clean and Functional Bathroom.
4. Clean Sunroom.

I have attempted a cursory cleaning of the whole upstairs, but the living room, for example, won’t really be cleanable until the window is replaced.  (We’re thinking the contractor will be getting back with us today on that…)  Plus, at the moment, it’s where we’re putting all of the other furniture as we clean other rooms.

Anyway, about a week or so ago, I undertook the project of painting our new master bedroom.  It’s 300+ square feet all on its own, so it was no small task.  If I’m being honest, I’ve had the primary paint color for over a month.  It’s just one of those projects that I really didn’t even want to start.

The master bedroom before.
The master bedroom before.
Lots of natural light
Lots of natural light
Down the hall out of the bedroom.
Down the hall out of the bedroom.

The above pictures were taken several months ago.  I think it goes without saying that there is a ton of potential in the room.  For one, it’s huge!  There is a ton of natural light.  It takes up the entire end of the house.  It also needed a lot of updating.  The carpet, original to the house I think, had to go.  The previous occupants left the furniture you see in the photo for us to keep if we wished.  The walls, white throughout the house except where there is wallpaper, needed an update.

So, last week, I started updating it.

I should tell you, once upon a time, I enjoyed painting.  My experience thereof was mostly a room here and there in my parents’ house or a room or two helping out a friend.  Then, Jeremiah and I bought our first home.  It’s only 800 or so square feet, but we basically painted every single room.  That was only three and a half years ago.

I don’t like painting so much anymore…  But over the last few weeks, I’ve realized that painting is an emotional process, as well as a physical one.  It’s almost cyclical, really.  Somewhere between the first coat of “Beach” on that first wall and the last coat of high gloss white on the crown molding, I’ve come to realize that there are definite stages of painting.

The Stages of Painting

Stage One: Optimism (AKA – Wall Number One)

I started on this wall...
I started on this wall…

During Stage One of painting, everything is coming up sunshine and roses.  It is during that stage that you congratulate yourself.  Paint that had been in a pail is going on the wall.  It’s a step in the right direction.  You are doing it!  You’re awesome.  Go you!  Not only are you being productive, but you have excellent taste.  Not just anyone can pick a good paint color.  (We’ve all been to those houses where someone else’s “sunny yellow” looks more like “dehydrated urine”…you know what I’m talking about.)  But you?  You picked “Beach” grey from a myriad of other greys.  And “Beach” grey, it appears, is probably the best grey in the history of ever.

Stage Two: Boredom

Stage Two moves past the initial self-congratulatory stage and into tedium.  You’re bored.  Also, you’re pretty sure gnomes have come in the night and have slapped white paint up where you had painted grey.  Beach grey, to be exact.  Though, now that you’re looking at it, you’re not sure it’s quite so “beachy.”  How do they come up with those names, anyway?  And seriously with the gnomes…you are sure you had more done.  And what was wrong with white, anyway?  Other than the vaguely clinical feel it had…you can totally deal with institutional white for the rest of your life, right?  Right?

Stage Three: Reinforcements

This is the one where every girl on the planet (or maybe just me) starts to consider calling in the cavalry…

“Daddy!”

And he comes over, and he slaps a second coat of paint up way faster than should have been humanly possible.  As you look around, you briefly revert to Stage One.  Wow – look at that; two whole coats!  Looks pretty good if you do say so yourself.  Totally Beachy!  You are a master of paint choosing!  And it wasn’t THAT bad.

You are practically done.  Except for that bump out wall, and all the trim, and the baseboards, and the crown molding.

You start to look around at all the detail work, and the optimism vanishes again.

Stage Four: Doubt

You may never finish this.  Between the detail work and the gnomes, this will probably never get done.  It is with a sigh that you choose your second color.  Your “accent” color.  You pick something with a coffee name.  MMMMM…coffee.  You totally need coffee. Coffee would probably make everything better.

You briefly wonder if you picked the color solely because you’re tired and need coffee.  It doesn’t really matter though, because you will NEVER, EVER finish.

For some reason, I decided this needed to be a different color.
For some reason, I decided this needed to be a different color.
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The ceiling fan changed. That is one of the things the boy was working on while I painted.

Stage Five: Insanity

The coffee color looks pretty darn great.  You realize that it would look fantastic on the baseboards!  And the trim!  And who cares if it’s a super dark color with no room for error?  You’ve totally got this!

Stage five doesn’t last very long.  You move almost immediately into stage six.  Regret.

Stage Six: Regret (AKA Trimming and Weeping)

During this stage, you get to be exceedingly good with tape, but not quite good enough.  You paint the baseboards and trim with two coats of an absurdly dark color (what were you thinking?) and then manically correct tiny imperfections with a craft brush roughly the size of your pinkie nail.  Why?  Well, because the crappy paint lines in your current bedroom have been bugging you for almost three years.  And you won’t have it again!  (This stage mimics insanity quite nicely…)

Stage Six: Rage!

Note the newly painted baseboards.
Note the newly painted baseboards.

The trim is nearly finished.  Then the unthinkable happens.  All is takes is one poorly applied piece of tape above the window frame.  That line is crap, and you flip your lid over a paint line that follows a poorly applied piece of tape (the one and only piece of tape stuck down by your poor, unfortunate husband).  It’s on the last freaking piece of trim before the crown molding!  You are very lucky that no one else is there because at this point you would probably be institutionalized.  You are especially lucky that your husband is no where to be found, because the rage that is burning within your soul is completely unreasonable.  You need a moment to quell it…and to fix that freaking paint line.

You call it a day because painting is no reason to turn into the Hulk.

Stage Seven: Acceptance and Relief

You are now a pro.  The tape below the crown molding is almost perfect, and it has been applied as one consecutive piece.  You slap it up in minutes.  And even your husband, who you are no longer unreasonably furious with (luckily that passed quickly and internally) is impressed.  Two coats of high gloss white go up without much issue.  And, amazingly, you are done.

Seriously.  You are done.  It is finished.  You thought this moment would never come, especially with the gnomes.  But it’s here.

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And it is magnificent.

But, if you’re honest, you feel very little satisfaction.  Just relief.  You are so relieved that you don’t even mind that you got white paint on your favorite Doctor Who t-shirt.

One room down, all of the rest to go…

 

I fought the farm and the farm won.

Sometimes, as I’m finishing up evening chores, watching my llamas and horses graze while the sun sets, I think that Jeremiah and I have managed to find our way into a corner of the world’s most perfect paradise.  A place over run with butterflies and hummingbirds, overcome with the sweet smell of hay or newly mowed grass.

Other times?

Well, other times I wander through the yard and make my way through some poison ivy that I didn’t know was there.  And I spend the next few hours itching and thinking about all of the places where the property is still overgrown.  (That just happened yesterday by the way.  I just picked up prednisone from the pharmacy a few hours ago.  Hopefully, by this evening, I will stop wanting to scratch my skin off.)

Sometimes, the wildness of the place is what I find most charming, and I am overwhelmed by the beauty of it.  Other times, I am simply overwhelmed.

This is the double-edged sword of country living.  Keeping the chickens AND having to kill the raccoon.  Enjoying the butterflies and hoping that we managed to kill all of the black widows…but knowing that we probably didn’t.  The chipmunks that look so cute scampering around the driveway…and all the mice that come free with the house.  (We will have to do something about that, and I will feel awful because I like mice–I’ve even had a few pet ones–I just don’t like them running wild in my house.)

The wildflowers AND THE FREAKING POISON IVY!

And I’m not even going to think about the mountain lion that we spotted earlier this year; pretty sure he was just passing through.

And in moments like this, it’s best to not think too hard about the difficulties.  Just keep calm and carry on.

Beautiful pasture, complete with lovely wildflowers and poison ivy. *Sigh*

No…I’m not going to eat them. (On keeping chickens that aren’t going to end up on your table.)

I didn’t go with Jeremiah to the farm this morning.  Partly, that’s because as he readily points out, I don’t do mornings.  (That’s not entirely true, I just don’t do mornings as early or as well as he does.)  Also, we were expecting Mr. Raccoon to be trapped in the live trap we set, and, while I know exactly what has to be done and why, I didn’t really want to be there to see it.

I suppose I’m something of a “bleeding heart.”  The other day, I found three baby mice and their mama in a feed bin…and I carried the bin across the property and out to the woods to let them go.  Last fall, when a baby raccoon was living in the horse barn (and regularly messing with Jeremiah’s stuff), I disallowed shooting it.  It was, after all, only a baby.   (Now I’m vaguely concerned that my kindness directly translated to the later killing of my chickens, but luckily, I can never actually know.)

Recently, a friend was incredulous upon learning that I have no plans to eat my chickens.

“So, you’re not going to raise and slaughter your own meat!?!?”

He seemed almost annoyed by this…

…I’m still not sure why.

Don’t get me wrong, I have IMMENSE respect for ranchers who humanely raise livestock, fighting against the factory farming trend that is almost exclusive these days.  Such people should be applauded and supported!  However, I am not one of them.  (If you’re interested in reading updates from such ranchers, check out a girl and her chickens or Full Circle Farm.  I really enjoy reading both of their blogs.)

Why am I not one of them?  For one thing, adding meat animals to my current menagerie would take up even more time.  Time, for me, is at a premium.  Also, they would take up space, also at a premium.  The farm is not my job, it’s my home.  I really don’t want to change that.

Additionally, if it’s not clear already, I get attached to my animals.  I’m not sure why I’d want to take on MORE WORK to raise slaughter animals when I know for a fact that it isn’t something I’d enjoy.

Finally, while we’re by no means vegetarians, we really don’t eat much meat.  To accommodate the meat-eating that we do, I have no problem paying a premium for local or independently certified humane meat.  I buy my beef from family, and I’m still trying to work through the beef quarter I bought last fall!

All of this said, I’m still not sure why it’s a problem or, even worse, why people are annoyed that my chickens might actually die of old age…

Just to clear things up, I thought I’d write a post about why I have chickens, even though I don’t plan to eat them.

Some of my chickens have names.  This one, for example, is Lucy.
Some of my chickens have names. This one, for example, is Lucy.

I thought about writing this as a list, but as I tried to start, I found that the reasons are fairly holistic.

I began to consider keeping chickens when I realized that we were, for sure, buying Eagle Ridge.  Part of the reason I do not eat very much meat, and part of the reason I am so intentional about the meat I do buy, is that I know way, way too much about factory farming.  It’s horrifying when you look into where most of our meat comes from.  And this knowledge comes with implications; for me, I had to rethink what I eat.  (For example, I do not eat pork products.  I gave that up when I realized what hog confinements really were.  I also don’t eat veal due to the usual conditions they’re raised in.)

And, I realized, laying hens are not immune to the implications of factory farming.  Not enough space, unhealthy conditions, and drastically shortened lives are the rule, not the exception.

I knew I didn’t want to raise my own meat, but I knew I could handle raising my own laying hens.

I now know EXACTLY where my eggs come from, and that’s rather lovely.

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Unexpected bonuses?

Chickens are freaking hilarious!  I love watching their antics, and I have found that I generally enjoy keeping them.  (Plus, compared to my other critters, they are remarkably low maintenance in the day-to-day.)

–AND–

They thoroughly enjoy the leftovers that would otherwise go to waste.  (Less wasted food!  Yeah!)

Can anyone explain why it is people would take issue with all of this?

The great chicken massacre of 2014 and the buttressing of Cluckingham…

Alas, there is sad news to report from the Palace of Cluckingham in the Kingdom of Eagle Ridge.  We have known since the loss of our most treasured subject that a foul marauder was afoot in our territory, but we naively believed it to reside solely outside of the fortress walls (barn…).  Alas, nigh three days ago, we were proven wrong when two more subjects were found dead, this time within our fortress walls.  They had been cruelly snatched from their home, drug out from among their kin, and devoured.

Their temporary home deemed unsafe, we doubled down on our efforts to complete their permanent residence.  By the setting of the sun, Cluckingham Palace was deemed secure, though still unfinished.  One by one, our remaining subjects were carried across the Aisle of Barn and into their new home.  They rejoiced and set about their regular tasks of eating, scratching in the dirt, and making noise.  And we, their devoted leaders, slept soundly that night, believing our chickeny subjects to be safe from harm.

We should not have slept so soundly.

The dastardly fiend who had so cruelly murdered her kin struck again, this time killing our second to last speckled sussex.  He was more clever in his ill intent that we had believed, and he had pulled our temporary defenses (wire stretched across where the door will go) away from the rest of the Palace.

This time he left tracks and fur.  We then knew our enemy.

Sadly, the King of Eagle Ridge (Jeremiah) was away, leaving me, the almostfarmgirl Queen of Cluckingham home alone to discover the aftermath of the slaying and to defend my defenseless subjects.

My defenseless subjects
My defenseless subjects
More defenseless subjects
More defenseless subjects

With no King in sight, I did what any Queen under siege should do.  I reinforced the defenses of my subjects, and I called for my Allies to aid me in their protection.

Lady Gabriella was the first to come to my aid.  Using zipties, we tightened the temporary wire down, leaving no gaps through which our dastardly predator (a raccoon, in case you were wondering…) could enter to terrorize our subjects.

Lady Gabriella at work
Lady Gabriella at work
Zipties reinforcing our defenses.
Zipties reinforcing our defenses.

Then, Sir Hezekiah, the user of power tools, screwed in boards along the bottom, for we could not allow the enemy to dig into the Palace.

Finally, I called upon my Sir Kent (my dad – who by the way grew up on a HUGE working farm…erm…I mean kingdom…) to walk the perimeter of the Palace to look for weaknesses in our defenses.

Securing a window that he identified as a fatal flaw in the safety features of the coop.
Securing a window that he identified as a fatal flaw in the safety features of the coop.
Read: Stop taking pictures for your blog and hand me a washer...
Read: Stop taking pictures for your blog and hand me a washer…

We baited a trap for the foul beast who has claimed the lives of four of our dear subjects but have not caught the villain.  However, since the buttressing of Cluckingham Palace, our subjects have been safe from harm.

And, I assure you, loyal readers, the days of the dastardly raccoon are numbered.

 

Cats and Dog. Llamas and Alpacas. Horses and Chickens. (…Oh my???)

Over the past week or two, Jeremiah’s little sister has been busy at the ranch with her camera, and she’s gotten some extremely impressive photos.  She gave me permission to share them with you.  Enjoy!

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Piper with her favorite Frisbee.
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Amelia with a bone
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Vin
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Morana

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Having a frolic
Having a frolic

DSC_0576 DSC_0577 Edie

July 4th-July 12th: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.

Between my husband’s insane shoeing schedule, and a week-long church conference that he attends every year, I’ve been on my own a lot lately.  (I start a lot of posts kind of like this, don’t I?)  This is fairly normal for us.  Summers stay very busy in a farrier’s world, and most of his clientele are between 3 and 7 hours away.  And when Jeremiah is away, I am called up to bat.

The ranch–especially right now, running it from a half an hour away–usually takes up most of both of our time.  Our lives are a juggling act, split between maintenance and renovations…and the other things that make the money to pay for the former.  When it’s only one of us, for more than a day or so, it starts to take up all of your time.   (I am so behind at work…this week, while Jeremiah is home for a few days, I play catch up.)

He was gone for several days last week, back for part of the fourth, gone again, home for half a day on the 6th, left for his conference on the 7th, and just got back into town yesterday.  In that time, I’ve been running ragged.  Bookended by two emergency vet visits, this has been a week (+) that I won’t soon forget, and there are parts of it I kind of wish I could…

July 4th:
This year I celebrated our nation’s independence waiting on the vet.  The littlest alpaca (that should be the name of a children’s book) caught her eyelid on something unsavory…and ripped it.  I’ll be honest, I have a photo of what that looked like, but I’ll spare you.

I call the vet; the vet put us on a list of emergency calls and said he’d text when he got to the farm.  I went to the house to wait.  He came and treated the alpaca by himself, forgetting to text, and left.  I proceed to wait on him for most of the rest of the afternoon, with Jeremiah taking over for me that evening when I head out to get ready for the cookout we were planning with my family.  Jeremiah waits until I text the vet to ask about his progress…and he tells me that he had finished hours earlier.  My busy husband was thrilled to have waited around all evening for nothing.

July 8th:
Day two of my week alone.  I named my favorite chicken.  Sweet and Cute and Beautiful, it took me longer for her than the others.

Salmon Faverolle named Renegade for her tendency to sneak out of the chicken stall.
Salmon Faverolle named Renegade for her tendency to sneak out of the chicken stall.

July 9th:

The day starts with a little headache that slowly progresses into a migraine.   I am completely useless by the end of the day and very thankful that Jeremiah’s little sister is so capable of taking care of things at the ranch.  (I’m not sure how well things would have fared out there without her help this week.)

Migraine selfie...because there isn't much to do when you really can't stand up without feeling like you're going to throw up.
Migraine selfie…because there isn’t much to do when you really can’t stand up without feeling like you’re going to throw up.

July 10th:

Jeremiah’s little sister takes morning chores to help me out (still headachy, but way better than the night before).  I get a phone call that one of my chickens is missing.  Little miss Renegade got out the night before.  Coon.  Dead.

I never in a million years thought I would get teary-eyed over the death of a chicken, but, when I found her feathers (etc) in the woods, I had to work very hard to not cry.  I spent the rest of the afternoon securing the chicken stall more thoroughly, all the while kicking myself for not being more careful earlier.

Came home to these:

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Because I’m married to a guy who understands that his wife WILL cry over a dead chicken.

The evening was salvaged.  Gabby and Katie did chores for me.  I had dinner with colleagues from the University.  (And discovered that I really like croquet.)  After dinner and drinks and good conversation, I was feeling far better.

(Also, I brought them fresh eggs…because apparently I’m that person now.)

July 11th:
Spent 40 minutes chasing this little bugger around when she got out.  (Stall is, in fact, more secure, but she was a tricksy hobbitses.)

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Possibly my least favorite chicken, she is the least friendly and, of course, the most difficult bird to catch that I own.  Gabby and I eventually got her.  She has a very impolite name now…

July 12th:
Morning goes off with out a hitch.  My guy comes home.  We head out for an easy evening of chores before relaxing…

I head off to feed the horses, separating Vin, who gets picked on by the others.

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And he slices himself open on the gate.

One emergency vet visit–different vet this time, who was there right away and very helpful–and twenty stitches later…

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We finally make it off the farm at 8:30.

Last night, I had bad dreams about injured horses and dead chickens.

 

So there’s the latest in the tales of Eagle Ridge Ranch.  (My husband has taken to calling it calamity acres…)  The bad and the ugly are evident…

The good?
1. The injured alpaca is doing very well.  She got her eyelid, but not her eye.  No compromised vision.

2.  I’m married to someone who sends me flowers from several states away because my chicken died.

3.  I found a horse vet yesterday who came right away and was exceedingly helpful.

4.  Despite the injury, Vin, who is an off-the-track rescue, proved to me just how far he’s come since moving in with us last October.  When Jeremiah first went to bring him home, he reared and threw fits just walking down the lane.  He didn’t want to load.  For several months, he ran away every time we walked into the pasture, scared of almost everyone and everything.  Last night, he let me catch him despite the gaping wound in his side.  He stood calmly away from his herd.  He left the pasture without a second thought.  I was nearly in tears (happy ones this time) at how far he has come since he came home.  It reinforced my belief that he and I might just have a future together.

Watch out lower level show world!  Vinny and I will be coming for you!
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(Yes, he’s a little underweight yet; we’re working on it.)

A stroll through the pastures

There is something about the country that gets down into your soul, plants like a seed, and grows until its roots can’t be pulled by anyone or anything.  There’s a serenity in the woods that you can’t explain, a calm that comes from nothing except tranquil animals in an evening pasture.

And as much as I try, I will never be able to fully explain what it’s like to plant myself next to my animals or in my garden.  For many, this life will never really make sense.  And that’s ok.

But maybe, for a moment, you can follow me into my pastures, and maybe, for a moment, you will understand why the aches and pains of the ranch are worth it.  Every. Single. Time.

Do I have to say no filter?  Because there is no filter.
Do I have to say no filter? Because there is no filter.
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Woods and Wildflowers
The corridor between the back fields and our main barn.
The corridor between the back fields and our main barn.
A walk in the woods this spring, before the green
A walk in the woods this spring, before the green

 

 

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The girls’ field on an overcast day.
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The edge of the woods

This is a place that gives abundantly and takes away pieces of your heart.

Llamas and Gardens and Chickens (Oh My!)

Northstar.  (Jeremiah calls him Marvin)
Northstar. (Jeremiah calls him Marvin)

See this face?  This cute, adorable little llama?

Don’t let him fool you.  This is a guilty face.  This is the face of a culprit.  (Admittedly, a very cute culprit…)

Gabby and I had just finished up evening chores, and I decided, probably against my own better judgment, to check on my garden.  (You see, no one was weeding it while we were gone in Orlando, so, while I’ve made a valiant effort to beat back the weeds from the veggies, there are unplanted sections with weeds that are waist high.)  I think I was about halfway out when I realized something was amiss.

To get to my garden, you have to walk through several pastures.  (It actually used to be a pasture itself, but has since been converted.)  At first, I just thought that llamas were in the pasture next to my garden.  Turns out, they were actually making a pasture out of my garden.  I tried to run.  Several awkward, clomping strides later, I remembered that one does not run in welllies (rubber boots?  I started wearing such footwear while working at an internationally staffed sleep-away camp, and everyone used the British term…In America, I think we just call them rubber boots…).  So I stopped running and starting power walking (or something), and I briefly thought about stopping to take pictures–because I’m a blogger, I guess–but then I decided my squash and cucumbers and everything else were more important than photographic evidence.

So Gabby and I chased the llamas out of the garden.  (The llamas were not happy.)  Then I took pictures.

This is a llama footprint
This is a llama footprint
Evidence!  (This is a llama footprint and what was a very nice onion.)
Evidence! (This is a llama footprint and what was a very nice onion.)

They ate several onions.  (I can’t imagine why…)  Knocked over a tomato cage.  Generally ran a muck.

…Actually, they didn’t do too much damage.  In fact, if I let them back in, I think they’d mostly eat the weeds…

Once we were done chasing llamas out, we set about to beat back some more weeds and look over the plants.

Everything, including the weeds, seems to be doing quite well.

Look at all those blooms!
Look at all those blooms!

Nearly every vining plant I have is riddled with blooms.  We should be rolling in cucumbers, zucchini, spaghetti squash, watermelon, acorn squash, pumpkin…and the other stuff I can’t really remember.  (Don’t blame me!  All the rain has washed off most of the garden markers.  Either way, lots of food.)

The tomatillos are loaded!  I cannot wait!

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Admittedly, you can’t really tell from this photo, but we have four tomatillo plants, and they will be pretty prolific.

More tomatoes than I can imagine what to do with.

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We found this cuteness in the raspberry thicket.  I imagine there may have been an unhappy bird around when we took this photo.  Other than the picture, we left it completely undisturbed.

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Oh, and my chickens are laying!  They’ve been living in a stall since their coop isn’t done.

The coop, in progress.  My ridiculously talented carpenter/husband has the redesign in progress.  Cluckingham Palace (I WILL have a sign made up) will probably be nicer than our house with shade via a chickeny pergola, insulated walls, lighting inside and out, and a washable surface in and out.
The coop, in progress. My ridiculously talented carpenter/husband has the redesign in progress. Cluckingham Palace (I WILL have a sign made up) will probably be nicer than our house with shade via a chickeny pergola, insulated walls, lighting inside and out, and a washable surface in and out.

Can anyone tell me what kind of chickens I have?  I’m completely clueless.

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I know, not great photos.  You will see more once they move into the palace, but that won’t be for a week or so.

This one is my favorite...
This one is my favorite…

Anyone know what this is?  She (possibly he?) is my favorite.  Hatched this Spring, I cannot tell if it’s a roo or a hen.  (Please be a hen.  Please be a hen.  Please be a hen…)

 

 

 

Farm updates and a llama in a hat

I am so looking forward to the day when my mornings aren’t split between two houses, two sets of critters, and one coffee maker.  At the very least, there should be two coffee makers.  Or three.  Or seven.  (Perhaps I should put one in every stall, or just get an IV.)

Complaining aside, we are making progress.  Jeremiah has been putting in ten hour days out there.  In the past week, he has managed to almost completely reorganize the main barn, utilizing tool sheds to store things in rather than the aisle ways.  It’s looking fantastic.  I’ve been reorganizing the feed room, and that’s going more slowly.  Partly, that’s because I’m not a working maniac like he is.  Partly, it’s because my task involves organizing hundreds of small things rather than tens of big things.  (Checking expiration dates on medicines, etc has eaten up hours by itself.)

I have nine chickens moving in before the end of the month.  A friend of a client had to rehome her flock.  All are under two and good layers, and they asked me to take them.  I’m actually pretty excited about it…and oddly terrified that I’ll be a terrible mother hen (not to be confused with THE mother hen of motherhendiaries).  (I’ll be honest, I have no idea what I’m doing with chickens.  Somebody walk me through a day in the life, because the books I’ve read tell me a lot about splay leg in chicks and various mite solutions, and not very much at all about what to feed the darn things or what kind of waterer to get!)

The house, well, it is mostly just sitting there, being a house.  Between the barn eating up all of our time, and the little house renovations eating up ALL of our money and the rest of our time (we’re only $5,000 over budget so far…if I had known how much it would take, I’m not sure we would have renovated that place or had someone planning to live there), we’ve had little of either for the house we’re actually planning to live in.  We have a new window purchased for the living room (it’s beautiful!), but it’s sitting in the living room until we can afford to install it.  The new floor for our bedroom is bought and paid for and should be delivered to Lowes later this week.  (The carpet that had been in the bedroom had to go.  My allergist pretty well insisted that I get rid of any carpet…especially carpet that has been down for probably 20 years.)  Some of the paint is purchased, but not applied.  (I have some lovely people coming to help us paint on July 3rd! Yeah volunteers!)  One of these days, I’m almost sure of it, we will move in.  When that happens–well, first I will cry because I will truly, truly miss our first home–but then I will sing from the mountains.  AND BLOG!

We’re planning to go out of town for a friend’s wedding this weekend (Friday and Saturday), but I have my parents looking after the dogs and Jeremiah’s little sister in charge of the big critters.  Everything will be safe and sound while we’re away, and everything will start up again when we get back.

Finally, so to not disappoint, here’s a llama wearing a hat.

 

Minnett wearing a hat...headband...thing
Minnett wearing a hat…headband…thing