Sweet Clara Belle

When we bought Mae, my milk cow, we were told she was due in September. And then September came and went, and it was clear she was nowhere near calving.

And then October passed... and November, and December. By January, I was convinced she would be pregnant for the rest of her life. Or that she wasn't pregnant at all, and all the signs were just some sort of cow phantom pregnancy. But then a couple of weeks ago, I noticed some bigger changes - her udder was fuller, her backside looked... well, like she might be getting closer to calving. (Which would make sense. Obviously she wasn't get further away.)

And then came the happy day, when Littlest One, came running inside saying, "Mom!! Mae's got a big string of mucus hanging out of her backside! It's all the way to her ankles!" (And it briefly registered in my brain that this wasn't a 'normal' thing for a six year old to say.)

Indeed, it turns out she was in the early stages of labor. Six hours later, she was in active labor, and the girls and I were lucky enough to witness it.  Nothing - absolutely nothing - is as amazing as witnessing a birth. It doesn't matter if it is animal or human or if you've been there for a dozen of them. Everything about it is miraculous, and perfect. Especially when nothing goes wrong. And thankfully, nothing did. In fact, it was really a pretty easy birth, only about 20 minutes from start to finish, two pushes and the babe was out. (Of course, it's easy for me to say it was easy. I wasn't the one pushing. This time.)

It was beautiful. As soon as the calf was out, Mae jumped up and started licking. And licking, and licking, and licking. And then when I got close, she licked my jeans for awhile. And oh, how I wish you could all hear her. She sweetest, softest little "moos" - just like a human mama would speak sweetly and gently to her babe, this mama cow talked to her calf. I didn't get all teary-eyed until I heard that sweet sound. It was instant, undeniable, absolutely pure and true love.



Fifteen minutes later, the little calf was up and standing. Err, well, wobbling. There was much wobbling going on. But it wasn't long before babe was nursing, and mama was calm and relaxed.

Having read - repeatedly - the tendency for sweet, gentle cows to turn into demon spawn once they calve, in an attempt to protect their calf from harm, I was a little leery of climbing into the stall with her to check things out. But some things must be done. And in this case, they must be done in relative darkness. First things first  - did we have a heifer or bull calf? Considering it was a black calf lying in the darkest corner of the barn with a protective mama  hovering, figuring that out wasn't all too easy. Or certain. I felt for boy parts, and couldn't feel any... so I went to bed hoping I was right and it was a girl. I checked again three times before I'd let myself believe it - it's a GIRL!!

Oh, how I wanted a girl. Yes, a boy would fill the freezer. But a girl means we can keep her. And breed her! And have more baby cows to love! Yes, for these past many months, I've been hoping beyond hope that Mae would have a girl, and she did. And - truth - I still feel every time I go out there, making sure the boy parts weren't just hiding for the past 24 hours.

Turns out Mae really isn't demon spawn. In fact, she doesn't seem to mind my being in the stall with her and Clara Belle. (Do you have any idea how long I've wanted a cow named Clara Belle?) I still won't put myself between mama and baby, and I won't put myself in a corner where she could kill me if she really felt like it, but she is pretty content with me being around. And little Clara Belle is so sweet and friendly and interested in me. And then she looks at me, with those big eyes and those loooong eyelashes, and my heart melts all over again.... yeah.

So I was up all night, between checking to make sure little Clara was still doing alright, and laying in bed feeling giddy because I officially have a milk cow - that is really in milk. Of course, that doesn't mean I can actually milk her yet, seeing as she's never been milked before. But that's a story for a different post.

For now, I'll just get another cup of coffee and head back out to the barn to watch our sweet little calf hop all around. And for now, I'll be the happiest farm-girl in the world.



I'm sharing this post over at Mama Kautz's Front Porch Friday Blog Hop!

Farm Life's Hardest Lesson

If you read any "What I Wish I Would Have Known" articles written by modern homesteader types, one of the first items on their list is always going to be this:

You don't have to do it all at once.

Take it slow, they say. Give yourself grace, they say. Just a little bit at a time and don't overwhelm yourself.

I've read dozens of those articles. And I've always nodded in agreement, as though I've always known perfectly well that that one little bit of advice is absolutely correct.

Except that I didn't.

My best friend and I used to joke that whichever one of us ended up moving to a farm first was going to end up sitting in the middle of her pasture, crying the ugly cry, absolutely overwhelmed by what she had taken on and that the other friend was going to have to listen and comfort and try not to say "I told you so."

Turns out, I was the first one to move to a farm. And that prediction wasn't as far off as I'd like for you think it is. Except that it's snowy outside, so I was sobbing in my bedroom, while staring at my pasture. Which really isn't any better.

I haven't blogged regularly in almost a year. There's a reason for it though.

The past year has been seriously rough. My husband has been working out of town - sometimes out of state - for the past year. He's gone two weeks and then home for a week. That means that two thirds of the time, every responsibility of this property falls on my shoulders. In the past year I have raised a rather large garden, milked two goats and kept another 50 or so animals alive, homeschooled a first and fifth grader, kept a 4600 square foot house clean, raised 700 bales of hay on a 25 acre pasture using nothing but a shovel and some tarps. I've raised and butchered enough chickens to last a year, canned a year's worth of fruits and vegetables and dried or frozen what wasn't canned, cooked dinner every night,  run my kids around to their extra curricular activities, driven an hour each direction every time I needed groceries, hauled horses to 9 gymkhanas and rodeos, and hauled chickens to the county fair. And almost all of this with very little help from The Man of My Dreams, except for the weeks he was able to spend at home.

What I learned is that I really can do it all. I'm working from 5:30 in the morning until 9:30 at night, every single hour of the day, but I can get it all done. Until something goes wrong. As soon as the slightest little thing happens to upset my very rigid schedule, I lose it. I get so overwhelmed that I can't function and all I want to do is give up. Or cry.

The bad part of that, though, is that in this life, something happens to change your plans Every. Single. Day. Nothing ever goes the way you expect it to, or plan for it to. An animal gets sick. A kid misbehaves. A neighbor needs help. A fence needs fixed or a goat gets out or a deer dies in your front yard or your dog gets skunked or the well runs dry (again) and you have to spend an hour hauling water. The list of Things That Can Go Wrong is infinite. And each one of those things is guaranteed to happen when you least expect it. That is reality.

And with a schedule as packed as mine has been this year, and a brain so overwhelmed by constant mental to-do lists, there just isn't time to stop and enjoy all those little things that are supposed to bring me joy. I don't have time to watch my kids play with animals or build a fort or raise a puppy. I don't have time to relax with my husband and just sit and watch the sun go down. I've spent every waking moment just keeping up, keeping my head above water, that I've lost touch with every reason we moved up here in the first place. And that makes my heart hurt.

It's a lesson no one can just tell you and expect you to understand: You don't have to do it all at once.

You have to learn it, first hand. And it's painful. And it involves a lot of frustration and even more tears. But eventually, you take a step back, and you realize what you're doing to yourself, and you decide things have to change. Priorities have to be considered. You have to give yourself room to bend, and time to relax. You have to remember that there are so many years ahead of you to figure this all out and get it all done. And there will never be one single year when you actually accomplish everything you feel like you should. Living this life isn't something to mark off the to-do list. It's a process - a life long process - and it will never actually be finished.

And so, at a time when so many of my friends are moving out to the country and starting their homesteading lives, here is my advice:

You don't have to do it all at once.

Take it slow.

 Give yourself grace.

Just a little bit at a time.

Don't overwhelm yourself.

And when you are sobbing in the middle of your pasture, don't hesitate to give me a call. 

The Best Tooth-Losing Story Ever

I love the tooth-losing stage. I love the the gaps in the smiles, the lisp when they try to talk, the Tooth Fairy, the constant wiggling. And I love the awesome tooth-losing stories that inevitably come with this stage.

Every kid should have at least one really cool "How I Lost My Tooth" story, and Littlest One managed to create herself a pretty great one.

I haven't yet written about Princess (I haven't written about much lately, actually) but Princess is the puppy we got around Christmastime, especially for Littlest One. Every kid should have her own dog, we decided, to have grow up with and to have grand adventures with. And the grand adventures, apparently, even include the losing of teeth.

She was trying to leash train her pup, making her 'heel' around the living room and rewarding her with treats. When she ran out of treats in her pocket, she needed to get more out of the jar. Which requires two hands. So instead of just dropping the leash for a moment, she decided to put the leash between her teeth to hold her pup there while she got more treats.

And then the cat walked by.

Princess loves the cat, and the cat loves her. And Princess wanted to play. So she promptly took off after the cat. And she took the loose tooth with her.

I wasn't watching much of this ordeal, but when Littlest One came up to me with eyes big as saucers, she said, "Princess helped me lose a tooth!" It took a minute to figure out what happened. She looked like she couldn't decide whether to cry or laugh.. but eventually we all decided it was a great way to lose a tooth! That's a story she won't ever forget!

The Inventory of the Cellar

As the harvest/preserving season wraps up for the 2013 season, I organized the cellar and freezer and took stock of how much food we’ve produced and put by for the year. I was a little more detailed in my record keeping this year than I have been in the past, as I work to figure out how much food we actually need, how much it costs and how much I save, etc. 

These records are purely for my own information, but I’m posting them in case anyone is interested (and also, because if they are on the blog, I won’t lose them.)

In the cellar:

246 jars of food (fruit, vegetables, jams, sauces/salsas/condiments, syrups, soups.)

16 delicata squash (each will provide one meal)

6 large pie pumpkins (will equal approx 20 cans of pumpkin)

22 lbs fresh-stored carrots (with more to harvest)

12 lbs fresh-stored beets (I canned half the beet harvest as pickled beets)

17 lbs potatoes (with more to harvest)

? dried beans (haven’t shelled them yet. Maybe 5 lbs? Not much.)

62 heads of garlic (enough for planting this fall, too.)

75 onions

several bunches of dried herbs (dill, parsley, basil, thyme, oregano, lavender)

8 quarts of dried fruit and tomatoes

24 sheets of fruit leather (equals about 96 “fruit roll-ups”)

 

In the freezer:

5 lbs carrots

2 lbs broccoli

5 gallons of soups

4 quarts of chopped green onions

2 lbs chopped bell peppers

7 cups of spaghetti sauce

14 cups of pesto

I chose to can most of our food this year when it was possible, since freezer space is limited.

These totals don’t include the fresh veggies we’ve eaten through the summer, beginning in May and lasting about 5 months. Most meals were planned around what was coming out of the garden.

Meat:

16 chickens

3 turkeys (yet to be butchered)

1 goat (yet to be butchered.)

(hoping this will total about 40 meals’ worth of food, plus broth for soups.)

(There is also hope still for one -or two- elk this year, which would provide a full year's worth of meat, and enough to share.)

Dairy (year totals)

About 50 gallons of milk (I don’t keep daily records. This is a close estimate.)

About 45 dozen eggs (again, this is an estimate. They slow down in the winter, but produce 3-4 dozen per week during the summer.)

I wish I had the numbers to put a value to all of the food in this house right now, but I’m not that organized yet.

But the total cost of all of it?

$175 in locally, farm-purchased fruits and vegetables that I didn’t/couldn’t raise myself.

$60 in garden seeds

$60 in meat birds

Approx $120 in meat chicken feed

Another $120 in egg hen feed (not including the feed cost of the show birds.)

$240 in grain for goats

Not sure of the cost of jar lids, bought about $24 of canning jars this year, plus spices, sugar, etc. that I didn’t keep records of. Estimating about $75 in those supplies.

So total cost for the above listed foods? $824

Also, figure at least 250 hours of work. At least. Honestly, it’s probably a whole lot more, but sometimes it’s hard to decipher work from play around here.

The amount seems enormous, but when it's spread over 6 months or so, it's not terrible... and if I make the effort, I could cut our monthly grocery bill down to about $100 for 5 or 6 months.  That puts us at roughly $233 per month, eating healthy, organically grown vegetables, pastured meat, raw milk and fresh eggs. I realize some folks live on plenty less than this each month, but seriously y'all, we eat really good food!

 

So is it worth it? Absolutely.

 Raising meat chickens is utterly uneconomical, between the cost of the birds and feed, the amount of work required in the raising and butchering of them… if we could find a way to hatch our own meat chicks and raise our own feed, it would make more sense. (I’ve heard you can raise chickens almost entirely on clabbered cow’s milk. I’m not opposed to trying this when our cow is in milk) Turkeys are a much bigger bang for your buck, even when raised from poults. Goats can be expensive, since grain is a requirement, but the milk they provide for drinking, cooking, plus yogurt, cheese, etc. is so worth it… and goats provide a lot of fun, too. (Most people pay more for a monthly cable bill than we do for our goats, and goats are far more entertaining!) We also raise all the hay our animals will use, and they graze pasture during the spring, summer, and fall. This cuts down significantly on the cost of meat and milk production. It’s hard for me to estimate the value of the egg chickens vs. the cost of their feed, since most of our chickens are show-breed bantams that The Oldest raises for fun (and are therefore worthless when it comes to laying.)

The garden is amazing, though. The sheer number of pounds of food produced with just $60 worth of seeds in incredible. Fresh vegetables all through the summer months and well into the fall and winter. The fertilizer is provided by the menagerie in the barns, the water comes from our irrigation, and the man-power is provided by Two Little Girls and myself. (Bonus: gardening and other farm chores also provide a great daily workout, omitting what some folks pay in gym memberships.)What doesn’t get eaten provides extra feed for the animals. 

Are we anywhere close to self-sufficient? Not at all. Until I can grown my own wheat and oats, we'll still be making monthly trips to the grocery store. Though I have started looking into the details of raising sugar beets, just as an experiment...

When I sent Littlest One down-cellar the other day for a jar of pears, she came up with them and said, “Do you know what I thought when I went into the cellar? I thought, ‘I’m so proud of my mom for putting all this food in here for us to eat.’”

So is it worth it? Yep, you betcha. And it's even kinda fun, too. :-)

Introducing: Peaches

 It finally happened. He found himself a horse.

Meet 'Peaches'. Her registered name is Treasure Chiquita, and for a couple of days The Oldest tried calling her 'Chiquita', but it just didn't fit. And so, Peaches she is.

She's a registered Morgan mare, about 13 years old. She is, when compared to our other horses, a lot of horse. She's full of energy, she's fast and likes to show it. But she's also brilliant, well trained, (mostly) well behaved, and has a fantastic personality. She learns incredibly fast, and you can tell by the look in her eye that she wants to please you. She's a little nervous, though that's wearing off as she becomes used to her new surroundings. And she's positively splendid to watch as she's grazing on the mountain, her chestnut coat glistening in the sunset. No doubt, she's the prettiest animal on our little farmstead.

In the first 24 hours that he was off work last week, The Daddy had already had her out twice, working with her on loading in the trailer (which she mastered in no time at all,) and taking the girls on a long ride around the neighborhood. It makes me so happy that he has a horse to do that with now, to be out there enjoying all this space along with our girls (on their geriatric horses that Peaches could run circles around.)

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By the age of seven, The Oldest was Horse Crazy and I had read every Marguerite Henry book out loud to her. One of our favorites was Justin Morgan Had a Horse. It's the true story of the first Morgan horse. To be able to trace Peaches' bloodlines all the way back to Justin Morgan was quite a treat, both for The Oldest and for myself.

The Daddy's sentimentality for Morgan horses stems from the fact that his grandfather raised them. The idea of having a Morgan pleases him tremendously. What's even better, he inherited his grandfather's old saddle, and has been using it to ride. He's not the sentimental type, but I can tell it means a lot to him. 

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She's proving to be a good hobby for The Daddy, who has already practiced with her at the rodeo grounds, lunged her in a round pen, and taken her to a trail course to get her used to different obstacles. (I've never seen a horse that is more content to go over a bridge backward than forward, until this one! But she'll get there.)

 He's got that patience-mixed-with-confidence that is necessary to really get a horse to listen, and they seem to work well together. It pleases me so much to see him have a hobby besides hunting, one that doesn't only happen during certain months of the year. I can tell he's excited to have her and really enjoys the time he spends with her. He's always dreamed of owning a farm, and that part of the dream came true... but having a horse of his own to love and enjoy was a part of the dream, too, and I'm so glad it's finally happened for him.

 Welcome to the farm, Peaches. We're so glad to have you!

The Little Things - The Important Things

Ah, what a nice break it's been from blogging! With so much to do, and so little time, writing our little stories has been pushed to the back burner.

If there's one lesson I'm learning from this crazy new life we're living, it's how to prioritize. Children must be taught and fed. Animals must be fed and tended to. The hay pasture must be irrigated and the garden must be planted and tended. Sadly, things like blogging, or knitting, or any of the other little creative bits I used to have time for seem to have been replaced with other activities, at least for now.

Not that I'm complaining. So much satisfaction can be found in the work that makes up every moment of every day. I enjoy it all immensely, and so does our family. What is actually work often feels more like play. I've learned to find incredible enjoyment in my animals, in walking through the sloshy pasture twice a day, and in making cheese and yogurt. Peaceful moments come in the form of enjoying a cold beer on the deck at sunset, listening to the birds singing their goodnights; listening to Two Little Girls making clothespin fairy dolls talk as they adventure through the garden fairy village; watching goats and horses graze contentedly along the edges of the yard.

Not that it's all picture perfect. The never-endingness of it all is constantly overwhelming, and I'm still learning to accept that I'm simply not ever going to have it all done. It goes back to those priorities. Some days school takes priority, and we do a week's worth of math and English to make up for the days we've missed. Other days I realize I haven't shoveled manure in a week, or that the weeds are climbing the pea trellis faster than the peas are. Whatever seems most pressing gets accomplished, everything else is left for another day. I'm learning to remember that it will still be there tomorrow. And some days, play and relaxing and laughing take priority. If they didn't, I'd be a crazy person. And we all know if I'm crazy, my family is too.

So along we trudge, delighting in all The Little Things we do, appreciating the sweet details that tend to fog over the messier big picture. And for now, that's just about perfect.

As life seems to be evening out again, I'm hoping to get back to writing the little stories that make up our little lives... the stories I want to remember, that I want my children to remember, the stories that I hope make a few folks smile once in awhile.

Aurora and Phillip

A little bit of perfect arrived on our little farm the other night.

 Meet Aurora and Phillip, the two sweet kids that were born Saturday night.

We went out to feed at 6:30 and could tell Justice was starting to go into labor, but she lacked all the signs that would have made us think she was very close to delivering. She had torn up the barn stall, digging up the straw and creating little 'nests', but she still ate like she was starved and wasn't dilated or having noticeable contractions. But when we went out again in an hour to see if she'd progressed, there were two tiny baby goats in the pen with her. The little boy came first, standing on wobbly legs next to his mama. The baby girl had just been born and wasn't even standing yet.

We were sad to have missed the birth, but thrilled that she had no trouble and didn't need us. Both babies eventually stood up, and it wasn't long until they started nursing.

Justice is a wonderful mother, and knew exactly what needed to be done.

We helped dry them off just a little bit, but she did most of the work. She didn't mind having us in there with her, holding them and petting them and working with them a bit, though as soon as a barn cat comes near she threatens to butt it across the stall. 

We stayed out for a couple of hours, making sure they were nursing and showing them the warming barrel where they could sleep (and dry off some more. Wet babies plus a cold night is a little disconcerting.) Within two hours, they were hopping around on their shaky newborn legs, reaching around and then falling down only to get up and try again. We could have stayed and watched longer, but by then it was long past bedtime for little girls, and they were cold and tired.

The girls are both thrilled, as is to be expected. Chloe got all teary as she watched Aurora stand for the first time. Cora was shaking with excitement. As soon as we dipped their cords and determined their genders, Cora announced their names - apparently she had had their names planned for some time and had just been waiting to tell us what they would be. Aurora, you know, is Sleeping Beauty's name, and Phillip is her prince. Okay, so it's not my first pick, but it'll do. Chloe has adopted Phillip as her very own, and he's already taken to following her around the stall and nudging her leg when he wants his head scratched.


Aurora immediately became Cora's, and while she is not so fond of being petted, she seems to love being held close to her girl's chest.


For two goats who came from the same mama and daddy, they sure do look different. Phillip has long, floppy ears like a nubian with a cream colored head and spots. He's stocky, the larger of the two.


Aurora is dainty and nearly pure white, with tiny la mancha ears, like a little pixie.


Phillip is outgoing and playful, sticking his nose between the slats to sniff the dogs or trying to get Liberty to play with him (much to Justice's chagrin.) Aurora is more shy, preferring to stay nearer her mama, occasionally jumping around but only half-heartedly. It's like she's trying to pretend to be grown up, while he's all rough-and-tumble little boy.

While we were waiting to see whether Jussie would have boys or girls, the expectation was that we would keep a girl, but would either eat or sell any boys. Yeah, well. That was before we saw Phillip. There is No Way I am eating him. I've just accepted that we now have two more goats. Besides, Chloe loves him. Clearly, we're going to have to work on this attachment thing. It's not so bad with feathered animals, but these furry ones melt your heart the moment you set eyes on them!

Welcome to the farm, Aurora and Phillip!

Sweet Prayers

Two Little Girls have recently decided that they would like for us to hear their prayers before they go to bed at night. This is already proving to be a sweet and touching addition to our already beloved bedtime routine, adding exponentially to the smiles and fond memories each night.

Littlest One's prayer tonight:

"Dear God, thank you for Bandit. And thank you for my mom, and my dad, and my sister. And thank you for Angel, but not Little Bay because he's a punk. And thank you for Goldi (even though she is handicapped) and for Grammy and Jupiter and Matilda and Lazarus and Lavender and Tinkerbell and Freckles and Twilight (even though she runs away from me) and Penelope. And thank you for the rooster-boys (except the one with the gold neck that tried to attack my mom's foot.) And thank you for Liberty (even though she is at Ms. Kris's house being 'breaded') and for Justice and for Justice's babies that she's gonna have. And thank you for Huck, and thank you for Izzy, and thank you for Milo and for all of the barn cats, Batman, Buffy, Fluffy, Poofy, Sally, and Gabriella. And thank you for my room. But not my bathroom, because I don't live in it. Amen."

And the Oldest's:

"Dear God, thank you for my mom and dad and sister. And please make Izzy's leg better before my birthday so she can play in the snow with me on my birthday. Amen."

Don't they just warm your heart? Okay, so they aren't perfect prayers with fancy words and all of that. But it's clear that the things that matter most to these girls are very real things - their family, and their animals. Both of those things are precious, and I'm glad that they realize it. I hope they continue to thank God for these blessings, and that they never take them for granted. And I hope that, as long as they live, all it takes to satisfy their hearts are the people and the animals that they love.

Freckles, the Trick Chicken

 Meet Freckles. Freckles is a banty chicken. She is also a trick chicken. I couldn't figure out what the excitement over a tiny chicken was.... but now I get it.

 **Please pardon the awful pictures. If you've ever attempted to photograph a Chicken Show, you'll understand what a difficult undertaking it is.

And Off She Goes!

Remember that post from earlier this summer, where I talk about my sweet, cautious kiddo walking ever-so-slowly through all the events at her 4-H gymkhana?

Heh. Yeah. Once again, she's proven to me that she is not one to be rushed, but that when she is good and ready, she can do anything she sets her mind to.

We've officially gone from, "C'mon, Chloe, trot!" to "Whoa, slow down!"


See that? She's loping! She has finally discovered what fun it is to sit astride a running horse... and now it's all she wants to do.

Yes, it makes my Mama-heart skip a beat. But it also thrills me to see her having so much fun with Angel, and to see the confidence she's gaining.

Angel

I never intended to be a Horse Mom.

While horses are beautiful, lovely animals, putting my smallish nine year old on one of them and sending her off to ride was not on my to-do list. When we moved up here to our little farm, I had visions of goats and chickens... maybe even a mini-jersey cow.

I put her in gymnastics when she was three. We tried dance lessons at age six. I offered karate. But by then it was too late. She had already become a Horse Lover.

I think it started around the time she was two. From about that time, she spent most of her days pretending to be a horse. The love grew over the years, though she never did ride a horse until only the past year or so. But not having ridden one didn't matter in the least. At the age of seven, she determined to save enough money to buy a horse.

Of course, every seven year old has big plans. But how many of them actually succeed in bringing them to fruition? Childhood dreams change with the seasons, don't they?

Fast forward two years.

She has saved $186.65.

Generally, this wouldn't be enough to buy a horse. Unless you happen upon a family with a little girl who has a lovely old mare, and is ready to move up to a horse with more spunk. And then said family hears that there is a little girl out there who has saved nearly $200 of her own money, and wants to sell this sweet old mare to that little girl. Their only goal was to put the mare in a home where she would be well-loved, well cared for, and would teach more children to ride.

So after two years of saving every penny received from birthday money, Christmas money, and other special holidays, my daughter turned over her life savings...


and brought home her very own horse.

Meet Angel.

She's twenty four years old. Yes, twenty four is old. But for my cautious little girl, that is the perfect age. She's been a 4-H horse for awhile now, and knows how to do everything. She is so gentle and sweet tempered and well experienced in raising little girls. We're already enjoying every moment spent with her, and she seems to enjoy the constant affection that Two Little Girls have to offer.

If you've never watched one nine year old girl sell her first horse to another nine year old girl... well, let's just say it's a very touching experience, and one I won't soon forget.


 I know it was a hard thing for her to do, but she knew that her sweet Angel was going to a home where she was going to be loved and cared for, and would have two more little girls to teach to ride.

And watching my own daughter hand over her money and walk her new horse into the trailer... I'm proud to say I didn't cry. Because I could have. I am SO PROUD of her! How many nine year olds can say they bought their own horse? So many times she would see a toy in the store that she would've liked to have bought, but she passed it up because she wasn't willing to spend her "horse money". She knew what she wanted. She set her goal. And she didn't let anything get in the way.

She's already ridden Angel a fair amount here at home, and the two of them are getting along beautifully. She's a good, safe, reliable horse who knows how to handle small children. And that, to me, is priceless.

When all else fails, climb higher.

If only we could explain to the barn cats that if they would just stop running, the silly puppy wouldn't feel compelled to chase them...

And 'Justice' For All

Have you ever tried to photograph children and goats together?

It's nearly impossible - they never stop moving!

Someone will almost always be blurry because there is always a tremendous amount of running and giggling going on.

Of course, occasionally they stand still... if there is grain involved.
 
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We have a new goat. The girls are calling her Justice. You know, because we already have Liberty... so now we have Liberty and Justice.


She's a Toggenburg. I didn't want a Toggenburg. I wanted a Nubian. But this sweet lady was for sale, and it didn't take long for her to tug on our heartstrings and decide that if she needed a new home, it should be our Forever Home Farm.

She's friendly as all get out, following the girls wherever they go (whether they are holding a grain can or not.) She's almost four years old, and is pregnant and due in January. You know, because if we're going to learn how to raise kids, we might as well do it in the dead of winter up in the mountains.

We're excited to have her.

This also means we will be giving Snickers, our Goat-On-Loan, back to the neighbor, who was kind enough to let us bring her home to keep Liberty company until we found a permanent goat. (This was after learning the hard way - twice - that you really can't just have one goat.)

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I'm not sure I ever really wanted goats all that badly... but I gotta tell ya, they sure are tremendous fun. And the smiles they put on the faces of Two Little Girls makes me love them all the more.

Welcome Home, Justice!

Rooster Beware

Remember that nasty, mean rooster I mentioned? He was awful - 'Ruler of the Roost' to the extreme. If any of the other roosters would even try to come out into 'his' yard, he was attack them, make them scream, pull out feathers, until they ran back for the indoor coop. They were all afraid to eat, or get any fresh air. It was getting ridiculous.

So we found a good place to re-home him, a place that made everyone much happier.

The crock pot.

Chicken and dumplings. Yep. A much better place for him.

Two Little Girls and One Dead Turkey

From the beginning of The Turkey Project, I was worried about how Two Little Girls were going to respond. I prepared myself for dramatic tears and declarations of vegetarianism. I assumed it would be ugly. After all, they are both old enough to remember five months ago, when those little baby turkeys were adorable, fluffy, inquisitive little creatures that they could hold in their hands and nuzzle softly.

I was worried for nothing. When the time came to butcher our birds, the girls were excited as all get out. Not that we weren't all a bit sad, too, but they were just so interested in the whole process that it far outweighed the sadness, and the prospect of good turkey meat for many dinners to come helped, too.

I vetoed having them in the barn during the actual killing. When they tried to spy through a crack in the door, I shooed them away. It wasn't that they were thrilled with the idea of murdering a turkey, it was simply that the whole idea of how it would happen was fascinating to them.

As soon as the bird was dispatched, and we carried it into the shop to process it, the girls were in there with us. As The Daddy pulled the guts out, the comments and questions came pouring out. They saw firsthand the trachea, the gullet (which we cut open to show them the food still inside), the heart and liver. Not only did they see them all, but they touched them. Hands clad in rubber gloves, they loved touching the different parts. They noted that the gullet was surprisingly hard, that the lungs were particularly bloody and fragile, and that everything was still very warm. They held the feet and examined them (before giving them to the dogs), got to see what hollow bones look like, and were able to see up close how a ball and socket joint works.



There was also much talk about exactly how we were going to cook him, and how good he would taste.

Are they scarred for life? Absolutely not. They're not even refusing to eat meat. In fact, I think they are far better off on many levels for having been a part of this experience.

Most of us, throughout middle and high school, dissected a number of different animals. I remember crawdads, frogs, and even a cat. I also remember being thoroughly disgusted with the entire project, but there was one reason for that: we were made to think it was a disgusting activity. The kids in the upper grades talked about how awful it was. The teachers even told us that it was coming with a hint of dismay. It was assumed we would all be grossed out, and so we were (or at least, the girls were.) It was simply expected.


You see, I think it's all about the approach. We never hinted to the girls that this would be a 'gross' or 'disgusting' endeavor. It simply 'was'. We never required or forced them to have any part of it. If they didn't want to eat turkey this fall, I wouldn't make them. But, being already quite homeschool-minded, they viewed the whole process as educational. They asked a million questions, and we did our best to answer them. When we didn't know, we tried to figure out the answer together. They were indubitably thrilled when we finally got around to cutting open the gizzard, so that they could see the rocks which the turkey had swallowed in order to digest his food.

The much anticipated Opening of the Gizzard - 

note the rocks inside.

As they got bored, we certainly didn't make them stay. The Oldest stuck around for part of the plucking of the second turkey, decided she didn't particularly care for plucking, and just hung out for a bit before going out to ride her bike. Littlest One happily plucked for as long as we let her. By the third bird, both were more interested in feeding feet to the dogs, chasing their laying hens around, and just playing the way little farm girls do, and that was fine.

The other reason that I really feel like this was a healthy experience is that I know for certain that my daughters will forever appreciate every piece of meat that is set in front of them at the dinner table. For five months, they fed and watered the turkeys each day. They lifted Turkey Boy into the coop at night when he could no longer get in alone, and eventually built him a bridge to make his life easier and more comfortable. They treated all three with great respect, if not necessarily love, until the ends of their lives. Having walked this journey, they now have no doubt exactly what is involved in putting food on the table in front of them, and they will forever have a deeper appreciation for it.

There are few cultures like ours, where children are so far removed from their food that some don't even realize that "chicken" actually comes from a dead chicken, and that "turkey" is actually just that - a turkey. On so many levels, I really think that is sad.

So no, I don't think my girls are scarred. I think they are far better off for this experience. I doubt they will ever be quite as fascinated as they were this year, and I'm not sure I could ever require them to help with the processing of meat (unless it is an animal they hunt and shoot themselves.) But I think over the course of several years of this, they will have the skills necessary to accomplish it if needed, and they will always appreciate, maybe a bit more than other people, the food that is set before them.
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Miscellaneous thoughts on the subject:

*When you bring the birds home, DO NOT NAME THEM! Not even "Thanksgiving" and "Christmas" or "Thigh" and "Breast". Call them turkeys. Names bring forth perceived personalities, and personalities make them friends.

*Begin referring to them as "food" immediately. Discuss what will happen, preferably before they take up residence in your brooder. Address concerns, sadness and uncertainties frankly and honestly, but compassionately.

*Provide pets. When The Oldest was upset at the thought of her sweet white poult eventually being eaten, we agreed to adopt a new batch of laying hens. This gave her something new to love and invest her emotions in. Adding a couple of little banty hens to the flock was not an expensive or difficult thing to do, and it, eh, smoothed ruffled feathers quite well.

*Do let your kids help care for the poultry. They should know, firsthand, how much work goes into raising birds, whether it be for eating or for laying. This is where the appreciation factor comes in.

*Don't force them to take part in anything that makes them uncomfortable. If you intend to raise meat birds year after year, there is a good chance they will eventually be comfortable with the whole deal and will learn the process. Some kids can handle this all right away, others can't. Don't push them.

*If you can, start them young. Littlest One has seen animals butchered since she was two years old. It doesn't even register as anything disgusting to her, it's simply how her meat is prepared. And she does like her steaks. Blood, bones, raw meat, even a severed head - none of that stuff fazes her because she's grown up with it.

*Use it as a learning experience. There is no greater way to learn than hands-on; even public schools will admit that. If they want to touch, let them. If they want to help, encourage it (even if it makes the process take hours longer than it would otherwise.) If they would rather just watch, allow it, and always answer questions as well as you can.

*Go into it without prior expectations. Don't assume that they will feel any certain way. Kids, as a general rule, want to live up to their parents' expectations. If you have no expectations, they will be free to react as they will. When they do, be compassionate, and be honest.

*Do discuss the importance of respecting the turkey's life, and that his life was taken to sustain theirs.

Obviously, I'm no expert. These are just things I learned over the past months, raising and butchering our own meat alongside my children. I'm sure there will be folks who disagree with me, and I would be thrilled to hear any other suggestions folks with more experience have to offer. 

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This post is linked up at The Prairie Homestead's Weekly Barn Hop. If you have any homestead-related posts to share, be sure to link up as well!

Notes on Turkey Processing

 I remember being about eight or ten years old, on a camping and fishing trip with my family. My father, like any good and decent father, decided he was not going to raise a young lady who was incapable of gutting fish. And like any reasonable little girl, I reacted with hysterics.

It was a really bad day. I'm still not sure I've forgiven him.
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Based on my past history, I suppose it's rather surprising that I now willingly take part in the butchering of animals at home.

Today was T-Day. Our turkeys, which we raised up from day-old poults, were starting to get too big to keep around. We raised a broad-breasted white tom and two broad-breasted bronze hens. (We'll get into the ethics of meat breeds some other day.)

I should warn you now that if you're a vegetarian, or if you're happier not knowing how your meat makes it to your table, you should stop here. Go find a blog about puppies or butterflies or something. You'll be much happier.

I think I'm going to divide this blog up into three parts, since I have discovered butchering turkeys in this fashion is a multi-faceted endeavor. (This means that you, the reader, get to read about dying turkeys for three days! I knew you'd be excited.)


Before we went out to take care of business, I found this blog by Braided Bower Farm and was immensely grateful that they had taken the time to write it. It's honest, to the point, and pretty well covers the whole process from beginning to end for the average home butchers. So if you're here looking for info on butchering a turkey, I encourage you to head that direction. The rest of this blog will be the notes I would add to it.

*We read the way Braided Bower Farm accomplished their killing, tried it, then improvised a bit. I think it's worth mentioning. We laced a rope through the rafters in the barn and hung a 5 gallon bucket from it. In the bottom of that five gallon bucket, hubby cut a turkey-head sized hole. Putting the turkey headfirst into the bucket, with the head coming out of the hole, worked something like an extra large killing cone, keeping the bird from flapping wildly as it bleeds out.

*Another five gallon bucket was placed beneath the bird-bucket to catch the blood. The amount of blood kind of surprised me. I was expecting a slow dribble. In reality, when the neck was slit, it sounded like someone turned a garden hose on in the bucket.

*Yes, sounded. I didn't watch. I'm a weenie. I held the rope keeping the bird suspended, but I closed my eyes for the actual slitting of the throat. I raised these birds from day-old poults! I felt kind of terrible. But only kind of.

*If you can find somewhere indoors to work, it's worth it. Yellow jackets in the fall are desperate for meat, which is what you are working with. Best not to risk being stung while you cut and slice with sharp knives. There are also flies, which are generally nasty. We used the shop. With the windows open. Because butchering anything doesn't smell very good.

*In the toolbox: a broad-bladed skinning knife, a narrow boning knife, and a sharpener; some needle nosed pliers and/or tweezers for removing bits of feathers; bandaids and triple-antibiotic ointment in case your husband slices his finger open (oops.); a bucket or other disposal method for guts, feathers, skin, and other bits that you won't be keeping to eat; a large trash bag to cover the table and keep clean-up simple.

*We didn't boil/scald the bird to pluck it. If you've ever plucked geese before, plucking turkeys is a breeze. With two of us working, it took less than half an hour to have the bird plucked clean.

*Determine whether it is really worth the effort to pluck. Obviously, if you want a roasted Thanksgiving turkey, you'll want the skin on. But if you'd just as soon bake a breast now and then, or cut up the thigh to use in soups or pot pies, skinning the bird might make more sense. We did both. It's also easier to find freezer space for pieces of a turkey than whole turkeys.

*I wrapped the meat first in plastic wrap, then in a double layer of freezer paper. I feel pretty confident this will work. For the whole bird, which weighed 20 pounds dressed out, I wrapped with about fourteen layers of plastic wrap, then a double layer of freezer paper. This was akin to wrapping a Christmas present with absolutely no rhyme or reason to its shape. It wasn't pretty. But it was well-wrapped, and will hopefully taste great on our Thanksgiving table.

*From the 40 pound tom, we ended up with 20 pounds of meat once he was dressed out and the meat removed from the carcass. The breasts weighed 6 pounds each. From the 25 pound hen, we ended up with about 12 pounds of meat. It's safe to assume that you'll end up eating about 50 percent of the bird's live weight.

*I saved the carcasses, necks, and wings from the cut-up birds to make broth.

*We also saved the feet for the dogs, who were thrilled with the treat.


I suppose that's about all I have to add for notes. Next to come will be processing meat with children around, and the ethics and morals behind it all. Stay tuned... you know you want to. ;o)

Trouble-Puppy

Earlier this summer I spent half an hour digging up this area near my front porch, fluffing the soil, adding compost and perlite, and then planting some iris bulbs from my mother-in-law's garden.

Promptly after I finished, a certain little puppy came along, removed every single iris, piled them off to the side, and trampled down the soft dirt. It is now his favorite sleeping spot - cool and in the shade.

It's a good thing I love him so much... I'm going to have to live without flowers until he grows up a bit! But puppies are better than flowers, anyway. Flowers don't drip slobber down your boots, and who could live without that?

The Horse in Flag Pajamas

 Bandit is having a sleepover with Grammy tonight.

Grammy lives in The Big City. With fair events starting at 8 a.m. tomorrow, we decided it would be easier to board him at her house than to be hauling him back and forth from The Tiny Little Town. And Grammy doesn't charge like the fairgrounds does.

Bandit got a bath today. We spent an hour or more shampooing and scrubbing and rinsing, conditioning his mane and braiding it up, and then The Oldest walked him around and around until he was all dry.

And then Grammy got out some jammies for him to wear.



Because horses in pajamas are just cool. And because it would keep him from getting any dirtier than necessary before tomorrow morning.

 I'm not sure if Bandit's ever been forced to wear such a thing before, but he reacted in typical Bandit fashion - patiently, quietly, and hoping it involved a treat.

 I think he's pretty darn adorable.

He may not be the fastest horse at the fair tomorrow, or the sleekest, or the trimmest, or the spunkiest. But I can guarantee you he's one of the fluffiest, softest ponies that will walk through that arena, and definitely one of the most patient.