Mud on the Tracks

One-Legged Rooster

2011-07-21T15:55:00.007-04:00

Dan and I gave the eat-your-own-meat thing a good solid try. We've raised and eaten 15 meat chickens, our pigs "the three Daves", the yearly turkey flock and quite a few sheep. And we will try again, I'm sure.

Yet we still manage to get overly attached, we feel sorry, we hesitate. In short we are too soft for farming. Bad, bad farmers.

Case in point: our One-Legged Rooster.

Back when I wrote about our ongoing poultry melodrama, this guy was "Vlad Vladikof, the black-bottomed rooster." Massive and proud, he skulked in the lower barn, crowing constant challenges at the more established Jaguar.

Then came a time the two fought. And fought... It didn't seem all that violent, a few scrabbly flutters and the dogs would come flying down the hill to break it up. (Quick aside: Even small farms have their own unique quirks and rhythms, busybody dogs intervening in the poultry soap opera is one of ours. Hey, it works. Usually...)

However, after one of these fights, Vlad came up lame. Worse than lame. His leg was so messed up he couldn't put any weight on it at all.

Now, there is nothing more pitiful than a one-legged rooster. No longer proud, Vlad hid in the barn, hopping to and from the feeder we set out for him.

We stopped calling him Vlad at all. Instead, he was "that poor guy" or "that poor rooster in the barn" and so on. His gaggle of outsider hens deserted him for the more sturdy roo in the coop.

We knew that we should end his misery. It's what any decent farmer should do. There was no way to make a splint, no way to catch him without bringing on a painful panic.

Clearly we lacked the correct mentality. And the poor one-legged guy in the barn hobbled through June.

Then one day last week, the guy was out in the sunlight. He isn't better, but he is putting weight down. he IS crowing challenges at Jaguar again (questionable rooster judgement is a subject for some other post) and for all our bad farmer technique, it appears he's pulled through.

***Pardon for the repeat picture, our camera is broken.

Farm Update

2011-06-25T12:00:00.003-04:00

Well, now that I've thoroughly bummed you all out on the last post (people seemed to down to comment, even) We're due for some cheer.

There's lots of cool new life on the farm this time of year. We have swallows nesting in the barn, a burgeoning garden, growing lambs

Seaport chicks

Coop-hatched chicks

and turkey poults

Whew!

A Small Tragedy

2011-06-19T09:17:00.003-04:00

There are lots of cool and happy things happening on Maggie's farm these days: new turkey poults in the barn, our 7 adolescent chicks orphaned but thriving, no significant sheep troubles. But we had a bit of a tragedy this week as well.

It all started with the baby raccoons. These two were found wandering around on the dirt road in front of the house.

What to do? They were young, though not infants. Did they still need their mother? Would she be back?

Before long a crowd (well, a rural New England-sized crowd) had gathered, the neighbors and their kids and grandkids, me and my kids. We tried feeding them (dogfood) but they seemed only slightly interested.

We tried capturing the raccoons to give to a wildlife rehabber but the babies were not into that idea, spitting and screaming and quite unexpectedly frightening.

I called the rehabber, and she said to let them be, that the mother was off foraging and would probably be back for them later.

So we did.

We didn't see them the next day or the next or next and so we felt we had made a good decision. The mother raccoon must have indeed returned.

Which brings me to yesterday... when our dog, Luka (Not Maggie who at 14 is quite deaf and somewhat blind, and not Milo who is too goofy and sweet for such things) found these two wandering around the woodpile and killed them.

I can tell you that as a mother and farmer, raccoons are sketchy creatures. They eat chickens and carry rabies and some other neurological diseases. But they are also cute as hell, at least when they are babies. Am I a bad farmer to care so much about this small tragedy? To think about it more or less all day? To be mad at my dog and myself?

With any bad thing, there's the second guessing-- if I had just disregarded the rehabber's advice and gone with my instincts... if I had searched a little harder... if I had kept Luka inside..... No. Some things feel orchestrated like Greek tragedies, everything following from the first all the way to the (miserable) end. This incident was a bit like that.

Wouldn't it be nice, though, to be able to peel back the curtain of the future and see where one simple decision would lead?

Sorry about the sad post, June always sets me to thinking this way. Maybe it's because we've had family losses in past Junes, maybe it's because all the joy of this burgeoning spring comes with a slick black tail of death, orphaned chicks and raccoons, frog eggs laid in disappearing pools, baby birds fallen from nests. June is a raw month.

Next time, we'll be on to something more uplifting.

So Sweet!

2011-05-29T12:40:00.004-04:00

Thanks to Kelly at Writing in the Margins, Bursting at the Seams for this lovely award. Check out her blog-- there's a lot of wisdom there.

So.... quick 7 things about myself:

1) We are having a fox predation problem again this year-- miserable for all of us, except the dogs who LOVE being called upon to patrol the borders in the early mornings.

2) Due to the fox predation, we have 7 orphaned chicks in a brooder on our porch. I took them to work for a few weeks and now they are home-- with cool new student-given names like "Mohawk", "Oreo" and "Hawkeye"

3) I worry about these chicks much more than usual... because they have cool student-given names and I would hate to have to tell the kids that something bad happened.

4) Our 15 turkey poults are arriving on June 15th. I am trying to pony up a little enthusiasm but...

5) I hate to admit this but I am feeling a little done with farming. The responsibility feels more burden and less joy lately. Especially as the kids are involved in all sorts of other activities (baseball, hip hop dance, clarinet, science club, art and writing groups) and I too am deep in novel revisions.

6) Our above ground pool was flattened by heavy snowfall this winter. I am not much of a swimmer (The pool-- which came with the house-- seemed a lot of money and trouble and upkeep to me, but the rest of the family is bummed)

7) I have about 75 singular socks on the laundry room table. Years worth of missing socks. NO idea how this happens. Where do those matches go?

I'm passing this award on to these cool blogs:

Allie at Visualize Industrial Collapse. Allie is an ambitious farmer who many years ago took in our first two lambs. Check out her amazing yarn!

Amateur Yankee. Beautiful photos and thoughtful posts from Vermont

Razzberry Corner: Great and farmy. I don't have much love for our own gunea fowl, but I love reading about the Razzberry Corner crew

Chai Chai at Homestead...From Scratch who has been such a wonderful commenter over the years (yes, years!) and has a terrific farmy blog too

Christy of Whistling Wind Farm who started off with "Farm Dreams" and now has the whole kit n' caboodle

And Lisa who has a fabulous farm up in NH.

My Three Roosters

2011-05-03T17:56:00.008-04:00

Winter's big rooster round-up is over and done with. The daffodils are out, the mint is starting to sprout in the garden (and everywhere else it can get to) and the hens are scratching fall's last shriveled leaves to bits.

Also, the three remaining roosters are figuring out the pecking order.

Chickens really do have them. There's always a fat, glossy hen with an evil glint in her eye, not so different from those Housewives of Orange County. (Okay, I confess, I've never SEEN one of those housewives shows so this last part pure guesswork)

Anyway, there's also the timid bottom rung girls

who are lean and rangy and dart more often then they waddle.

Often there are squabbles between them, but these last a few seconds. High ranking hen says "Move it pipsqueak!" and low ranking hen, flutters off clucking apologies, that sort of thing.

But with roosters, this stuff is more like "Lock-Up" or something (Again, haven't actually seen this show, but I don't exactly live in a cave either.)

Our main man rooster, Jaguar is 3 or 4 years old now (He's the khaki fellow on the far left)

Jaguar has been king of this here castle quite a while, and he has all the swagger of John Wayne. He doesn't start fights, but he can end them.

Usually.

Too bad for Jaguar, our second ranking rooster is two this year, a mature and weighty bird with a magnificent dark green tail.

And plenty swagger of his own.

He used to be "Dionysus" until he beat up his brother Apollo

Since then, he's lived with his own small harem away from Jaguar in the lower barn. We now call this dude "Vlad" or "The Black-Bottomed Rooster" after the vulture in Horton Hears a Who

Vlad had an edge, and he has been angling to displace Jaguar for a while now. Today they had a run in in the no-bird's land between the coop and the barn. But the dogs made such a fuss, they went their separate ways without resolving anything.

It's a waiting game now.

Which brings us to the last of the Maggie's Farm Roos: Blackbeard

This guy is young. He still has that gangly, goofball quality (just look at that face!)

The hens just don't take him seriously, but he hangs around the outskirts of Jaguar's flock, trying to snatch them away (Roosters are not above rape.) Of course, when he starts after one, Jaguar comes barreling to the rescue. So mostly Blackbeard runs, and watches and waits. I don't think he's eating much.

So that's our current triumvirate. But I'll keep you posted.

Finally!

2011-04-18T10:51:00.003-04:00

Acorn had triplets on Thursday-- two ewe lambs and a little ram! Our first ever set, a gaggle of moorit lambs. And she bore them like a pro. Her easiest lambing to date; I only had to help pull the first (nose and one hoof delivery). The second she managed pretty much alone. The third, was a total surprise delivered as Acorn stood among her miniature flock and we helpers rubbed them dry.

Unfortunately, Acorn didn't seem to have enough milk for three. The old mastitis blocked one side at least partially (Dan was able to get a few drops with some serious milking). But the lambs were constantly hungry and small.

So we gave one of the ewes to some lovely farmers in New Hampshire who have a lot of experience with bottle lambs and are already spoiling her rotten. They've named her after her mother.

It was sad to drive her up to New Hampshire, but this was eased by her comfortable calm (she rode all the way on my eldest's lap!) and the immediate love her new "parents" showed for her.

Also, I swear Acorn seemed a little relieved. Three is a lot for a mama (I can attest to that!) especially with milk issues.

One more ewe left to lamb. And Penny appears at least three weeks away. Whew!

Spring Flower

2011-04-12T14:29:00.002-04:00

Well now. We are STILL waiting for poor Acorn to lamb. This is how she's looking these days:

Poor thing. I mean, how much longer is this going to take????

While we were keeping watch on Acorn, waking early, midnight barn checking, wily old matriarch, Copper, decided to go ahead and get the lambing over with.

In between the frequent checks, she birthed herself a nice little ewe lamb.

The kids have named her Flower.

A Watched Sheep...

2011-03-20T10:14:00.005-04:00

Take a look at poor Acorn:

She is sooooo totally pregnant. I've been expecting her to lamb for five days now, checking every few hours all daylong, then twice at night and waking up extra early too.

And still, nothing. Except an uncomfortable ewe with a "What are YOU looking at?" expression on her sheepy face.

It appears that the old adage is true: A watched sheep never lambs

Acorn is our friendliest ewe. Also the ewe that has had the most "issues". We had to assist in her first lambing (two lovely twins!) and in her second (one 11 pound ram lamb with enormous horn buds) and then she was cast, developed a case of dry mastitis, a cut that happened at the peak of fly season (luckily she did NOT get flystrike). We gave her a lambing break last year but now here she is: huge and miserable all over again.

Hopefully, this will be an easy spring for the old gal.

As some of you might know, we drastically reduced our flock last year. Well, truth is, we'd planned to quit with sheep altogether. But we're just too attached to these old girls.

Here's current flock:

Matriarch Copper (she's 12 now!), young ram, Ewok, and flighty gal Penny. And of course, our dear Acorn (pictured and pictured and pictured above)

But any day now, this little flock will expand.

Sending Off the Roos

2011-03-10T12:04:00.002-05:00

I'm all for the new, localvore, non-industrialized, back-to-the-land type of farming. Heck I AM it-- at least on a very small scale.

But it is what it is, which is to say: not pretty.

Farming (even vegetable farming) is, at its most basic level, about manipulating natural things so that they serve you. In other words "using" them. It is not really a quaint, idyllic pastime. It is messy and brutal, beautiful and hard and very, very real.

I have to re-learn this every few months here on Maggie's farm. Yesterday was a case in point.

Y'see, we had five too many roosters. They'd been part of the batches of hen-brooded chicks that blessed last spring. The ones that survived the fox attacks and hawk swoops. And they were now grown up enough to bully each other and stress out the hens and generally act like the feathered bags of testosterone they were.

We knew we should eat them. But Dan wasn't up for it after the last time, and I didn't want to try it alone. (Have I mentioned we are wimpy farmers)

So I put an add in Craigslist knowing that what I was too soft to manage, some other person could do with a quick twist of the neck.

Then I chased down those five roosters, feeling all the while so sad and sorry as only an absolute farming wimp can. In the crate, the cocky birds continued their squabbles, the weaker ones, crouching in the corners, the toughies crowing victory. "Soccerball," who'd turned out to be a beautiful feisty rooster was in there, and the soft ginormous "Mongo Rooster."

(LESSON LEARNED: Never name your rooster chicks.)

And then the guy came to get them and I felt..... awful.

I know. It makes no sense. They were making themselves (and the hens) miserable. They'd kicked our formerly-dominant rooster, Jaguar, out of the coop, they were all fight and fury, but I felt so responsible for their fate. I hoped the guy who bought them would give them a decent life/death, but I had no more control over that.

But I sold them. For $2 each. And washed my hands.

And then I moped about the way farming is not the bucolic wonderland that is sometimes portrayed.

In the Land of Poo

2011-02-23T19:08:00.006-05:00

It's February Vacation (I believe this is a special New England Holiday, sort of a President's day/let's-not-bust-the-school-budget-on-heating-oil thing) and the kids and I have been keeping busy.

We have been to the library, done wood crafts, sand art, baking, Ice Skating and a Museum. And we have watched a few DVDs. (I try to limit the kids' "screen time", but this is increasingly like trying to hold back the ocean with a spatula.)

One of the DVDs we watched was Nanny McPhee Returns. In it, a pair of "sophisticated" city cousins are dropped off to stay with their poor, dirty, farming kin.

The cousins' car pulls into the farmyard, which is a typical, if somewhat exaggerated slop of mud and um, waste, and the boy grimaces, turns to his sister and says:

"We are in the land of poo. Duck poo, cow poo, goat poo..."

Well we here on Maggie's farm got a kick out of that.

Farming is inextricably tied to "poo". Poo in infinite variety, Poo that seems barely possible. Poo that has poo.

I often wonder what our suburban and urban visitors think of the free-ranging chicken#**&! strewn about the yard and the barn and (often) the porch

the sheep "fertilizing" away in the fields

the gummy newborn lamb butts that often need wiping (don't ask...). The three dogs alone create quite a stink (well, yes, the pun WAS intended).

I imagine we might indeed seem to be living in the Land of Poo.

But, then, poo is one of the inevitabilities of life. It happens. And on a farm, as I've said, it happens a lot.

I know from experience that you can shield yourself from from much of this poo if you live in cleaner, less animal prone places--especially if you don't have pets or young children. But perhaps moving to the country helped us come to terms with poo as much as it did with meat-eating and winter. We simply had no choice.

Whatever the case, my kids have been quoting Nanny McPhee with glee:

One will say: "Greetings, O covered-in-poo people. Do you speak English? "

And another will add "Yes, poo-man, we have come from far away, from the land of soap and indoor toilets!"

And then, stepping out into the poo-strewn snow of Maggie's farm, they will laugh and laugh and laugh.

Impending Doom in the Orchard?

2011-02-08T12:48:00.004-05:00

This is our orchard in deep winter snow:

It breaks my heart, this orchard. It's beautiful and needy and slightly rundown. We can't take care of it the way we should. Blame a lack of equipment, know-how, and will. Yet it hasn't quit on us. Every year, the apples are a little less lovely, but they come.

It used to be that we had a bargain with a large, local orchard. They'd care for the trees and take all the apples we didn't use. But their methods were highly conventional. We here at Maggie's farm are flexible, pragmatic even, but we could not abide by herbicide. Or, frequent drenchings of pesticides. We grit our teeth and allowed the fungicide in the spring and that seemed a fair trade off.

But as our flock of Icelandic Sheep grew, we began to use the orchard as pasture. The sheep nibbled the lower branches. But they kept the grass low without herbicides. We were fine with that, but the fencing made it hard for the orchard folks to work and they got sick of all the limitations and just stopped coming.

That was two years ago. Our noble little orchard continues on, apples scabby and small, but still good.

This year, though, feels like a last gasp. How long before the trees give out altogether?

We've tried to find someone to care for the orchard. But we are just a little too remote, and the care is just a little too intensive, I guess.

Spring is coming (Hard to believe in a snowy month like this one).

Any ideas? What would you do?

Felted Penguin

2011-01-25T20:33:00.003-05:00

I made this needle-felted penguin with our own Maggie's Farm wool. And here's the crazy thing: it was easy. Relaxing even.

Basically, you mat dyed fleece by poking it over and over with a small barbed needle until you get the shape and consistency you desire.

Here's a great little how-to video:

Maggie of Maggie's Farm

2011-01-23T09:48:00.003-05:00

Maggie and her Sheep

Maggie is 14 now, a little tottery and hard of hearing. Her hips ache and she has trouble swallowing sometimes (due to an old stick-fetching incident) but when she is outside with her sheep, you'd never know. She bounds along before us, pacing the fence line with that infamous border collie "eye", all business as ever. Later, of course, she collapses under the coffee table, barely able to walk. But she wouldn't have it any other way.

She gets confused sometimes. Once, she wandered across the road and forgot where she was. She had such a look of relief when I came to fetch her, gave a sort of "Oh, I'm with you!" jump and ran home.

Old age, as they say,is not for sissies. But we can all learn a bit from the stoic way our Maggie faces her new challenges.

Maggie and Luka

Taking the Yellow Crocs on the Road

2010-12-21T21:20:00.004-05:00

Pretty soon, we'll be packing up for our annual Pilgrimage to Pinellas County (Florida, that is).

The first time we did this particular drive, our adolescent was less than two months old. THAT trip involved several nights' walking the colicky babe around roadside motels hoping we weren't keeping the whole place up.

Those first few trips involved dog-friendly hotels (For Maggie of course) and many of them. Some years it felt like it took FOR-EV-ER to make it down south.

There were two-baby trips (imagine a toddle with a stomach flu and a looooong fruitless Christmas morning search for a tube of Balmex), three-baby trips with endless Raffi sing-alongs, blizzards in New Jersey, and buckets of plastic toys.

Once we wised up to the beauty of a car-full of sleeping kids, the trips evolved into all night affairs, late afternoon starts and logy 2 AM passes through Washington DC.

I guess you could say miserable-yet-oddly wonderful road trips are now a holiday tradition with us.

It just wouldn't be Christmas if I wasn't waking up in a Cracker Barrel parking lot after an all-night drive, shuttling the kids through the chachkas and into the bathroom to pee and brush their teeth and arguing over how many hot chocolate refills might make up for their hellish night in the car.

If you are traveling with kids this holiday, here are a few things we at Maggie's farm found tremendously helpful:

1. Books on tape. We are finally all old enough to enjoy the same books! Our family currently loves the Septimus Heap series!

2. Books on paper! I visit the library and take out several new books per kid and hide them away until we're on the road. Variety is key here: Guiness Book of World Records, Graphic Novels, Calvin and Hobbes, Science Encyclopedias and many, many new novels keep all three busy.

3. Whiteboards and markers. For some reason, even kids that don't get much into drawing love to doodle and play hangman on these things.

4. Flashlights, blankets and comfy clothes-- make an all-nighter a sort of slumber party.

5. Taking turns. There are five of us and each person gets to choose an auditory option (book or music or-- in case of grown-ups-- the dreaded NPR.

6. Rest areas. Take advantage of these! We play tag or catch or just run around like nutcases, anything to expend a little energy.

7. Snacks. I make gorp and other protein-rich snacks like cheese and crackers, peanut butter and carrot sticks, and also junk the kids don't often see (Bubblicious gum and Tic Tacs are favorites)

8. Board Games. these aren't for the road. But they are mighty handy to have when the kids are jumping bed-to-bed in your motel room with nothing to do. Some of our current favorites are Bananagrams, Settlers of Catan, Blokus, and Poker!

9. A plan for the day after the all-nighter. We make sure to do at least one fun, kid friendly thing on that weary second day. (Did I say we? Um, I am the all-night designated driver, so often I rest up while Dan-- who can and does sleep through anything-- takes the kids to a hotel pool or local playground.)

10. Sense of humor. If you have kids, you know this is no small thing. Dan and usually balance each other out-- we are never in a bad mood at the same time.

11. Oh, just go for it! As frequent readers may know, we at Maggie's Farm are not the look before you leap sort. We are all about jumping in with both feet ... and at the drop of a hat, too. (There-- three cliches in one paragraph. My work here is done.) But, you know, we always get a good story out of the deal, and we never-- as my Grandmother used to say-- think we "woulda shoulda coulda!"

Thankful

2010-11-30T13:43:00.001-05:00

Its been a sort of funny year, 2010. Lots of stark raving good and some pretty serious lousy too. Our family tradition is to make "Thankfulness pictures" to share before dinner, but this year they seemed too... much. We needed a new tradition, one that would sum it all up without the obligation to gush. (Gushing, by the way, is fully appropriate at Thanksgiving. I can do it. I love doing it. But for extended family, gushing just didn't cut it this year)

And so, the Thankfulness Pinata was born. We stuffed it with anonymous notes of thanks. And then bashed it with a baseball bat.
The kids thought this was a lot more fun than obligatory art. And the grown-ups too. And when the bag finally cracked open, all our THANKS spilled out onto the damp fall dirt and the kids rushed them as if they were candy.

All fun aside, here are some things I am truly thankful for:

My husband, the calm in my storm and the true heart of this crazy lifelong enterprise.
The kids, each so much who he/she is it makes me cry sometimes
The extended family and friends that bless our days
Work. Hard, meaningful, often joyous work.
My other work, writing. I am thankful I've been able to carve out the space for my inner space.
The everyday comfort of our hilltown home
Dogs, sheep, chickens etc etc
The luck and hardships that led me here to all of this

Happy (slightly belated) Thanksgiving!

Eggless

2010-11-21T10:07:00.002-05:00

Maggie's Farm takes this free-ranging thing seriously. Our 30-some chickens hang out under the porch and on the porch, in the barn and pasture, under the apple trees and, if the kids leave the van door open, IN the vehicles (yes, it's happened. Really). They are happy birds, lucky to be engaging in full-time poultry politics. (Chickens are born politicians. Anyone who's spent any time around the coop can imagine them in little powersuits nodding and "yes-ing", and jockeying for position.)

But they've quit laying eggs.

There was a period of diminishing returns-- 3 or 4 eggs a day in September and now, zero, zilch, bubkus. (I have no idea how to spell bubkus) They have a light in their coop to stave off the afternoon darkness. They have food and fresh air and water. They have lovely nest boxes full of comfy shavings.

But.... Nothing.

Now, many of our hens are elderly. "Fancy Feather" and "Chicklee", "Sandy" and "Rangey" are over 7 years old now. But there are also many younger hens who have no good excuse.

I wonder if the non-egg laying is a silent protest. Our male-to-female poultry ratio is terribly skewed at present. We have about 8 young and cocky roosters, survivors of this summer's fox attacks. As roos are wont to do, they sneak around waiting to catch the biddies away from the flock. Jaguar, our dominant rooster has his hands (wings) full fighting them off.

Now, I'm all for converting these young roos into chicken soup. But my better half has a bit less enthusiasm for this project. He started it a few weeks ago when I was out of town, managed one rooster before he lost his resolve and called it a day....Yes, he's a softy :)

And so, while we lurch through endless "what to do with the roosters" debates, the hens continue their protest

And we go eggless.

This is the Farm... a poem

2010-11-11T09:26:00.012-05:00

This is the farm, cozy and still, all hunkered down at the top of the hill.

This is the dog who looks after the farm. She crouches and tends and keeps it from harm.

This is the yard the chickens destroy as they scratch and they bask and flutter with joy,

watched by the dog who looks after the farm. She crouches and tends and keeps it from harm

This is the coop where seven roosters crow. They scuffle and tussle, step on each other's toes,

beside the yard the chickens destroy as they scratch and they bask and flutter with joy

watched by the dog who looks after the farm. She crouches and tends and keeps it from harm

These are the sheep that graze in the sun. Growing fine wool is about all they've done,

under the coop where seven roosters crow. They scuffle and tussle, step on each other's toes,

beside the yard the chickens destroy when they scratch and they bask and flutter with joy, watched by the dog who looks after the farm. She crouches and tends and keeps it from harm

These are the fences all broken and crashed, when trees topple over, the best ones are dashed freeing the sheep that graze in the sun, growing fine wool is about all they've done,

under the coop where seven roosters crow. They scuffle and tussle, step on each other's toes, beside the yard the chickens destroy when they scratch and they bask and flutter with joy, watched by the dog who looks after the farm. She crouches and tend and keeps it from harm

And this is the barn where stray poultry roost, strutting and preening and leaving their poo, beside the fences all broken and crashed, when trees topple over, the best ones are dashed freeing the sheep that graze in the sun, growing fine wool is about all they've done,

under the coop where seven roosters crow. They scuffle and tussle and step on each other's toes, beside the yard the chickens destroy when they scratch and they bask and flutter with joy, watched by the dog who looks after the farm. She crouches and tends and keeps it from harm

These are the apples before the first snow, all spotted and ripe and ready to go

stored in the barn where stray poultry roost, strutting and preening and leaving their poo. beside the fences all broken and crashed, when trees topple over, the best ones are dashed freeing the sheep that graze in the sun, growing fine wool is about all they've done

Under the coop where seven roosters crow. They scuffle and tussle and step on each other's toes, beside the yard the chickens destroy when they scratch and they bask and flutter with joy, watched by the dog who looks after the farm. She crouches and tends and keeps it from harm

These are the shepherds all weary and maxed, doing their chores as the new moon waxed

heading out to the barn where stray poultry roost, strutting and preening and leaving their poo. beside the fences all broken and crashed, when trees topple over, the best ones are dashed freeing the sheep that graze in the sun, growing fine wool is about all they've done

Fall Harvest

2010-10-16T17:38:00.011-04:00

Autumn is a beautiful time of year, but for us at Maggie's Farm, it can be a little sad. Autumn means the rattle of leaves and slick roads, snow grown thick over the pastures, the coop with a cold white hat of ice. It means water will freeze in the buckets and need to be kicked out and refilled eternally. Kids' mittens go missing (one from each pair) and the snow (avert your eyes if you are squeamish) encases layers of dog turd and toys.

Autumn is also the time of harvest.

We had a pretty good crop of pumpkins this year-- a first! And too many cucumbers (have to learn to pickle them one of these years) and many, many pig-planted tomatoes.

Our apples, unsprayed for two years now, are sorry looking things. But they do provide for a bounty of pies and crumbles.

We also have lamb, or ram anyway. A few weekends ago, we "harvested" Rahm, our Icelandic ram. Rahm was two years old, but with a strange ancientness in his bearing, his slow and careful gait, his propensity to plop himself down under the coop or against the barn and just sit all day like Ferdinand.

Rahm had scurs, the kind that curved straight back towards his skull and needed frequent trimming. Dan and I spent many a Saturday afternoon wrestling poor Rahm to a sitting position (Not easy as he was a complete chub) and going at those thick scurs with a branch trimmer or, when this failed, a hacksaw. Yes, there was blood, lots of it. Also Rahm's hooves grew freakishly fast, requiring even more ram wrangling. Every time we'd do the trimming thing, I'd say something like "Poor Rahm, I feel so bad for him.

We ought to just put him out of his misery and eat him." But, gutless farmers that we are, we left the big guy be.

This year, though, we'd sold all the lambs and most of the sheep, and our freezer was growing kind of light on lamb. We had one ram lamb, Ewok, a beautiful solid black with (so far.... knock on wood) no offending scurs.

We knew that with the turn of the seasons Rahm and Ewok would start up with the ramly-ram posturing and butting and that the three remaining ewes (Copper, Acorn and Penny) just needed one boy around.

We decided that we might as well eat the big, hard-to-care-for, scurs-growing-into-his-head one.

As you might recall, we've tried a few different slaughter methods. Our first ram, Gus, a nasty bugger, was slaughtered and butchered by our barber Dwayne (Yes, it IS that small a town). And the year after that I had a horrible experience with driving a vanful of sheep to a slaughterhouse. Last year, we had a mobile butcher come out to "do" our pigs and sheep more humanely. But the butcher wouldn't come out for one sheep, and Dwayne retired a few years back. What to do? Perhaps it was time to "man up" (Hate that expression) and do the thing ourselves.....

Um, no.

Lucky for us, we have some very kind friends (Thanks you guys!) who are also small farmers with more expertise in butchering and all the tools too. Dan and Adam went down to the barn with the rifle and meat saw and ropes and hooks and all sorts of terrible implements, while I hung out with the kids (Yes, this is pretty much my role when it comes to slaughter). A short while later, I ventured down to watch a bit. A short bit. As the caul fat was pulled from Rahm's gut cavity. (Never thought I'd be doing THAT back in my vegetarian days). Then Adam's wife, Emily, and I took the all kids (6 in all) to a local fundraising event for the high school athletic teams.

Later we had a barbecue (Not sheep,mind you. Definitely too soon for that.) It was, for me anyway, the easiest most pleasant slaughter day yet.

But still, the feel of fall-- endings and lapsings, chill winds and more to come-- lingers.

Magical Chicken

2010-09-14T14:33:00.003-04:00

I've mentioned the fox that's been lunching on our chickens, yes?

Well, it's been pretty quiet lately, owing to our keeping all of the chickens cooped for a long stretch of the summer. All of the chickens, that is, except for this small white hen who we've named "The Magical Chicken". Here she is:

She doesn't like the coop.. or the barn. She disappears at night, re-appears walking the fence line like a sitting duck (bad poultry metaphor, I know). And-- here's the really remarkable thing-- she hasn't been eaten!

Where does she go? How does she avoid the jaws of our resident predator? I have no idea. Once, I found her high in the rafters on the outside of the barn, once in an open shed that had been home to our trio of pigs, "The Daves". She is a cagey little thing, zig-zagging across open spaces, never drifting to close to the woods.

Our older hens (These girls are six now!) are more sedate and trusting. I've seen them gather into a ruffled little knot and gawk as the fox mows one of their sisters down. Not so with "The Magical Chicken". Long before the fox shows, she is up and out of there!

Perhaps, we have some natural selection going on in the barnyard and before long we'll have a flock of super-smart fox-detecting rafters-roosting chickens.

Disrepair

2010-08-29T11:41:00.006-04:00

If you are a regular reader of this blog, you've probably noticed that things have been a little.... scattered lately. The problem extends beyond blog inattention, I'm afraid. Fences need fixing, nest boxes lapse into poultry trainwrecks, broken eggs and displaced bedding, general ugliness. Sheep have taken to free-ranging

(Here's Rahm on the wrong side of the barn wall...)

And this very barn has been befouled by foul. Not pretty around here these days.

Why?

Well, one explanation is busyness. We are working (quite a lot) and have been away. There are, all of a sudden, three elementary school aged kids around the farm with their own social commitments, camps, activities, etc. When do we keep up with chores, exactly?

Another explanation is flagging interest. It's been about 5 years since we started farming and while we love the animals, the somewhat self-sufficiency, the lifestyle aspect, it's not the adventure it once was. The first or second or 15th time we had to trim Rahm's horns or treat a sick ewe or scrounge food for pigs, was exciting. But now we know what to expect.

It might be a sort of general failure. We have not figured out how to make the sheep affordable or how to provide more than our own meat and a few vegetables. (We regularly buy everything from cereal to snack bars to milk, ice cream and bread from the supermarket). The pigs were a success, but Dan (having been part of the slaughter process) is not ready to do another round, and they were a serious time suck. Ditto for the turkeys, minus some of the slaughter issues plus a whole lot more of a mess(!)

Lastly, there's the "itchy feet" factor. Every 5-7 years or so, I get a bad case of "let's pick up and try something totally different". Often, this "different" involves a shiny airstream trailer and a great swath of Wyoming badland, but it can take other forms as well-- 6 month canoe trips, desert islands, etc etc. To compound this state of "itchy-feetness", Dan's work is largely mobile these days... The dream seems within actual reach! (Of course the kids-- as they have often told me-- are TOTALLY NOT INTO this idea, and neither is my charmingly home-happy husband. But still.....

So here we are on Maggie's Farm, the rich summer of 2010 starting to slip from our grasp, the apples (and peaches!) ripening on the trees, our reduced flock happily free ranging, chickens glorying in their dust baths, white faced hornets building a fortress under the eaves, tent caterpillars amassing their downy nests in out front yard trees, the dirt road alternately a dusty mess and a swamp, mint grown out of control in the herb garden

...and a hundred unplanned tomatoes plants offering their hard green fruit in the former pig pasture.

Pumpkins have also sprouted in the fertile land of former pigs...

Everything more or less in a state of wild disrepair.

Not sure what'll be happening around here next, but I'll certainly let you know.

Been away...

2010-08-16T14:10:00.004-04:00

I'm sorry I'v neglected this blog so badly the last little bit. We went on a three week long trip (!) to Newfoundland to celebrate my better half's half century birthday.

It was the longest we've been away, well, ever. But we have the most wonderful farm-sitters and so returned to the same number of chickens and sheep and dogs, all healthy and relatively happy. No news on the fox, maybe he also went on vacation!

Anyway, here's the trip-- from the perspective of my footwear:

Western Brook Pond

Sunset at River of Ponds

Rockhounding at Port au Port

Chillin' with the kids

Wading in Flowers Cove

Out of the Loop

2010-07-14T09:27:00.005-04:00

That's me. I didn't realize that blogging custom requires me to post 7 (7?) things about myself that you might not know and also pass the award along to a few other bloggers.

I feel sort of silly, missing that info somewhere along the way.

Anyway, here goes...

7 Unexpected Things About Me:

1. I have another blog. Its a writing blog, totally unrelated to farming (www.lesserapricots.com)

2. I've written two as-yet-unpublished novels (also totally unrelated to farming)

3. I am one course short of a bachelor's degree in Anthropology

4. I spent one awesome summer as a volunteer Archaeologist in Northern Nevada

5. I have never been to Europe

6. I grew up in Florida

7. I once rode across the country on the back of a motorcycle.

Jeesh! That was sort of painful.

Now to the fun part:

I'm passing this award on some other farmy bloggers:

Lisa at Notes from Zone 4 (http://www.mackhillfarm.com/page/2/)

Carol at Red Dirt in my soul

http://blog.rimrockenglishshepherds.com/

Skepweaver from The Shambles at Highland Butte

http://skepweaver.wordpress.com/

Well's Tavern Farm

http://wellstavernfarm.wordpress.com/

Enjoy!

An Award! (and update)

2010-07-12T10:06:00.003-04:00

Look here:

I got this cool award from my friend Ariel over at http://arielswan.blogspot.com/

Ariel is part of my writing life rather than my farming life, but she DOES have some terrific chickens (all with literary names, mind you) and her blog is terrific. You all should check it out!

Anyway, I feel sort of guilty about the award because I haven't had much to say lately....

So, I guess I should use this as an opportunity for an update:

We have moved ahead with our plans to "disperse the flock" sending off two rams (Dodge and Charlie to be herdsires) and four ewes (Leela, Daisy and their ewe lambs) Two more ewes (Elba-- Copper's ewe lamb-- and Diamond) are leaving this weekend.That should bring us down to three ewes, a ram, and a ram lamb.

...And that looks about right for us. For now, anyway.

We'd been planning on sending Acorn to a wonderful farm in central Mass but are having second thoughts. in fact, perhaps we've been a bit too hasty in the "let's get rid of everything!" thing.... In retrospect, the decision had a spring cleaning feel-- also there was the cost (less of an issue with 4 sheep) and the worry (also less of an issue with 4 sheep).

And then there is the Copper factor.

(Sorry about the repeat Pic)

I didn't realize quite how attached I was to our flock until I received an offer for Copper... well for for Copper's lambs with Copper along for the ride. The offer was from a good and forthright farming fried who was clear from the get-go that he was interested in the lambs, not the 9 year old ewe still nursing them. Though it was exactly what I'd wanted, I found I was hemming and hawing about this deal.

And that's when it hit me. Copper was our first ewe. She arrived when our farming dream was in its infancy, a four year old with a lamb at her side. She was the foundation, the sensible, matriarch, the "brains" of the flock as much as our dear lovable, accident prone Acorn was its "heart".

And although it's TOTALLY ridiculous to turn down an offer for her, I did.

And so Copper is staying, along with Penny and probably Acorn, and one ram-- either Rahm, who is so fat and mellow at this point he appears to be sleepwalking

or Ewok, Copper's beautiful black ram lamb, who's rise to herdsire will put the old dame into retirement.

The odd ram out will be ramchops. (Yes, I know it's weird to bemoan someone else eating our ewe and then turn around and casually drop the M-bomb (M as in "Meat") but then, this is one of the great farming ironies.

Not so fantastic

2010-07-02T17:49:00.003-04:00

Yesterday, I awoke to the muddled screeching of chickens (If you've ever heard a panicked hen, you know exactly what I'm talking about) looked out my bedroom window to find a FOX-- long, lean, surprisingly tiny, angling after Dionysus, one of the non-cooped roosters. An inhuman warning issued from my throat, sort of a growl-bleat-scream, and the fox swiveled its beautiful head, fixed those yellow eyes on the house a moment, and melted into the tall weeds. Gone.

So now-- 30 some chickens later-- we know for sure. Our predator is a fox.

We've considered trapping it but have been told it's likely feeding pups and, being incurable softies, we can't quite fathom displacing a mama. (Yep, I know this says something unfortunate about our farmer-ness as does the fact that we can't slaughter or even sell off our old ewe, Copper, because we've had her so long.)

The other option is keeping the chickens cooped. We've done this for a few days-- the Maggie's Farm version of "Move along folks, nothing to see here." but felt so sorry for the free-ranging flock that we let them out again today.

And guess what? There she was, the not-so-fantastic Mrs. Fox, creeping along beside the back fence. The guinea fowl saw her first, started up a racket as only they can. (Up until now, we hated those %$$#$@ guinea hens, but they've been worth their weight in eggs now that there's something beyond crows and dogwalkers for them to screech about) Dan went to check on the situation and the fox melted away into the weeds again.

"I think," said our 8 year old, "Our chickens are going to go extinct."

Any suggestions?

Massacre!

2010-06-25T13:08:00.003-04:00

Ah, Summer. Lazy, sun-dappled days, marble-sized apples waving on deep green, breeze-tossed branches. Summer is finding shapes in high cumulus clouds, cookouts and creamie stands. It's watching those spring babies come into their own.

At least that's what you hope for.

But on Maggie's Farm, summer 2010 is more like a horror movie... a chicken horror movie. Something has been picking off those aforementioned spring babies left and right.

It started with the youngest chicks-- barely past fuzzy stage. We noticed a few of the brood were missing. Okay, we thought, chicks are fragile. Anything could have happened.

Then came a morning when we found the bodies of six young chickens scattered about the barnyard like windblown socks off the line.

We eyed adolescent pup Milo with suspicion. After all, he showed some interest in the fuzzies.... Milo spent a few days on a long leash, the words "NO! LEAVE IT!" raining down when he so much as looked at the birds.

But then the Mama hen, Pearl, disappeared. And, having fled, tail between his legs, from Pearl's defensive onslaughts, Milo wasn't a likely suspect in that particular murder.

Luka, for all her difficult traits, is gentle with the livestock, keeping a protective eye on her flock as any self-respecting sheepdog must.

So she's not a likely candidate. And Maggie-- after the infamous guinea massacre-- has figured out that herding does not generally involve teeth. (You can teach an old dog new tricks after all.)

So the terror was not homegrown.

Once the fuzzies (and mama) were out of the way, the adolescents started disappearing. Nearly full grown, this crowd hung out at the edge of the woods, far from the coop and the mature flock. We'd been offering them up to friends and neighbors there were so many of them!

... and then there weren't.

And now it appears ALL but two or three of them have disappeared. Whatever is taking them it's quick, bold. And super hungry.

We think it might be a hawk-- Dan found a hawk over a few chicken bodies in the woods-- but then today, I made a gristly discovery: a half eaten chicken up against the fence right beside the barn. I'll spare you the gristly details, but I don't think a hawk would hang around long enough to eat THAT much.

Most of the usual suspects-- foxes, racoons, fishers-- are nocturnal. But the massacres seem to occur in daylight, broad daylight. When the guinea hens start up their ear-shattering warning calls, I run out to check but its always too late. Another chick has bitten the dust.

So what the heck is it? And how do we remove it?

I suppose we're lucky it's taken the predators six blissful, free-ranging summers to figure out we had fresh meat on the wing, but this is little consolation.

We have two new hatches today-- brand new fuzzies still in the nest-- and it'd be nice if they could make it through this brutal, blood-drenched chicken-graveyard of a summer.

Fallout

2010-06-01T11:25:00.005-04:00

Been an interesting week in Western Mass. We had 20 minute storm that managed to knock out power for much of the area, blow up our water heater (causing a propane gas smell that had the fire department out first thing in the morning), and topple about 15 trees around the place. But we were pretty lucky, some of our neighbors had a tree fall through their roof, squashed cars, sheds, the works.

The power's back now, though, for us, hot water is still lacking....

Here are a few local pictures

Perhaps sensing our storm-induced vulnerability here on the farm, we had a midnight visit by a pack of coyotes. They yodeled along the fence line very close to the flock. The dogs went nuts, of course, barking and lunging at the windows and the pack dissipated.

However, the sheep decided the lower pasture was too close for comfort and busted loose in the night. Morning found them in the yard, the orchard, every which place... all safe and sound. They are now in the upper pasture (more or less...)

In other news...

Marshmallow/Darth Molly has moved to the coop. Here's her introduction to the flock...

And to Luka...

Chicks for Free

2010-05-13T09:24:00.005-04:00

Some of you might recall the plethora of chicks that our broody hens hatched out when the weather was barely springy. Well, apparently that was just the tip of the poultry iceberg. Since then, two more broodies have produced another 10 chicks which brings the total up into the 30's.

That's a serious lot of chicks.

These newly adolescent chicks roam the barn and yard, establishing an extensive pecking order, scrounging worms and beetles, their mothers have long since abandoned them to fend for themselves. (I will digress for a moment to marvel at the abruptness with which mother hens cut the apron springs. One day they are struggling to warm 15 chicks under their wings and the next, they are up high on the roost, the same chicks huddling below in the cold. It's as if a switch goes off in their birdy brains and that's that.) Anyway, these adolescent chicks remind me bit of the Gashleycrumb Tinies. Every happenstance of fate, apparently, happens to them.

Dan chopped down a tree in the back pasture, and where did it fall? On two of chicks. (This was a somewhat traumatic event for my kids and I won't dwell on it much.) The sheep water buckets which have co-existed uneventfully with our poultry for six years now, have spelled doom for two more of the little dudes. I'm guessing this is a numbers game, natural selection (or perhaps just good old fashioned bad luck) even in the unnaturally selected world of the barnyard.

One little fluffy, however, was extra lucky this year. Here's what happened: Our third broody hen hatched out her 5 chicks and left the nest with her brood. The eggs that remain are either unstarted, dead or contain fully formed chicks that were too weak to make it out of the shells. In this case, a few of the eggs had "peepholes" made by once struggling chicks. Although the hens seem rather coldhearted about this, in my kinder, gentler world it always seems a sad thing to give up on an egg. But it was 40 degrees out and the nest had been abandoned for hours. I sighed and went to get a bucket to collect the carnage.

One of these eggs had a large "window" a bit of wet yellow down and beak showing. When I went to toss it into the bucket, the little beak moved. No sound at all, the chick was too weak for that, just a tiny little chomp. The sensible thing would have been to leave this chick to its fate, but that wasn't my first impulse.

I slipped the egg under our last broody hen and the next day, when she proudly strutted around the barnyard with her brood, I was heartened to see this lucky little chick following along behind her.

Well, following a long ways back.... um, acting sort of clueless...

My joy turned to "uh oh". For a few hours, the kids and I watched the little guy. He didn't duck under his foster mother's feathers for warmth or peck vigorously at the chick starter she called out. Eventually, she left him behind.

It was still bitterly cold out and he was on his way (again) to being a goner.

This is when the kids intervened. They set up a plastic tub on the kitchen table, a heat lamp and all the necessary chick accoutrements. Then Anna and I snatched the little guy up and brought him inside. At first, we didn't think he'd make it. He seemed to have trouble eating and drinking, made an odd sort of gasp now and again and did not seem the slightest bit disturbed to find himself sans mama (Most chicks in this situation would cry incessantly and batter themselves against the tub walls trying to return to the flock). We cautioned each other that he had a 50/50 chance. I must have said "Let's not get too attached to him alright?" about a dozen times that first few hours.

But in a day or two, the little guy was as hearty as his outside siblings. Of course, his mother, having forgotten about him completely, is no longer willing to care for him. So he remains on the table inside.

His (or her) name is either "Darth Molly" or "Marshmallow" depending on which kid you ask. Of course, their interest in the little guy dried up a day after he arrived so I'm doing the chick care. He is sort of cute though:

All this poultry drama and we have 4 more broody hens asetting! Apparently, this is "The year of the chick".

Good Things Come...

2010-05-04T13:19:00.004-04:00

...to those who wait.

Sometimes in abundance!

After what seems like a spate of terrible luck, we here at Maggie's Farm can report that the lambs have landed. And they are supercute!

Leela produced a darling little ewe lamb, Emily. She will be horned and, if she's anything like her mama, a really fleecy girl. She is sired by Dodge and this has made her a bit friendlier than Leela's previous lambs. A nice thing in a ewe, for sure.

Then, not long after, Copper, our 9 year old matriarch, who has without fail produced white twins or singles every year of her life, gave us two colorful babes-- Ewok is black, with slight flashing, and Elba is a beautiful moorit. How about that! I couldn't believe it when I saw Ewok's long black leg come easing out the birth canal. Anxious after poor Henny Penny's disastrous lambing, I cut my nails down to nothing and made sure the rest of the lamb was positioned correctly. He was, and I eased him out.

Copper's other lamb, however, was breach. Thankfully, Dan noticed the upward pointing rear hoof while I was still oogling the little ram lamb. Sure enough, further invesigation indicated that the baby was breach. And that the other leg was jammed in the birth canal at the hock. I had a moment of panic (Not an easy thing for a shepherd to admit, but I was flashing on Henny Penny's dead breach lambs) but then, with some moral support from Dan, I managed to grab that little hock in one hand, the back leg in the other and quickly pull the lamb out. What's most amazing here is that IT WORKED. The little ewe did not take her first breath inside Copper's belly and drown, she sneezed and coughed and stood up just fine. Whew! What a happy moment!

Yesterday, Daisy had herself a little ewe lamb unassistend and the little girl looks and acts just like her mama and grandmama-- all coppery fleece serious lungs! Funny how some sheep families are more talkative than others, just like human families.

So that's it for lambs this year. And let me tell you, it feels like enough!

We will be dispersing the flock as the summer progresses. It is heartbreaking and hopeful at the same time. I will miss the sheep but I will not miss worrying about them or trying to scrape a little time out of our busy schedule to try to get the MUST DO chores done while the kids, the paying jobs, the friends, the novel are left wanting.

We will certainly return to shepherding someday (Dan likes to joke that this is our "retirement plan!) and we will continue with the turkeys and chickens and whatever else happens our way (Things, it seems, are always happening our way) but we just can't do farming well with so many other commitments. And farming is not something one can-- or should-- do halfway.

Off with a Whimper

2010-04-19T13:37:00.003-04:00

Ordinarily, we at Maggie's Farm meet lambing season with a sense of anticipation. We look forward to new lambs romping about, new colors, personalities and waggy-tailed nursing and charminng high-pitched bleats.

A pasture full of pregnant ewes can feel like a stack of unopened Christmas presents.

This year, however, we wavered. More sheep = more hay = more money down the farm drain. More sheep means more questions come mid-season when we may (likely will) "disperse" the flock. Our hesitation is evident in the not-yet-sheared state of our ewes, the projects not-yet-completed, the focus on other things.

Well, dulled enthusiasm or not, lambing season doesn't wait.

Henny Penny, our big polled ewe started with hers a little earlier than expected-- those unmistakeable contractions rippling across her broad flanks. Now, Penny's a pro, having produced two sets of twins already, so I didn't worry much. I hustled her into the barn, watched and waited, watched, waited, and when it was bedtime for the kids, I left her a while. Dan came home and we did a barn check at 9 at 9:30, at 10:30, at 11. (Penny was in the early stages of labor. Nothing was amiss).

At 11:30, Dan went down again and found a dead lamb in the stall with Penny. She had licked it clean, but its nose and throat were full of amniotic fluid, a sign that it had been breach (came out back legs first) and had taken its first fateful gulp while still inside. We rubbed the lamb dry anyway, and forced the fluids from her mouth. But of course it was too late.

You'd think shepherds get used to such things, death being so close a companion on a farm, but one never quite does. Each little life is encouraged, coaxed forward, agonized over. Also, we've been pretty lucky here on Maggie's Farm, and aside from one preemie (our first year) and one other breach (our second) we've had strong healthy, lucky lambs four years running. This year, our luck ran out.

I should have stayed up with Dan to watch for the lamb's twin or placenta and see the thing through. But I had to be up at 4 for work the next morning, and so I was sleeping when Dan pulled the second lamb-- also breach and much smaller than the first-- dead, from Penny's womb.

A horrible start to lambing season.

Penny called for her babes for a few days, but she has given up now. Lucky to live in her present of hay flakes, spring sunshine and sunflower seeds, she doesn't think that far back. Our three remaining pregnant ewes (Daisy, Copper and Leela) are taking their time this year, all with big bellies and pendulous udders. All due anytime after the 17th.

I am hoping the rest of the season will go smoothly, joyously, a lambing season as it should be.

Boys Being Boys?

2010-04-08T09:41:00.010-04:00

Some of you might recall my "Poultry Politics" post of a few weeks ago. Well, the situation appears to have changed. Young Roos, Apollo and Dionysus, once best buds and partners in crime, seem to have decided sometime Saturday that as they couldn't beat up dominant rooster, Jaguar, they'd settle for each other.

What followed was an epic day and a half long battle. We separated them, they moseyed back to clash again, the control-freak dog (Luka) barked and hounded them, there was a freakin' BULLDOZER moving earth a few feet away, and it mattered not at all. These young roosters puffed themselves up, pecked each others heads, puffed themselves up, pecked each others' heads, etc. etc.

On and on and ON.

It appeared mid Sunday that Dionysus had won the battle. Guess what he wins? A trip to another farm. This place ain't big enough for the two of them.

Meanwhile, it appears that Jaguar, feeling the pressure, has accepted lowly Soccerball into his flock as insurance against the two ruffians down in the barn. Here they, a watchful eye on their hens:

Now, here's the thing: You might say, fine, well roosters, what did you expect? Why title this post BOYS being boys? This is not a fair characterization of the male gender. But wait--

Here you see Charlie, our dominant ram, watching the feathers fly

and fly

And fly.

He looks for all the world as if he can't be bothered with such testosterone-induced nonsense. Right?

Well, later that same day, we reintroduced Charlie's son, Dodge

back into the ram flock after his winter breeding sojourn, and guess what? The two began to pummel each other!

The scene was fairly similar to the poultry, only the mammals butted heads, chased each other about, butted heads, chased each other about, etc etc. On and on it went on all afternoon, until Dodge (50 pounds lighter but audacious as the day is long) decided to fold. (Unfortunately, I didn't get a picture of this as I was waving buckets of grain and hollering for them to quit before someone gets killed.)

What were the hens and ewes doing, while all this testosterone flew? Why, what they always do: Eating, resting, scratching about, caring for chicks, gestating lambs, the usual. Sure they have their squabbles but nothing (ever!) that approaches the heat and fire and raw mean of those goshdurn boys.

And so...

For WHATEVER reason, boys will be boys, at least here on Maggie's Farm.

I'm not willing to generalize, but-- in looking at the state of things in the world, the "civilized" and not so civilized battles in governments and corporations, villages and schools-- I think, perhaps, I could.....

Hot Mamas!

2010-03-28T11:27:00.011-04:00

It doesn't feel very springy this week (20 degrees at night!) but two of our three "barn hens" got that broody feeling nonetheless. I didn't expect much, it being so freakin' cold out much of the time, but between them, we have 16 new chicks!!!! Not really needed but sort of cute just the same.

Pearl hatched hers out in the sink:

I keep expecting to find little chick-cicles in the barn in the mornings, but these mamas have managed to keep their broods nice and warm. Wings spread wide, this girl has managed to warm 10 chicks through the long, cold nights. this little yellow guy's out for a breath of cold air; the other 9 are inside those feathers somewhere. Pretty remarkable, I think.

Poultry Politics

2010-03-22T21:36:00.005-04:00

Anyone who's spent time around chickens knows there's a constant twitter of tension afoot. Hens have their pecking order (I believe that the term "pecking order" itself was more or less invented in conjunction with chickens...) and yes, there are the bossy ladies and their underlings, poor "Lulu", tailless through the winter and "Chicklee", whose innocent name belies a steel-eyed ferocity. There is "Happy Chick" who is generally not happy at all but scurrying out of the way of more powerful hens and so on and so on. Always a simmering dispute, a newly formed clique, a ruffled feather.

But this is nothing compared to the all-out warfare of the boys. "Little Jaguar", our two year old yellow green gem, remains top seed in Maggie's Farm version of March Madness. He is the sole coop-living rooster, buds with all the established ladies (many almost 5 years his senior-- an accomplishment considering that each chicken year must be about 10 human ones), courtly and well-mannered to a fault.

Then there are, Apollo and Dionysus, last spring's chicks turned ruffians. They've managed to peel a few low ranking hens (well, their sisters, mostly) away from Jaguar and flee to their not so secret (and very messy) hideout in the barn. These two get along famously and together, they strut just out of range of the old man. There have been a few skirmishes. I twice found the boys, and Jaguar too, heads streaked with brawl-related blood. But so far, it's mostly a cold war.

And then there is the "nerd" of the flock, poor "Soccerball", he of the funny name and low, low ranking. Soccerball spent a good bit of the winter huddled under the coop, ostracized, cold, miserable. (At least as miserable as a chicken can be). Even Soccerball's siblings, "Pearl" and "Basketball" (Yes, the kids name most of the poultry...) have joined up with Apollo and Dionysis. Poor guy!

Soccerball spends most of his time on the outskirts of Jaguar's flock, one eye fixed covetously on the hens, one on a quick retreat. Maybe one day he'll manage some sort of coop coup.

Until then, the politics-- and politicking-- goes on.

Unearthed

2010-03-07T17:22:00.005-05:00

Hints of spring in the air this weekend. Tiny buds on the brambles, fat-bellied ewes, broody hens (ugh!) and all sorts of unearthed treasures.

A fairy house forgotten all winter:

A pair of bulldozers (Come to think of it, this is what our vehicles looked like parked in our driveway a few weeks ago...)

The remains of a spectacular fort (And the tools that created it, too)

So THAT's where that hat went!

And this baseball too.

I feel a certain kinship with these objects today, as if I too, am waking from a long, cold snowy dream.

I enjoy some aspects of winter, really. The woodstove for instance. I even sort of enjoy getting up early to stoke a nice warm fire for the kids. (Our house is primarily heated by wood, so this task is crucial on those below 20 mornings.) And a cold clear 4 AM makes me feel tough. I like Orion in the sky, the look of our neighbor's white fields under a blanket of moonlight, the cozy, homebound feel of "snow days"... and the inevitable power outtages.

Of course, there are many less pleasing aspects of the New England winter. But I won't dwell on those here.

This weekend, the first that shouted "Spring" with certainty was also a weekend of cleaning (Spring cleaning?) and full-throttle writing, of kids NOT stuck inside arguing and puppies out for a walk.

A great weekend all around--

as if we've all shrugged off a little snow and started up where we've left off.

When the going gets tough....

2010-02-17T08:34:00.004-05:00

...the tough, um, adopt a new puppy?

Sorry I've been away so long everyone. I have no good excuse. Just general busyness. Also, not much new to report here on Maggie's Farm. We are in a sort of holding pattern, waiting until spring to make the possibly hard decisions about our sheep and farm.

I must admit, it's been much, much harder to get myself out the door and down to the barn each morning now that the whole operation is in doubt. Sometimes, the hay I toss over the fence feels like the worst sort of pointless waste, especially when the sheep leave a carpet of it behind for the barn chickens stomp it into inedibility. At times like this, the cost-- $10-15 a day-- is hard to accept. At other times, it seems hard to imagine doing anything else.

So yes, I am trying to look at the flock with clear eyes, but they are sort of like family now. And family is not about practicality or expense.

We do have one big change-- a new puppy named Milo. He isn't a sheepdog, or even an actual breed. But he is to be the kids' dog, and is people oriented in a way that our more driven, task-oriented canines just can't manage. This means he is easy to re-direct... and loathe to be left alone. Sort of the exact opposite of our other two.

Milo is the result on an unplanned litter. He is an "Aussie Golden Doodle". He is keeping us busy this winter, near constant potty trips and lots of extra clean up and chewed kids' toys. The puppy usual.

So, why, you ask. Why the heck did we add a new element to an already overstretched situation? Um, crazy? That's one explanation. In short, it was the Micah's idea. He is "her" puppy and she is doing a decent job of being responsible for him.

Also, he is Luka's puppy. We worried that our little Icie character would put on the green eyed monster when Milo arrived, but hoped it would be good for her to share her family, toys, treats and sheep. We expected months of refereeing ahead, as Luka really knows how to put on that green-eyed monster. But, after an anxious "what do I do with THAT thing?" day of yipping anxiety, Luka decided little Milo was HERS and she has been so fabulous with him; she even plays tug and lets him win sometimes. Which is a something of a positive development.

So a lot of trouble in the short run-- but perhaps good for us all in the long run. (Though if you ask me about this in the wee hours of walking or when I am cleaning up puddles, I might have a different opinion.)

Cold Feet?

2009-12-21T14:49:00.004-05:00

"Why farm?" We get that all the time.

We have full time plus jobs, three young children, long commutes, crazy expenses, a house that requires the chopping of wood for heat and a hundred other chores, all sorts of creative, political and social obligations etc, etc and I can't tell you the number of times folks, hearing about our jam-packed lifestyle shake their heads and call us crazy.

We used to laugh it off. Sure, well. Yeah...

But lately, we are wondering if perhaps we ARE a little crazy. Too crazy.

It all started with the hay. We don't have any. Our farm is small, and so, like many other unfortunate farmers we are forced to buy our hay from those with the land and equipment to produce it. $4.75 a smallish bale-- if we take the seats out of the minivan, load it ourselves and drive it home-- untold extra dollars if we have it delivered. This year, due to other obligations-- kids' birthdays, family, etc etc-- it snowed before we got the hay in. Now the driveway down to the barn is an ice slope with little hope of thaw, and we are stuck with 70 bales of hay (about a month's worth) in our garage. And many trips to pick up hay ahead.

In addition, Dan spent precious time he should have devoted to grading finals on fixing the fence Charlie bashed in trying to get a few more ewes "under his belt". And the water hydrant in the barn broke so we have to tote buckets a little farther over the treacherous ice. And it is cold, in the single digits in the mornings.

All just everyday stuff. But it's stuff that might seem more worth the trouble if we could eke a little profit out of the livestock. We can't. Haven't. And won't in the forseeable future.

You see, the jobs and kids and other obligations keep us from focusing on the selling part. We should be out there pushing yarn and pelts and meat and every other scrap of "by" and "value added" product". The selling needs to happen in order for "farm" to be more than the landed equivalent of "boat" (as in: a hole in the ground you pour your money into.) As it stands, the money we pour into the livestock could be our childrens' security or education or maybe just a breather in our constant financial juggle.

Part time farming really is a losing proposition.

I don't mean to sound grouchy. Or whiny. Or even glum. I don't feel any of these things. I am just coming to the realization that maybe... just maybe... I will regret that I haven't had time to teach that felting class with my kids after school or concentrate more fully on the half written novel or just play a few more rounds of "Fundomino" without having to truck on out to take care of the animals. Also, there is all the money to be saved.

On the other hand. Our sheep are family. I would miss the expensive little beasties, and mucking around out there in the cold, too. And watching newborn lambs. And figuring out breeding groups. And all the shearing days and unintentional "sheep rodeos". I would also miss feeling that deeper connection to the seasons and cycles and the inimacy with birth and death, joy and sorrow, that farming sort of is.

It's winter on Maggie's Farm, and I guess you could say, I've got cold feet.

Belated Thanks

2009-12-10T09:22:00.003-05:00

While Thanksgiving has come and gone, I am still very much in "thankful mode".

Our group (16 strong, this holiday!) sat around the table and created "Thankfulness Pictures" to share before dinner. (This is a tradition that took on a life of its own a few years back.) And aside from appreciating the family connections, the aspects of place and plenty that are a consistent theme, we thanked the animals that made our meal possible.

We had a very real sense of gratitude to the critters in our lives, owing to the bounty before us: The 30 pound turkey that had been free ranging about the orchard just a week before, the ham from our very own pigs, the sausage apple stuffing, homemade cider, blueberry pie, & apple pie-- all harvested with our own hands. These things felt different somehow, owing to our relationship with them.

Honestly, I am still wrestling with that relationship. Thoughts of the pigs (our three affable "Daves") continue to give me pause and-- although the ham was absolutely deliscious and I was very proud to provide it to our friends and family-- I ate it with reservations, with each bite totally mindful of the sacrifice it entailed.

The kids don't have the same reservations. At the holiday table, they thanked "The animals that feed us" and meant it, but to them, it seemed the natural way of things. Is this better than my agonizing and introspection? I just don't know. But I do know that time will give me more perspective on this, and time (relentlessly) marches forward.

We've had the year's first "snow day" and are moving headlong into the holiday season.

We were unable to harvest the TONs of apples out in the orchard this year and although we invited every friend, neighbor and acquaintance to load up, peeled and froze bushels full, made cider, brought apple crates to work and school, fed the sheep daily snacks, and donated a bunch to the food pantry, our orchard is still a mess of unpicked fruit. The deer will enjoy them at least... And Luka will enjoy barking at the deer and running them off with gusto.... And we will enjoy (not!) rushing out into the snowy night to call our bravehearted little dog back home. And so it goes...

The farm seems so quiet without the pigs and turkeys. The sheep are in their breeding groups and the chickens snowbound in their coop. Maggie-- although she'd sit hip-deep in the snow all day for the chance to watch over her flock-- is in the house much of the time.

The kids are building snow forts and perpetually losing gloves. Dan is plowing snow and chopping wood and worrying over hay bales.

Winter has happened.

Considerable Pathos

2009-11-10T19:18:00.005-05:00

Last week our three pigs were slaughtered for food. This was the plan and we did indeed see it through. Though I feel like a bit of a cheat as I happened to be at work when the local guy came to shoot, skin and butcher them. I didn't mean to be away. In fact, I’d been steeling myself for the hard reality of slaughter as I stood by the pig pen through the increasingly cold days of autumn, trying to fathom how these three affable “Daves” would become bacon and pork chops and ham. I felt I owed it to the choice I had made, the choice to get to know my food on a personal level, to be there to see the thing out. But John, the “pig processor”, could only make it on my working days and so Dan helped out instead. I returned home that day to a pile of pig skins, a few puddles of blood and a heavy heart.

We tried to raise and slaughter these pigs as humanely as we could, arranging for them to stay home rather than be stressed in a slaughterhouse somewhere. We gave them plenty of room and pig goodies, gave them no reason to stress or fear up until this day. The night before the slaughter, I even went down to town and bought the largest cheapest bottles of vodka in the liquor store (The clerk had a good laugh when I explained they were for my livestock) and Dan made the pigboys “White Russians” with the last few cartons of milk. Even so, when I returned home the day of, Dan was pretty tight-lipped. So I am left to imagine that even with the pigs drunk as skunks, it was not a thoroughly an easy passing.

These days, I've been avoiding the pig pen, and I do not quite look at the drying hides in the barn. BUT, I must also admit that when the meat arrived a week later, wrapped neatly and in such amazingly plenty—enough to feed us and several other families for a good long time-- I felt a sense of pride. We had done what we set out to do: Provide for our family in a sustainable way, provide for our pigs a healthy, free ranging environment where they could root and graze and eat healthy whole foods, work hard from May to November, recycle loads of organic groceries that would have filled landfills rather than swine bellies. (Pigs are the ultimate in recycling…) And be part of the food chain again.

But How does it feel? You ask.

Hmmmm…… so, so.

On one hand, pigs are curious, trusting creatures (At least compared to sheep, who fully expect that you will eat them every time you so much as glance in their direction) and this makes the idea that we would violate the “trust” and actually eat them all the more awful.

On the other hand, the Daves were gobbling close to 20 gallons of food a day, an untenable situation. I could not imagine standing out in the lower barn an hour a day plunking frozen yogurt out of frozen 8 ounce tubs with frozen hands to keep the boys plump and happy. The cost of their feed skyrocketed towards the end there. And they were eating vanloads of donated food a week. Not easy to fit in between ferrying kids and playdates and work responsibilities and hay for the sheep. Owing to the confluence of weather, school and size, three, 300 pound pigs began to feel like one thing too many.

On the other hand, the pigs were pleasant and sweet and so easygoing compared to the nervous flock of sheep. They were fun—if stinky—to have around. My oldest had taken to riding them! And they could be counted on to eat every kind of table scrap—much more efficiently than the chickens. I didn't mind the half sandwiches left in the kids' lunchboxes when I plopped them into the "pig food" bucket on the counter.

On the other hand, I truly believe that death is a natural part of life and that by removing ourselves so thoroughly from the food chain (Many folks get squeamish just thinking about the “cow” in their burger) we have created a sort of strange new taboo. Yes it is scary and awful and I have experienced death on many very personal levels, but it is real.

On the other hand, it is much harder to look at a pork chop when you remember the pig it came from happily slurping up gallons of milk and grain, its stubby tail waggling.

On the other hand, as barrons (Castrated Males), the Daves had no other “purpose” other than to feed us.

On the other hand, do ANY of us have a "purpose"?

Will we do it again? I’m not sure yet.

I believe that it is natural and right to have a personal relationship with your food. But it is also a whole lot harder.

To Dye For

2009-10-11T11:45:00.004-04:00

Ta Dah!!!!

This yarn makes me wish I knew how to KNIT!

Fall Farm Update

2009-09-20T10:50:00.009-04:00

It was in the 30's last night. Definitely cold enough to talk fall, a busy time around here. (Actually, every time is pretty much busy on Maggie's Farm.)

Here's what's happening:

The little turkey poults of late June are now full-fledged adolescents, wandering about eating windfall apples and clover and whatever else they can get their beaks on. We have two narragansetts and a chocolate turkey in with the more common white and bronze varieties. Maybe we'll keep a breeding trio this year. We'll see.I love how turkeys take the idea of "flock" seriously. They stick together. Chickens, by contrast, are much more individualistic.

Speaking of chickens, Mighty Hera's batch of "sink chicks" are all grown up: Two roosters and two hens. They continue to live in the barn and may attempt to overwinter there. We'll see how that goes. Our second set of chicks (The kids have named them "Basketball", "Soccerball" and "Pearl") have moved from the temporary "broody coop" into the main coop and are now part of the flock. We've been waiting for the rooster on rooster on rooster violence to start up, but so far, it's been relatively peaceful.

The ducks have gone on to new homes. They were too panic-stricken for us. And messy. I've heard it said that there is a reason that ducks are called "fowl" :) That is definitely the case. So, no more ducks.

Speaking of messy, the Daves (Our trio of GOS X Tamworth pigs) are really big now, and so friendly and easy-going. I am having a hard time imagining eating them. Every day, during feeding, I stare at those "6 nice-sized hams" and tell myself that I will be able to do this thing. And I will. I have to. There is no way we can keep up with the feeding and care of these guys as they grow to top 500 pounds. But for now, they are settled into a more weather-tight pighouse (Dan made it by modifying the duck house) and enjoying lots of windfall apples and school cafeteria leftovers.

All of this year's ewe lambs are sold, but we still have 4 ram lambs available for sale: Dodge, Drac, Data and Duncan

Dodge and Drac are really magnificent rams-- already big and broad. Dodge has a great, square build and color. Drac has a truly amazing fleece and horns that will someday rival his sire, Charlie. We'd love to make you a deal on these guys, if you are interested. It will be a shame to eat them. A serious shame, but this farm ain't big enough for the both of them (+ Charlie + Rahm)

A twin born in Mid-May, Data is still smaller than the other boys, but he has great parasite resistance and is from those wonderful Jager Farm, Bambi and Rektor lines. He will look just like our herdsire Charlie one day. ...And he is available at a substantial discount. I don't have a current picture, but this is his sire, Charlie, and likely what he'll look like as an adult:

Duncan has quite a lot in the way of build and genetics. He has a very white-white fleece and the potential to throw moorit color or even spots.

And the apples are just getting ripe. They are magnificent this year, due to a preponderance of rainy days. It has been fun to share them with neighbors and friends. But somehow, we have yet to bake a single apple pie.

The Franklin County Fiber Twist is happening next weekend. Our yarn will be available at the "Metaphor Yarns" booth. Check it out!

Breed 'em or Eat

2009-09-08T13:12:00.003-04:00

As summer draws to a chilly close, we find that our thoughts must also turn a bit chilly. Dan and I look at this year's lambs-- 5 rams remaining!-- and make some very real life-or-death choices. Who will we retain for breeding? Who will we eat?

Who will we eat????

Yup.

It may seem a callous, brutal question, but reality is: We have no room for 7 grown rams. Come cold weather, they will pummel each other. And they will cost an arm and a leg in hay... and arm and a leg and the rest of the farm perhaps as well. So it has come to this: a difficult choice. A lot of hemming and hawing and second guessing. But it's early in the season yet, and there is time for all that.

I don't think I appreciated the cyclical nature of the farmer's world before we began living it. Sure, every children's book makes mention of the seasons, Halloween and Thanksgiving, leaf piles and sledding. But as farmers, our tasks, even our preoccupations and worries are so specific, so predictable and seasonal, that season itself takes on a different sort of resonance. Nearly five years of farming and I could tell you month by month what my worries will be, what the little annoyances (^%*&&#$# wandering, wrong roosting turkeys!) or joys will be. I could tell you when I am going to be banging ice out of water buckets or clipping maple branches to sustain the sheep through the sparse late fall pasture, shooing a forever broody hen off her nest or checking on heavily pregnant ewes through the long night hours, skirting fleeces or dyeing yarn.

And so I can tell you that before the celebratory and Thanksgiving-y time of "harvest", comes the time of year when I look at the lambs-- the lambs that were once so cute and big-eyed twiggy who now look like everybody else out there more or less-- and make life or death decisions.

Once it's decided and done, I will not be able to look at pictures of these lambs for a while. It will be like any other loss... only one we've engineered ourselves. But there will be food in our freezer and enough hay for winter. And in the spring, I will run twenty times a day out to the barn to check on ewes with bulging bellies. And the cycle will begin again.

Death shadows the seasons on a farm. Fear of it (or of hurt, illness or injury) to your livestock informs much of what you do throughout the seasons of winter and spring and summer.

Then, in autumn, you cause it.

I like to think that farming has taught me to hold death a little closer. Itwas easy for me to forget how much a part of life-- how very normal-- death is when I was shielded from it in the suburbs, buying my meat from Stop and Shop. I chose not to think about the many deaths that enabled my lifestyle. Quite a far cry from my ancestors, who probably had an intimacy with death that I cannot even fathom.

And so, like the seasons, I guess I have come full circle as well.

At any rate, we still have some wonderful ram lambs for sale....

Skein Central

2009-08-30T07:26:00.005-04:00

We just got a new shipment of yarn back from the mill, and it is beautiful! We tried something new this year and mixed colored in the same skein. The effect is a sort of tweed... or zebra. I love it!

We also a lot of white this time around (Our white sheep are super hardy and just keep propagating...) But the white ranges from slightly gray to oatmeal colored to glossy and warm. More variation than you'd expect from "white"

Varied the size this time around as well. Some of the yarn is 2 ply sport, some a beautiful fingerling.

Fresh off a seminar in dyeing yarns and roving, I will be dyeing some of the white skeins. This is a first for us. Other than a kool-aid and one-color dye experiments, we've offered only naturally-colored yarns. look for the results (whatever they may be) here on the blog.

So now, the question shifts from "When will the yarn show up?" To "What the heck are we going to do with all this yarn?" (Have I mentioned I don't really knit-- well? In truth, I have been "learning to knit" for three years now. and may never progress beyond this point due to a lethal combination of work, kids and ineptitude...)

The yarn is expensive to produce, but we love the magic of these skeins, remembering, as we do, all the way back to when they were on the backs of our well-loved sheep.

And it is for sale, of course. Soon to be posted on our website and on Etsy as well.

Plums!

2009-08-19T13:43:00.003-04:00

In between kids, farm and work, Dan managed to make 18 cans of Plum and Plum Pepper Jam this week. (Yup, he's pretty amazing...)

We are set for about 500 Peanutbutter sandwiches, very important with school fast approaching.

Entering a few jars in the Fair this year!

Hoggy, Soggy, Sickly Days

2009-08-11T17:27:00.007-04:00

The weather's been brutal this month; rain then rain, heat and humidity, more rain, followed by more heat and more humidity. It's the perfect storm as far as parasites and stress are concerned. Maggie's Farm Forecast says "80% chance of livestock disaster." And we've had it.

Stubby Dave (One of the three porcine "Daves" hanging out in the future sheep pasture in back) was hit last week. We knew something was up when he declined dinner. We knew it was serious when he was not tempted the next morning by a juicy wad of leftover pizza. All day Stubby lolled in the mud, his teeny-but-cute eyes following us as we moved along outside the fence. He was definitely out of sorts.

A day later with no change, we called our vet. Now, Dr. S is a typical wonderful country vet. He was swamped (Weather related no doubt) and suggested-- after a short phone conversation--that we give Stubby Dave a shot of our fancy new one-time-only antibiotic.

Sure, Okay....

Stubby was so lethargic it seemed at first that the task would be a snap. But as soon as we put on our boots and filled the syringe, he grew instantly alert. He gave a few inquiring squeals as I straddled him and pressed his shoulders into the mud. The needle went in and Dave-- lethargy forgotten-- exploded into the far corner of the pen, the tip of the needle riding along on his hip. We sloshed after him, trying to snag it, which we did, then started all over again.

Dave was sick enough to slettle back down in the mud after a slow-motion chase, and we tried again. Same result (Minus the needle coming apart). We tried again, and again.... By this time, we were stinky and sweating and thoroughly done with hanging out in the pig pen.

I remembered the woman who sold us the Daves telling us that the only way to hold a pig was by its back legs. Dan gave that a try. Not such a good idea once the pig is 150 or so pounds... he received a serious splattering of mud for his trouble (The most odoriferous, disgusting mud imaginable, mind you) before releasing Dave for another slow pursuit.

Persistence paid off in the end, and Stubby Dave finally consented to treatment. A few anxious days later he was back tussling for scraps with his brothers.

In the meantime, we had to treat a ewe for parasites and just today, Dusk, one of our youngest ram lambs, succumbed quite mysteriously. The stress of the constant heat and rain couldn't have helped. This is the first death we've had in 3 years of sheep, and it is worrying, especially as there was nothing obviously wrong with the little guy. He was hot and a little lethargic yesterday, but still feisty and fine. Today: gone. I've heard late season lambs struggle the most and this one was late... and small, and born to a yearling ewe. But it hurts nonetheless.

In truth, every time we have an animal illness or set back, I begin to think about giving the whole farm thing up. In the sadness of the moment, anything seems better than facing another sick, miserable, hungry or otherwise needy animal and not knowing exactly what to do about it. But the next day, I am up at dawn (or thereabouts anyway) pausing in my chores to "take stock" of the peaceful flock, and it all seems okay again.

SOMEbody's Got to Do It.

2009-07-23T07:46:00.005-04:00

Luka, our little Icelandic sheepdog, has taken on a new role around the farm. She is The Enforcer, with an ego the size of Texas (or perhaps Iceland) and a zero tolerance policy for extraneous critters... and there have been quite a few extraneous critters of late.

You see, it all started with pigs.

Ever since "The Daves" squealed into our lives we've had a varmint issue. It's not their fault, but pigs are, well... pigs. And they eat. They eat quite a lot. To feed the pig guys, we collect left over produce (almost all organic!) and other tasty items from a local grocery store, and all these goodies have to be stored. Plastic tubs are hardly a deterrant.

The Daves have attracted a following. We've found the footprints-- all sorts of footprints all over the broad surface of the storage tubs. We've also found bitten milk containers and gallons of spilled milk.

As so often happens in farming, one thing (pigs) begets another (pig food storage issues), begets another (varmints!). Hopefully, this will not beget the deaths of many well-loved hens. So far (Knock on wood) the poultry have been left alone. But we worry about them come fall, when the the Daves have "moved on" (Yes, another Maggie's Farm euphemism for slaughter). We also worry about bears, which stop by from time to time even without the added lure of pig food.

Luka has no use for worry. She's decided to take matters into her own paws when it comes to the varmint issue. In the last few weeks, she's cornered a possum (Dan snapped this picture of the event)

treed a large and very noisy racoon (Who knew they could screech like that???) and killed two snakes and a young skunk.

Now, we know we are supposed to be tough and unemotional when it comes to the bottom line. Farmers have little sympathy for harmful hangers-on, but the dead skunk got to me. It was adolescent at best and left belly-up beside the barn, its pointy little teeth bared.

Here's another thing about the skunk: It got a bit of revenge on Luka and the rest of us. we've had a pretty ripe few days here on Maggie's Farm.

Luka, however, wears her new perfume like a badge of honor. Here she is looking just a bit too proud of herself...

Drac and Dodge

2009-07-12T07:12:00.006-04:00

I promised to put up a picture of Dracula, Leela's humongous lamb, and here it is. He's the one on the right. Pretty ginormous boy, eh? Leela has the most wonderful fleece, and Drac shares this trait. He really did end up looking a bit like his namesake monster with and enormous rough of fleece around his neck and those arching "eyebrows".

He's a tough one to photograph. Here he is walking away from the camera:

And because the shot of Dodge was so, well, dodgy, I thought I'd put another one out there. Dodge is also honkin' HUGE. With a gingery moorit gray fleece.

One of these boys will go to a new home. one will likely stay. Let us know if you are interested.

Poultry Outtage

2009-07-12T06:53:00.004-04:00

Around here, the arrival of turkey poults can only mean one thing: a power outage. Last year, as you may possibly recall, the arrival coincided with a 4 hour outage, visit from cousins, and two lambings. Now THAT was tough.

This time around, the poults arrived later in the year. (Love those "COME GET YOUR BIRDS OUT OF HERE!" calls from the post office.) We set them up in the brooder (They need close to 100 constant degrees) and, right on schedule, the power went out. Oh, and it was 60 degrees and rainy.

The power is pretty steady here in Colrain, which makes these poultry outages all the more baffling. We usually have only two or three over the course of en entire year. But their timing is impeccable (ImPECKable???).

Anyway, I knew what to do this time around-- fill as many vessels as I could before the water from our well seeped irretrievably back to earth, and get busy making snuggly water bottles out of every spare container on hand. (I didn't get pictures this time around, but the poults snuggled up to those milk jugs and muddle through.)

I spent a couple hours warming the poults this way before order-- and power-- was restored. Luckily, reports of poult frailty (in relation to chicks) seem greatly exaggerated.

All of them made it through and they are doing just fine, thank you.

For those who like to have their goofy story with a side of useful information: The batch is 1/3 Giant White, 1/3 Bronze, and 1/3 Narragansett. We also have one "Chocolate Turkey" (for dessert. Well, not really for dessert.)

Happy Hog Habitat

2009-07-04T21:50:00.009-04:00

After a crazy lot of effort (on Dan's part) and kibbitzing (on my part) the pigs are finally out on the range.

Pigs are still pretty new to us-- new, but cool. Really cool. We are enjoying our swine venture tremendously. These guys are so friendly and personable. A whole lot easier to keep than sheep-- though not half as elegant. It is a challenge to keep the food aspect in the foreground. But we are working on that...

"The Daves" (as we call them) started out as smallish piglets in a seemingly ample sheep stall. The idea was that they would churn the stall into compost, saving us a lot of time and effort. I'd seen this in action at West Elm Farm a few years back-- when pigs were just a sparkle in this shepherd's eye-- so I knew it was possible. But after a couple of weeks, the pigs were still trotting around on a foot an a half of used hay.

Then we met an old-time pig farmer on the loading bay of a local grocery store (As "pig farmers", ourselves, we've discovered the joys of raiding the unwanted food--with permission of course. The Daves have feasted on everything chocolate milk to organic spinach, tubs of potato salad to fancy Greek yogurt... but that's another story.) Anyway, this old time farmer, told us to bury kernels of corn in the hay and this did the trick. The Daves spent countless hours bulldozing out kernels with their crazy-accurate noses.

In a few weeks our pigs were twice as big and the "more than ample" stall was small, stinky and mucky as all get-out. I doubt the Daves lost any sleep over this, but I did. We'd started this pig thing to supply ourselves with ethically raised, well-treated meat and the pen, while palatial by factory farm standards, started to feel pretty lousy to me.

The new pasture was taking a loooong time-- owing to our busy work schedules and a slew of baseball games, social events and kids birthday parties. And while the postholes were dug and fenceposts set in concrete, while Dan strung woven wire and I detangled our (terribly annoying) electric tape and ran it along the bottom of the pig enclosure-- all in a month of constant, drenching rain punctuated by moments of sun(shower) and cataclysmic storm-- I fretted.

But yesterday, the Daves had an Independence Day of their own. We'd created an alley of fences and plastic bins and eased them out of "old stinky". Dan and I expected they'd trot along in a group, ending up in their new area.

And yes, this is the way it would have happened... if they were sheep. But they were not sheep; they were pigs. And they didn't much care to hurry anywhere. Our drove split up and snuffled along in whatever direction their noses led them. No amount of pushing or shouting deterred them. They had grass under their trotters and they were not going to be hurried. This incensed little Luka (super herding dog, extraodinaire) who set about barking and pushing at the fence. If Dan and I were going to be the "good Cops", she was fine and dandy with the bad cop role. But the Daves paid no attention to psycho herding dog either. (Again, we are all used to SHEEP. Sheep pretty much flow together and run away from humans and maniacal herding dogs.)

Pointy and Stubby Dave eventually strolled into the new pen-- mostly because they wanted to go in that direction anyway. But Scratchy Dave thought the inside of the barn looked pretty interesting, and he did NOT like it when I tackled him around the middle to keep him from busting out into the open. (Note to self: Pigs are really, REALLY loud when you tackle them.) Dan hurried over as I lay on the ground with my arms around Scratchy's back legs and Luka barked and Dave screamed bloody murder, and finally we got him turned around and eased into the new pen. An adventure and a half it was.

Luka thinks this pig thing is crazy...

Once inside, the Daves were more than happy to lend a helping snout in the construction of their new hang out.

The end result is a great place. I keep wanting to call it a "habitat" as if we are some sort of farm animal zoo. It has wallows and high points, weeds and brush. And we are hoping the Daves will set to work turning the place upside down so that we can ready it for the sheep next spring, a sort of "pig tractor". Another amazing thing about pigs (or at least our pigs) is that they took to the wide open, leafy space as if it was exactly what they expected.

The Daves are happy as pigs in a brand new, cool and fun pig habitat.

(Yes, that's genuine Icelandic wool-- part of their cool new bedding material-- they are snuffling in the picture.)

This Year's Crew

2009-06-27T09:42:00.012-04:00

At long last, we've got reasonable pictures of MOST of this year's lambs. Now that they are on the big pasture next door, they're not much interested in us. Oh, the little families trot down to the barn now and then for a lick of minerals, but the siren call of fresh grass howls in their furry ears, and mostly, we see the tail ends of these little guys and gals.

That said, we have managed a few recent photos. All these lambs are for sale-- Ewe lambs $325 and ram lambs $275. We'll make you a good deal (Offer ya can't refuse....?) if you are interested in a breeding other type of group. Please call us for details (413-624-3070) or to plan a farm visit.

The picture is a bit fuzzy, but this is Acorn with her huge ram lamb, Dodge. Sired by Charlie, Dodge is moorit gray and horned (Acorn is polled but with a tendency to throw scurred lambs, so we thought we'd try her with a strongly horned ram this year.) Dodge was 12 pounds at birth (giganto!) He has continued his stunning growth as you can see in this picture. He is chunky, with a beautiful fleece. Dodge has a very bold personality with the other lambs, and we have not handled him much because Acorn and her offspring are our friendliest sheep and we don't want to encourage this little ram. Dodge would make a wonderful breeding ram. He is over 1/4 AI (Rektor, Heli and Pettir) with a very nice meaty structure and a good (great!) size. He has a lot of color in his background-- solid moorit and black gray. If you are interested in breeding sheep for meat and/or colorful fleece, Dodge may be your ram.

Dracula. Dracula comes from our best fleece lines. His dam, Leela, has a consistently soft and luxurious fleece-- even as a mature, nursing ewe. He is sired by Charlie and is a moorit gray with an interesting (if slightly diabolical) badgerfaced pattern. He really looks his name these days :) Dracula was another big single (10 pounds!) He is 3/16th AI (Rektor, Pettir, Prestur). We'd hope this pairing would produce lambs with the best qualities of Leela and Charlie. Dracula has his sire's big, broad frame and his dam's beautiful fleece. He should carry black or black gray as well as the badgerfaced pattern. Leela and Charlie are both cautious, sensible sheep and this ram should have a similar personality as an adult. (Dracula is the only lamb we were unable to snap a decent picure of... we'll put one up soon!)

Data is a line bred white twin. His sire is Charlie and dam is Daisy. These two are among our most parasite resistant and healthy sheep. Both have great structure as well. Daisy's progeny may be of particular interest to felters as her fleece felts very well-- sometimes too well :) Data is almost an exact replica of his full siblings (Coraline and Caroline) from last year's pairing. He has phaeomelanin spots (a trait from Grandma Copper's line) and is very growing well. This line carries on the best traits of Jager's Solee-- hardy, easy keepers, competent lambers and great mothers. Data will likely resemble his sire as an adult ram. He is over 1/4th AI (Rektor, Bambi, and Pettir). Data likely carries the moorit and/or black gray pattern. Daisy is a friendly and talkative (read: loud) ewe. Charlie is a little more subdued, a nice thing in a ram. We'll see how this guy develops.

Daffodil is Data's twin, a beautiful moorit gray ewe. Much of what was said about Data will be true of Daffodil. Plus she is a real cutie.

Here are the twins out and about. This picture gives you a sense of their chunky builds.

Dots and Duncan. This breeding combined our broadest, most meaty animals, and Penny's twins have structure in spades. They are sired by Rahm and are a whopping 10/16th AI (Langidalur, Heli, Flekkur, Solon, and Dalur). Both are long bodied and wide with a capital W. They carry their sire's meaty (to the max) build. Both boys do have scurs. If you are interested in meat production, these boys might be just the ticket. both are shaping up to have nice thick fleeces as well. (Another trait of their sire, Rahm). Dots definitely carries spotting (a recessive trait) and possibly moorit or black gray as well. Duncan may carry spotting, and moorit or black gray. Their scurs are small at present and we are keeping an eye on the situation.

Dots:

Diamond IS a diamond. Sired by the chunky Rahm-- and with quite a similar look to half-brother Duncan-- Copper's ewe lamb has all the best traits of her dam (good structure, good growth, parasite resistance and health) and her sire (meaty, long bodied build and thick fleece). She is 1/2 AI (Langidalur, Pettir and Dalur). Diamond has her mother's calm and good sense. (Copper is our flock leader and matriarch.) She may carry spotting or black. At present, Diamond is still polled (!) Time will tell whether this is a fluke-- due to Rahm's scurs-- or just slow to develop horns.

Dusk and Dawn black baderfaced twins from Carmen, a black badgerfaced one-winter ewe. Carmen has done a fantastic job mothering these two; she required no help birthing or nursing. Carmen hails from West Elm Farm-- she arrived as a bred ewe, adding to our gene pool here at Maggie's Farm. She has great fleece genetics and a calm nature. She herself was a fast growing, fleecy lamb just a year ago! Her twins carry the badgerfaced pattern and also possible black gray and spots. They are hardy (and adorable) and, from very fleecy lines, they should have great fleeces.

Here's Dusk:

Everything But the Chicken Sink

2009-06-06T08:11:00.005-04:00

You gotta love those chickens.

This one in particular-- the hen previously known as "Soapy Two" but recently renamed "Mighty Hera" by my eldest who is on a Greek god kick of sorts-- spent the better part of a month huddled in the a non-functioning utility sink willing the hatch of her 6 eggs. And she managed it too. A few days ago we found four little fuzzies hanging out in the sink with her. So far, so good. It was refreshing, we thought, to have babies around without the need for added vigilance or care. "Mighty Hera" would do the rest, right?

Ah, but we overestimated the chicken mind. After four more days of sink sitting, Hera gave up on the last two eggs and leapt down to the barn floor. One of the chicks leapt after her, landing in a plastic tub of sheep minerals, and the others remained in the sink, all of them shrieking high-pitched little chick shrieks. Hera also started up clucking and calling, but without opposable thumbs (or thumbs at all... or hands for that matter) there wasn't much she could do. That's how we found them yesterday. All in a tizzy.

We scooped the chicks out of the sink and mineral tub and set them on the floor by their mama and all was well, right? Not exactly. Mighty Hera is a young hen, a Partridge Rock from last summer's mail order batch. And she was clearly as stressed out and clueless as any other new mother. I felt some sympathy for the girl, remembering the days when a trip to the store with my squalling newborn seemed to involve more energy and knowhow than a hike up Mount Everest. I swear Hera had that same glazed look in her eye as she anxiously strode the barn scratching up tidbits for her chicks in the deep sheepy bedding. She led them to the waterer and to the piles of chick starter I put out, all with one wing raised to shield them. We left the little family to their own devices. Happy ending, right?

Well. Not exactly. After dusk, Dan went down to the barn to close up the duck brooder, top off the pigs and check on the new family. He found Mighty Hera squatting in her sink, fluffed as in the manner of hens when warming a batch of chicks. It seemed a little strange, he thought. That the babies made it the 4 vertical feet into the sink but such was the miracle of mothering. (Have I mentioned that my guy is the family optimist, the one who can look at a strung together, herky-jerky fence with a foot wide gap at the bottom and declare that oh, the sheep won't break loose, where would they want to go?) He returned to report that Hera and her babies were safe and sound in the sink.

I am a lot more cynical than my better half. I was sure there was no way those babies made it back into the sink. However, this is a FAMILY farm-- emphasis on FAMILY-- and it was past 8 and I was desperately trying to get dinner on the table... (Yep, we're more than a little disorganized over here this time of year...). Dan went back to check out the situation more thoroughly. He was gone a long time, a very long time.

When he returned, he told us (We were all seated around the dinner table by then) that the chicks were NOT under Mighty Hera at all and that he had searched every corner of the barn for the chicks. (Here I got that sinking feeling in my gut. Yes, death is part of "life on the farm" but it is never an easy part-- even when you are talking a batch on unanticipated and not really needed sink chickens)

But all was not lost. Dan said he'd found the chicks under "Brave Sara", our other barn broody. More sensibly, Sara-- a mothering veteran-- had chosen to brood her batch of eggs on the floor of the barn.

So, best we can figure it, after a day spent on red alert guarding and guiding her chicks about the barn, Mighty Hera spaced it and tucked herself in for the night just as the temperatures started to dip into the serious chick danger zone. (Feel free to start humming that old 70's song about here: "Yoooouu left me, just when I needed you most..." We did.) I can imagine the ruckus those four chilled chicks put up (Chicks can holler when they need to) before they found comfort under Brave Sara's bosom. Either that, or the chicks tucked under Brave Sara first and Hera, abandoned by her brood, decided to call it a night.

At any rate. All is fine on Maggie's Farm. Morning found the little family happily reunited. This is the second time we've encountered co-parenting in our poultry. I wonder if this is typical of chickens everywhere. Anybody?

Fecundity Central

2009-06-03T06:41:00.008-04:00

Spring is all about new life and lots of it. This makes for an overdose of cute ....and a lot of extra care down on the farm.

For one thing, there are the 10 ducklings. These were to be the kids' project, but evidently, they are mine as well. I end up doing quite a lot of feeding and watering and de-duckifying their forever damp and splashy lair. And the cute little guys are not living up to their reputation for tameness. They are MORE afraid of us than the two batches of mail-order chicks we've known. They huddle at the far side of the brooder when we look at them funny (or just look at them period) We are working in this. Slowly...

Then there's the "sink chicken". This smart broody decided to make her home in the nonfunctional utility sink in the barn, in Puff's old spot, as a matter of fact. She showed the necessary patience, grit and determination, and this weekend-- Viola!-- she's got four little fuzzies under her, the largest hatch our hens have ever managed. The new family is living in the sink for now. I think this mama hen (Okay, I'll admit it. Her name is "Soapy Two". Long story.) is waiting on a few more eggs.

And the lambs. We have nine this year: 6 rams (!) and 3 ewes. They are roaming the lush pasture next door and hard to see in all that spring growth. We'll be posting a bit more about these little guys and gals very soon. But for now, I'll just say: Cute. Very cute. (And for sale too.)

Then there are the wild babies: A small toad (Named "Toady" of course) befriended by Joe.

And this ginormous green moth on the porch. (Not a baby, technically, but a male bent on making a few babies...)

And nests everywhere, stuffed with cheeping baby sparrows and robins and thrushes. This one is in our "down barn" with the pigs.

And the pigs? You ask. Well... "The Daves" are not quite as cute now. They're growing like spring weeds-- about doubled their size already. Yesterday they were tossing stalks of broccoli around like batons!

Not to be outdone by all this burgeoning animal life, the apple trees blossomed and have begun to form the small green apples that will, by autumn, make for many pies and crumbles and sauces. Serious "spring" around here.

A Drove of Daves

2009-05-21T22:01:00.005-04:00

We took the plunge last weekend. And a serious plunge it was at that. On Saturday, Dan and I took a rare-- very rare-- kidless morning and drove our minivan up to Vermont to pick up three piglets. We'd thought long and hard about the "pig thing", more than we usually manage for all the impromptu livestock and plantings around here. We understand that this particular "pig thing" is irrevocable. These piglets are barrows (castrated males) and there is no other end point here. They are to feed us, and our extended family and friends. I'm sure I will write a lot more about this-- the hard parts, the better-than-factory-farm parts, but today, I'm going for light, a sort of "I went to Vermont and all I got was these lousy pigs" sort of thing.

So.... it was a beautiful spring day. We took off (kidless!) with high hopes and dog crate full of old hay and not much else. We were giddy and expectant. Our children were elsewhere. We'd had a lot of coffee and not much sleep. It was like a skewed farmy version of a date.

We found and picked up the piglets, warned by the woman who raised them that the "pig stink" will stay in our van for a really long time and on our hands and clothes too, no matter how often or well we wash. We saw several humongous pigs at the pig place. (Dan hadn't really had a chance to see a full grown pig before. He was pretty astounded. And not in an entirely good way. They are, after all, really REALLY big animals...and the pigs, I should note, were my crazy idea.)

Anyway, the little guys fit in the dog crate. They were quiet on the drive back. So quiet, we had lots of time to think about the new animals we'd taken into in our lives and all the complications that might go with them. By the time we unloaded the crate in our newly created "pig area", we were feeling a bit of trepidation. The piglets were too. They stayed in the crate.

By then we were late for our kid pick up and took off for an evening little league baseball game.

Not an auspicious start to the Maggie's Farm pig enterprise.

But it was like Christmas morning around here on Sunday. We all got up and tiptoed out to the barn in our pajamas to check out the piglets in the cool clear (rainy) light of day. They were out, and terrified of us... for about two seconds! Once the little guys figured out we came with offerings of yogurt, french toast and banana, they were all over us, nuzzling boots and sampling flannel pajama sleeves. Then they romped a bit (Yes, pigs romp!) and chowed down some more and then romped and the kids (and Dan and I too) fell in love with them.

Pigs (So far....) are awesome. They are a lot more easygoing than sheep, that's for sure, with simple, predictable needs (pretty much just food and sleep) and it is truly a joy to watch them eat. (I can't explain this. You'll just have to get a couple of pigs and see for yourself.)

Beforehand, we'd talked a lot about NOT naming the piglets. We'd been told-- several times-- that this makes the slaughter part easier and planned on a simple "Pig 1", "Pig 2" and "Pig 3" system. That was chucked pretty much immediately. Joe, a certain Dr. Suess story about Mrs. McGraves who named all her sons Dave" fresh in his mind, suggested Dave, and we all thought that could work. We'd name the piglets all "Dave"! Of course, they quickly distinguished themselves. And now we have "Scratchy Dave", "Pointy Dave" and "Stubby Dave". A drove (The term for a group of pigs) of Daves, as it were.

For all you readers who want a little farming information with your effusive piglet descriptions, the Daves are all Tamworth/Glouchester Old Spot crosses. We are feeding them a mix of grain, cafeteria leavings, vegetables and dairy products from a local store. They are not as hard to keep in as we'd been led to believe (So far) and they are very, very cool.

Cast and Call

2009-05-14T07:11:00.004-04:00

I learned about trusting my instincts this week. Unfortunately, it took a near-tragedy to do it.

It all started the night before last, about 20 minutes after midnight. I'd woken up suddenly with "check-the-sheep-check-the sheep" circling in my brain. We have a baby-monitor out in the barn in case the three lagging (huge) ewes left to lamb finally decide to get it over with. But there were no lambing sounds. It was cold. I had to wake up in 3 1/2 hours to go to work and I didn't want to trudge out there, find the sheep fine and dandy, and lie awake for my last three hours of precious-before-an-extra-hectic-day sleep. So I ignored my gut feeling, rolled over and went to back to sleep.

I got up at 4 (My usual workday routine) and went down to check on the sheep (Not part of the usual routine). At first it seemed things were fine. I easily spotted all three pregnant ewes grazing in the new pasture we'd just opened for them. And there were the lambs, as usual, clustered in their little "gang of four". I was about to head back up to the house when I heard this awful, continuous wheezing.

It was then that I found Acorn (Our lovely, friendly, favorite ewe Acorn) about 50 yards away. Upside down with all four feet and a full udder in the air. This, in sheep lingo, is called "cast". Acorn was a "cast ewe", which means she somehow got stuck that way. Now, it may seem silly (and certainly non adaptive!) that a sheep could lie down for a nap, roll the wrong direction and due to a dip in the Earth beneath her, or a fence beside her or whatever, find herself stuck like a turtle. But it is not a laughing matter. Acorn's lungs were being squashed by the weight of her prodigious belly for however long she'd been like this and, perhaps even worse, she'd eaten a meal of fresh grass, the digestion of which was stopped by the sudden "turn" of events and had gagged green foam and aspirated it into her squashed lungs.

I did one of those "Mother lifts Volkswagen to save baby" maneuvers, jumped through the fence and hauled her right side up before I thought about it. Poor Acorn was wheezing and choking, shaky and bloated. I thought for sure she was a goner.

I ran back to the house to wake Dan and then did some quick research on what to do. (It is an unfortunate aspect of shepherding that however much you read beforehand, you only truly "know" what to do when you've been through the wringer on one emergency or another. I'd read about "cast sheep" before, but I needed to review. On the bright side-- I will know what to do for cast ewes from here on out. The information is IN there for good now-- indelibly so.)

Anyway, we rubbed her rumen to get it working again-- she had bloat from being cast (Our first bout of bloat in 3 1/2 years of sheep!) and that was about all we could do. After a few hours, Acorn was back out with her woolly brethren. Today, she seems fine.

We are not out of the woods yet. There is a chance that she will get secondary pneumonia from all that extra fluid in her lungs, or some sort of infection due to her weakened state. But if I had gone to work without the barn check the way I usually do, she'd likely have been dead by the time Dan made it out at 7.

Then again, If I had honored the call of my subconscious, that little "check the sheep" nudge, we might all have been spared a horrific morning and a lot of wait-and-see worry. I have to trust myself a little more, I guess.

Egg-cident

2009-05-05T15:10:00.004-04:00

Rainy Day. Armful of eggs. Dog underfoot. Muddy slope.

Sad but predictable....

Sheep's Eye View

2009-05-01T21:35:00.006-04:00

We are experiencing a welcome lull in lambing. Three girls done, three to go, but none planning to go anytime soon by the looks of it. So I'm taking a teeny break from cute lamb pictures (They ARE so cute, now, aren't they? I go down to feed and water and spend a half hour just gazing at them.... Okay, okay, enough with the lambs!)

Anyway, we've moved the three boys (Charlie, Clowny Boy, and Rahm) out to an inconvienient spot. It's just far enough into the pasture for me to have to climb over the ewe's fence and truck water buckets across and and over another fence. It's no big deal really, but the dogs-- both intense little herding beasties-- go NUTS when I walk off into the pasture without them. They are positive that I am going to need them out there.

I thought I'd try to capture a sheep's eye view of this twice daily drama.

I should also mention that Maggie (Our 12 year old farm namesake and one of the most sheep-obsessive border collies on the planet) does this sort of laser beam stare thing pretty much all day long whether I am in the pasture or not.

Luka (Our cheeky little Icelandic sheepdog) is satisfied to lick the sheep's faces and nibble gently at their horns when I am not walking off to "work" without her. I think she secretly likes them.

The Maggie's farm flock are a tolerant bunch, and-- being Icelandic sheep-- even the lambs are not in the least intimidated. Here two week old Dodge gives Luka the hairy eyeball.

M...udderhood

2009-04-25T21:05:00.006-04:00

As with last year, Penny, our most reclusive watchful, nonsocial sheep, decided to give birth when we had a farmfull of friends and children. We'd finished dinner, looked out the window, and there she was, a dainty black spotted lamb at her feet.

The audience made her a bit nervous, as did the flurry of doggy excitement at the fence and the kids, who, after a quick look, were playing tag in the orchard. We waited to see if another lamb was forthcoming but there was no sign of one. Now, Penny was HUH-UUUGE during this pregnancy. I couldn't believe that that absolutely average-sized little guy was the only lamb in there.

Just a week ago, we were thinking triplets. But Penny wasn't interested in having any spectators. She stared and licked and stomped, but not so much as a waterbag appeared. After the excitement died down, we put Penny in a nice quiet stall. And, before too long, Penny got to work birthing her second little lamb.

Now, I have three young children of my own and so know a bit about the struggles and sacrifices of motherhood, but watching Penny birth her second lamb brought these into clear focus. As she labored and grit her teeth through massive contractions, her firstborn skipped around nudging and nuzzling, sniffing and distracting. Penny bore all this with amazing grace. She nursed and nurtured her way through the strain of labor. Pushed out the second babe's hoof and nose while guiding her wobbly first into position on the udder.

And this, folks, is motherhood in a nutshell-- or at least mudderhood. What an incredible lot of energy and care and shear tolerance mothers have, even sheepy mothers.

It's not yet Mother's Day, but, wow!

A Lamb Named Disappointment

2009-04-19T22:06:00.004-04:00

Lambing season is sort of in full swing here on Maggie's Farm. There's Acorn's ram lamb, Dodge, who remains humongous, bold and lovely, and now Leela has followed suit and had herself a big ol' single ram lamb as well, a cute moorit badgerfaced boy.

I was at work during the birth (I'm 0 for 2 this year) and Dan helped out a bit, along with our oldest daughter. Micah has been waiting all spring for a ewe lamb of her very own and was beside herself with excitement as Leela licked the adorable lamb dry, even called me at work to tell me about "her" lamb.

But alas, her lamb turned out to be a "him", and we are not keen on taming ram lambs, also not keen on any extra wethers to feed come fall. She's waiting on the next mama to be: Penny, due any day (hour!) now.

Micah's consolation was that she got to name the little guy-- any D name that she wanted. (The "D" is to demarcate our fourth year of lambing.) I suggested "Disappointment", but she decided on "Dracula".

So here he is: Dracula, Maggie's Farm's second lamb of the 2009 season!

Lamb Sunday

2009-04-12T11:57:00.003-04:00

This is Dodge, Acorn's humongous ram lamb. He was a whopping 12 pounds at birth.

Poor Acorn! Those horn buds made for a hard labor.

Dodge was sired by Charlie:

We'd hoped for horned lambs from this pairing (LambS being optimal of course...) and it appears that Dodge will have them in spades! He is moorit gray and, have I mentioned, HUMONGOUS?

If this trend continues, we'll have to re-examine our feeding program. We've fed the ewes nothing but hay for the last month or two, but I'm wondering if perhaps our hay is too rich for these thrifty Icelandics.

Anyway, mom and babe are doing great. And there's no better way to celebrate spring, rebirth, and just plain "birth-birth" than with four new hoofs on the ground?

Happy holidays everyone!

Spring Shearing Day!

2009-04-02T20:47:00.005-04:00

Shearer Andy Rice stopped by today, and the sheep are looking sleek in their new spring non-coats. They seem so puny after you get used to bulk, wooly puff-balls wandering about.

The spring fleeces are never terrific-- but shearing in Spring helps the new lambs locate their Mamas' most important features and it also helps the fall fleeces keep from becoming matted overlong messes.

Shearing day is always an event of sorts-- this one involved five kids running around (Ours and the neighbors) an extra dog or two (Andy's extremely well- trained BC and the Chihuahua next door) a lot of excited (annoying) yipping from Luka who had to be locked in the house so as not to further freak out the sheep with her assertive little self and a great and rambling sheep related conversation.

The girls look quite gigantic now. Acorn, Penny, Copper and Leela have nice big udders already.

Goodbye Mr. B.

2009-03-29T21:33:00.003-04:00

Bombadil, our dapper if slightly boneheaded polled ram, has gone on to a new home at Stone Ridge Sheep Farm in New York State. There he will preside as the one and only ram around. Should make the big guy very happy-- especially after this four ram winter. (Yes, I know our is waaaayyyy to many rams. It just sort of happened that way. Circumstances converged.)

At times, I think I am too much of a softie to be a shepherd. It was harder than expected to say goodbye to Mr. B.

But, we still have two rams too many around here, and so we may be saying a few more goodbyes before spring is over.

Happy Chicks

2009-03-21T22:56:00.004-04:00

When I first started teaching high school, my students somehow managed to stick me with the unfortunate nickname "Happy Chick". I WAS happy; that was a wonderful, challenging year. But I had a lot to learn, and perhaps I was smiling because much of the time, smiling was about all I could think of to do.

Anyway, the old nickname came to mind when I noticed these truly happy chicks out in the yard. Spring has definitely visited New England, and there is no-- hear me, weather gods!-- no more miserable winter weather afoot.

Our chickens are feeling it. For the first time in months they have grass under their cold little toes (Okay, it's dead dried up yucky grass, but it IS grass!) and leaf litter to scratch through, which is basically chicken nirvana. On Maggie's Farm, the whole poultry kingdom has undergone a radical shift towards the sublime. You can feel the giddy vibes in the air. Really.

Here's Otto Longlegs out for a solitary stroll

Being irrationally exuberant, the hens have been gifting us with crazy amounts of eggs. We collected 25 on Tuesday, 12 on Wednesday and 18 on Thursday. Guess they're just letting us know that chickens-- happy chickens-- must have a home on the freerange.

Chicken Rescue!

2009-03-09T21:35:00.003-04:00

Spring happened here on Maggie's Farm. It happened for one day, a georgeous, robin's egg blue day so drippy and melty and overall wet that our road turned into a marsh of sorts and spring runoff poured down the hill like no tomorrow.

The next day, it snowed again. Hard. Ah, New England.

In other news, the cute little hatchlings of late summer have grown into fine young chickens. Unfortunately, four of them turned out to be roosters. This, in addition to Stellar, our gi-normous head honcho and "Otto Longlegs" a buff laced cornish.

We weren't up for eating these boys, and the hens were not up for six roosters in the coop. On snowy days, when they had to stay in, the hens kept up high, making mad dashes through "rooster territory" for food and water. On the nice days, when we left the coop open for free ranging, snow pecking and other chickenly pursuits, the older, wise group of hens would make a break for it. En masse, these weary old veterans, streamed out of the coop, crunched through the snow (No mean feat as chickens do NOT like snow...) and re-homed themselves under our porch.

We thought this was a reasonable protest on their part. The roosters WERE obnoxious, neither gentlemanly or even roosterly in their behavior.

We Craigslisted them. Which turned out quite well. The coop is quieter, with only the subdued (so far) Otto Longlegs, the georgeous Little Jaguar, three guinea fowl, and twenty something hens. Peaceful, right?

Um, no.... Our glut of roosters has caused an unforseen consequence, our oldest, wisest and most beloved hens have taken a liking to the porch. I can't even count the nights I've dug them out from the shrubbery, tucked them under an arm and "airlifted" them back to the safety of the coop. You don't account for how much you care about all these animals. It's one of those hidden givens of farming.

Here is Java on her way back home with Joe.

Spring is in the Air (Sort of)

2009-02-24T10:49:00.008-05:00

We've had more than our share of winter this winter.

It is cold, bitterly so, and the white stuff just keeps flying

And flying....

We are hunkering down, dreaming of day lilies and apple blossoms and long, light-filled days. Won't be long now....

Near as I can tell, late winter on a farm is all about plans and dreams. A time to hold a clear image of what will soon be so strongly it seems just around the corner. We are most definitely counting our chicks and also our lambs and tomatoes, apples and blueberries, peaches and plums...

We've put in our spring poultry orders: 15 more turkeys (5 Giant White, 5 Broad-Breasted Bronze, 4 Narragansett and 1 Chocolate). Can't say I'm missing our last flock much. (Definitely NOT missing the telltale mess they left in the barn, yard and wherever else they wandered, or rounding them up at the neighbors and down the road and in the deep woods) Okay, well, I am missing their general liveliness about the place, their cool sounds and strutting.

We've also ordered ducklings this year. The ducks will be the kids' project. They will care for the critters and clean up after them. (A mom can dream can't she?) The kids heartily enjoyed selecting their breeds out of the Murray McMurray catalogue. They settled on Swedish and India Runners mostly, though I added a few buff and Khaki Cambells to the order. I've heard ducks are sweet and duck eggs are really nutritious and great for baking so, here goes.

We are also pretty much set on getting a few pigs this year. Yes, I know I was dead set against eating livestock after my awful trip to the slaughterhouse in the fall. But I've been reading Wooster's "Living with Pigs" and it seems a little more possible now. However difficult this path, we have really enjoyed NOT contributing to factory farming this year. We haven't bought any meat (With the exception of "humanely raised organic bacon" and local producer Wheel View Farm's Grass fed ground beef) since summer. And we like it so much better this way. The slaughter we know (and cringe through) is so much better than the larger, unseen and much more horrendous agribuisness slaughter.

The pigs won't be just food. We plan to use them to turn sheep bedding into garden-ready compost, clear land for future sheep pasture and to mitigate our summer worm loads (Running different species on the same land really helps). To avoid another traumatic trip to NH, I've got the name of a local butcher who will come out and slaughter on site. (Wooster says to give the pigs vodka on their final day and they'll pass out and remain unstressed.) So it's another Maggie's Farm leap, partaken perhaps before we've fully looked.

But for now, it's winter. We shiver and wait, watch the gray skies, build a few snowforts, all the while dreaming of daylilies and ducklings, apple blossoms and pastured pork.

Bonehead

2009-02-19T10:21:00.006-05:00

Some of you may remember Bombadil of last winter. Without a doubt the world's cutest sheep. Ah, those were the days....

The Bombadil of this winter is a different creature altogether. Randy and ramly, he's taken to battering through fences face first.

While still a sweetie (As sheep go), he is absolutely eweCRAZY much of the time. I guess Mr. B is just not ready for breeding season to end.

He's broken through our fences twice and spends an inordinate amount of time staring into the ewe pen, slobbering and groaning.

Mr. B. is no longer cutest sheep ever. Like a prize fighter, he carries the scars of past battles. Well, the only "battles" he's had have been with gates and fence posts, but just the same....

Cutest sheep ever? This year, the title goes to "Clowny Boy"

The Flipside

2009-02-05T10:38:00.004-05:00

After the somewhat whiny and worryful post below, I thought I might say a few more pleasant words about winter. It IS fun-- or at least it can be.

The kids have build a tremendous little snowfort in the front yard, and there are roads everywhere outside for Joe's toy cars and trucks. We try to get out and sled as often as we can. And we love to have an excuse for some hot cocoa with marshmallows.

Here are a few pictures from the flipside of winter.

Is it Spring Yet?

2009-02-05T09:52:00.005-05:00

I'm hearing this question quite a bit these days, from the kids as they tug on their snowpants and boots, from the chickens (more or less...) as they huddle inside their crowded coop waiting for me to come defrost their water bowl, from the sheep who-- although well equipped for snow-- seem pained by hay rations and limited mobility.

It has been a long, hard winter. Most of the pasture is under more than two feet of snow-- a hard, crusty snow-- and the temperature was a miserable 4 degrees this morning.

Yup, I'll admit I'm a bit of a whiner when it comes to winter. I procrastinate like crazy, futz with snow pants and snow boots and gloves, take another few sips of coffee, stoke the fire in the woodstove, anything to avoid the grip of the wind outside.

Funny thing: Once outside, I love it. I lean on the fence just like in summer and watch the ewes chow down, the ramboys tussle, the dogs attempt to dig out the deermice that scamper under the snow. It's really not so, so bad....

This winter, we've been preoccupied with the usual questions:

Are the ewes bred?

Is our nutritional program adequate?

We hope so. But the internal workings of the flock are, as always, a bit of a mystery. We worry when Charlie and Bombadil (Now back together in an adjoining pasture) curl their lips in ramly romance as a ewe angles by. Is she just teasing them a little, or is she hoping that perhaps she can entice one of them over the fence for a long-delayed tryst?

Last year, we were sure that our ewes weren't pregnant at all. (We worried a lot last year) and every one of them produced a lamb or two. The year before that, half of them really weren't bred! (Due to a dominant wether in with a wimpy ram lamb, we think.)

We hope we've learned a bit from our three winters' worth of worry, but who really knows?

Also, we've been supplementing our ewes with kelp, sheep minerals and selenium yeast this year, and giving them a mix of forage extender pellets, alfalfa and a tiny bit of grain in addition to hay. Hopefully, this will result in the right nutritional combination-- not too much, which would result in birthing complications and gigantic lambs and not too little which would result in birthing complications and tiny lambs.

The most frustrating part is that this is all instinct and guesswork. We base our program on readings, advice from fellow shepherds and hard won experience and we hope-- and hope and hope!-- for an easy spring.

Needle Felting 101

2009-01-17T10:14:00.007-05:00

Let me just say that before Maggie's Farm and sheep and all that, I didn't much appreciate wool. But, as sheep produce wool, lots and lots and lots of it. I've discovered the humble fleece. Wool is my friend, our friend. I'm getting to know it rather intimately, in all it's permutations, from raw, poop-ridden unskirted wool, to fine spun two ply yarn and everything in between.

Wool is pretty amazing. It keeps sheep warm enough in -11 degrees (This, grrr...., is what the weather's been like lately) and cool enough in 80 degrees (Oh, 80 degrees, I miss you....) It can be messed with and manipulated in countless ways. In the last few years, I've tried my hand at spinning (I stink at spinning), knitting (more or less abysmal results), dyeing (kinda neat and hard to mess up) wet felting (Fun, but very tough to do consistently well) and now, needle felting.

Needle felting is deceptively easy. Basically, you poke a blop of wool with a sharp (Sharp!) needle until it mats into a solid shape. Hopefully, the shape is cute or useful in some way. That's all there is to it. Really. Of course there's a lot of skill involved in poking the matted blop into something cool, or cute or beautiful... I've got a ways to go in that department.

Anyway, here's my first attempt:

I'm pretty proud of it, I must say. I ran out of bear-colored wool and so fashioned a "UF colored" sweater and pants for my little guy. (That way, I only needed a bit of brown for the tips of his arms and legs. The whole project took about two hours.

Dan came around and made a little gator to match.

Musical Rams

2009-01-10T22:17:00.003-05:00

No, the rams are not suddenly operatic. Instead, they seem to be playing that old-fashioned party game, scooting pasture to pasture waiting for the music to stop, or at least busting out and trying to scoot from pasture to pasture as long as the music of love is loud in their ears.

It all started (of course) when we were away for our yearly sojourn down south. Charlie Bucket thought this would be a fine time to go visiting the gals in the far pasture. Luckilly, he was caught in the act (before the act...) and coaxed into semi-isolation.

But the hijinks didn't stop there, oh no. Next, it was Rahm, who managed to hop the fence and visit the ewes Charlie left behind. "Boys will be boys" Dan and I sighed and dutifully marked the unplanned meetings (Hopefully not "matings") on our farm calendar just in case.

But then Bombadil, our serene, affable polled gentleman ram decided to GO CRAZY yesterday and busted down the pen that had been just fine by him all fall and winter. He went mooning over to visit Chance's group. Chance (Below) was a good little ram-boy and while all this mixing and attempted matching was going on, he stayed put.

So Dan spent a bit of time on Friday sorting (and re-sorting) sheep. Hopefully, all this, um, curiousity is after the fact and the breeding groups we'd planned so carefully will have been the groups in which breeding occurred.

These sheep, I swear they like throwing us for a loop now and then!.

Sliding Home

2008-12-14T13:01:00.006-05:00

Maggie's Farm fell victim to the ice storm of 2008 on Thursday. Also on Friday and Saturday....

But we were lucky in many ways: We had heat (Our home is heated via woodstove) and we had phone access (ancient land line telephone). We had a working stove (Propane) and most importantly, we had each other, safe, sound and cozy on a dark, spectacularly ice-ridden December evening.

What we didn't have and grew to miss most accutely was water. Our well runs by an electric pump and so we awoke to dry faucets and unflushable toilets. Not so fun for a family of five. Extra unfun for our thirsty animals. Luckily, we were able to catch the drippings off the roof to flush toilets. And we melted chunks of ice by the woodstove for the animals. The contents of the fridge did just fine on the porch and the freezers (Thanks to an infusion of ice) kept our harvest bounty cold.

Dan was able to drive into town for jugs of water (And take-out Chinese food) and things were fine and cozy again.

The kids just received a gift of really neat battery-free flashlights from their grandmother, and so the night was filled with the RRrrrrr RRRrrrr of wind-up LED and the gentle glow of candles and lanterns. We read and played board games and missed nothing much.... except water.

On Saturday, we drove down to the Greenfield YMCA for "Family Swim" and much (much!)needed showers.

Not so bad really. Not so bad at all.

The Story of Puff

2008-12-04T12:26:00.005-05:00

On the surface, Puff was nothing special, a plump little silver-laced wyandotte hen with that clear-eyed look that chickens sometimes get. She arrived in a peeping octagonal box with the rest of our first brood, resided in the basement a while, then the coop.

For the first three years of her life, Puff was as ordinary as they come. She didn't get broody or mean mean enough to remark upon. She didn't get friendly either, following around behind us hoping for a treat the way some of her sisters did. Unlike Fancy Feather and Brave Sarah, Puff was no child's favorite.

She lived through the rooster-reign of the nasty Archie, the somewhat-less-nasty Batman and the reasonable-most-of-the-time Batmandu. But when Stellar, a honking, Baby Huey of a bird, came to power, Puff did something quite remarkable for a chicken: She left the flock.

Now, it should be mentioned that Puff was Stellar's apparent "favorite". He'd seek her out for his roosterly duties with frequency and ferocity, and one warm summer day, after attempting to avoid Stellar in the driveway and side yard, Puff had had it. She struck off for territory of her own, territory totally free of roosters or fowl of any kind. She made a roost of the ledge of the utility sink in the barn and hung around at the far edges of the barnyard, in the woods and compost pile.

At first, we didn't understand the depth of Puff's voluntary isolation. We thought that maybe she was a little confused and tried to return her to the coop. No dice. As soon as she had a chance, Puff made a bee line (A chicken-line?) for her new home in the barn. When the roosters (Yes, we currently have THREE roosterS: Stellar, Little Jaguar and Otto Longlegs) came snooping about, she hid in the stalls with the sheep.

We wondered how long this would go on. Perhaps, as the days got colder, she'd end her boycott and return to the warmth, safety and guaranteed grain of the coop. But she didn't.

I took to scattering a few grain pellets for her and a bucket of fresh water. For a while there, I left a heat lamp over her utility sink roost but that was too much of a fire hazard and a crazy-bad waste of electricity at that. So Puff was on her own.

She disappeared during the first bad cold snap of the season, on a day that didn't make it past 25 degrees. The kids and I searched the edge of the woods by flashlight, checked out all her old haunts but there was nothing else to do. She was gone. Perhaps she decided to roam even farther, to our neighbor's coop perhaps, or off into the oblivion of a predator's jaws (This is the most likely fate).

At any rate, every time I go down to the barn for chores I can't help but cast a hopeful glance at the sink-rim roost and I think about Puff, an ordinary old hen that made an extraordinary decision. I realize that I am being anthropomorphic here, but how else can you explain a chicken resisting the strongest of instincts: the instinct to flock, the instinct to retreat to warmth and safety in favor of a lonely, danger-ridden no-roosters-land?

Thanks

2008-12-04T10:37:00.006-05:00

I love Thanksgiving.

What could be better than a holiday devoted to gratitude, one that urges us to take stock of the goodness in our lives?

This year, like every other, we filled the last hours before dinner with art-- "Thankfullness Pictures" as the kids call them.

Micah counts, the school food bank among her blessings (Our donation a few weeks ago must have stuck in her mind), the color red, fun, and the planet.

Anna is thankful for "The knowledge of art", her school, the earth, her family, baseball (She's a big Red Sox fan these days), dogs, teachers and herself.

Joe is thankful for his friend Oliver:

I, myself, am thankful for another Thanksgiving here on Maggie's Farm and the gathering of family and friends that happened this year, the joys of children, animals, and easy love, the bounty of here and now. And for Dan, my partner in every sense of the word (and the most awesome man in the whole world). For birthdays and busyness, quiet and cold. For snowdays and sunny days, for the animals and plants that gave us our first seriously homegrown feast-- homegrown turkey, lamb sausage stuffing, apple everything. And I am thankful for the spirit of change that has overtaken my own and the country's cynicism. Oh, I could go on and on. But I won't. Not here anyway.

I hope your holiday was a good one.

Ramarama!

2008-11-23T16:44:00.006-05:00

You may have heard that farming is cyclical. This is most definitely true. The seasons take on a certain resonance when the variety and type of work you do, the worry that tugs you awake at night, the hopes and sadnesses, are intimately connected with them.

For us, each season has its own "issues". Winter is about waiting it out, about hidden life growing in the bellies of the ewes, in the earth, in suddenly prodigious fleeces. Spring is lambing, an anxious, joyous, busy time. Summer finds us working to ensure the flock flourishes, worrying about parasites, chasing cute little lambie escape-artists back into the fold, rotating and rotating those scant pastures.

Fall...? Well, fall is about harvest, yes. Thanksgiving and all that. But it is also about sex, or at least, as we shepherds prefer to call it, "breeding". This is the time when we appraise our flock (Those that did not fall victim to the "Harvest" part of the season) and plan for spring lambs.

Before last year, there wasn't much of this "planning" to do. We had one single (nasty) ram, Gus. He was our breeding program, all of it. Last year, there were three eligible batchelors in Maggie's Farm's version of "The Dating Game", Charlie, Harry, and the adorable Mr. B. This year, Harry has gone on to other pastures, but we have added his offspring "Chance" and also happen to have acquired Rahm, another ram lamb with a whole other pedigree.

So we've been thinking a lot about these four gentlerams and the qualities they might pass to their offspring....

Charlie Bucket, the handsome guy at the top of this post, is the number one ram around here. He is huge and massively horned, but Charlie is a cautious soul who doesn't push his weight around much, an important trait in a ram. We like his build and his genetics as well. Oh, and Charlie is very resistent to parasites, an excellent, excellent quality.

Then there is Bombadil. This guy is a real sweetie, personality plus and not in the least aggressive, even when our crafty puppy Luka sneaks into his stall and scarfs down his meager grain dessert. Also, he brings a different set of genetics, a nice gray black fleece and a long-bodied build. He isn't the largest ram in the land, nor the most parasite resistant, but we like him anyway. Lots.

Chance is a recessive little guy-- a spotted solid moorit, carrying the genetics for the badgerfaced pattern as well-- with a really nice fleece. He has potential, and we'd like to see what he can produce with Copper and Daisy, our big, solidly built ewes.

And then there is Rahm. Rahm is 3/4ths AI from Jager Farm. He has an excellent meaty build and a nice thick fleece. He is (so far) calm as the day is long. A pretty cool cat all around. On the down side, he's got some scurs going, scurs we hope can be offset by breeding to some cleanly-polled beauties. This is a picture of Rahm, on the day he arrived. He's a bit dirty and burr-full but a real looker nontheless.

In short, fall is not all harvest and heartbreak around here. It's also about long-range planning. Long range planning and a whole lotta hope.

And so, without further ado, here are the Maggie's Farm Fall 2008 breeding groups:

In Pasture #1... Charlie with three lovely ladies: Leela, Cedar and Acorn. (Yes, Acorn is polled. But as her lambs were scurred last year, we thought we'd try her with the strongly horned Charlie in the hopes of keeping some of her superfriendly lambs in our horned flock.) Leela has a beautiful fleece, but less than stellar build. So, hopefully, Charlie will improve that aspect in her offspring.

In Pasture #2... Bombadil is hanging with the lovely Caroline. Yes, we know Caroline is horned, but she is a ewe lamb and we are hoping lambing will be a bit easier for her without the hornbuds to worry about.

In Pasture #3.... Chance with Copper and Daisy, two lovely and quite assertive ladies. Okay, Chance is not thrilled with this arrangement. The girls aren't showing him any love as yet. In fact, they are downright mean. But they are also terrific mothers and well-built genetic powerhouses, so he'll have to stick with them long enough to impart his offspring with fine soft fleeces. Also, Chance's recessive little self will tease out any latent color in these two white ewes. Copper may be homozygous for white as she has never had any lambs that were NOT white. But we know Daisy can produce solid moorit. What are these two ladies hiding? Chance will tell us.

And finally, in Pasture #4... the stolid Rahm (Yes, we did name him after THAT Rahm...) with our lovely and quite cleanly polled Penny. Rahm will also serve as our "Clean-up Ram" as well.

Here's to fall's high hopes!

Ten Bags Full

2008-11-13T14:06:00.006-05:00

Shearing day.

You gotta love it, always hectic with herding dogs herding (or trying to anyway) kids underfoot, spur-of-the-moment gatherings (Always seems to happen somehow...) and lots and lots of sheep wrestling. And in the middle of it all, Andy the shearer, as calm and cool as a guy with an upside-down sheep in his lap could be, separating animal from mineral (or fiber anyway).

What a scene! At first, the sheep look so skimpy and strange without their fleece!

Here is Penny before shearing:

Here she is after:

Not so stately, eh?

But if you're looking for raw skirted fleece, we have some nice ones. We'll be sending them off for processing in a few weeks, so let us know.

The Sound of Wonder

2008-11-11T09:24:00.005-05:00

Earlier this year, we hatched several "homegrown" eggs in a borrowed incubator.

As advertised, it was a great experience for the kids. The humming box in the corner, forgotten for most of three weeks all of a sudden became the object of intense interest as scattered pips and taps were heard within it. The first chick, "Peeper", hatched while we were getting ready for bed. But by the time the second chick kicked its way out, the kids were thoroughly engaged. And lucky for us, Dan's penchant for technological innovation and a homemade tripod resulted in our capturing this, the sound of absolute wonder (Along with a lot of extraneous family stuff):

The 8 chicks that resulted from this experiment are adolescents now, freeranging about with their cousins, aunts, uncles outside:

Scary

2008-11-02T14:12:00.004-05:00

A week or so out from that horrible day at the slaughterhouse, we have a freezer and a half of meat, a bit of hay money, and a little less hard feeling. Distance does that to you. Thanks to all those who offered a few kind words. I really appreciated your encouragement and wisdom.

I'm sure I'll think (and write) quite a bit more about this in the weeks to come. But it's the end of October, and my thoughts turn, quite naturally to other scary stuff:

Halloween, for one thing. The Maggie's Farm crew had a happy one. Micah, determined to be scary at all costs, morphed into "Zombie Micah". Joe, became a "spooky dude" and Anna, interested in space, the universe and everything these days, was an astronaut. Dan was a ram, or-- depending on your cultural reference points-- a refugee from Mad Max. Here they are setting off to trick or treat:

Election Day is another scary fall thing. I'm trying to be relatively apolitical here on the farm blog, but I am not keen on another 4 (or 8!) years of Republicannonsense (VERY scary indeed!) So I'll be up in Keene, New Hampshire helping get out the vote for Obama on Nov. 4th.

Have a good one, whatever your political persuasion.

Hard Harvest

2008-10-23T11:27:00.003-04:00

Yesterday, we took another step-- a giant, uncomfortable, yucky step-- in the direction of "real farmness": I brought a vanload of sheep to a slaughter facility in NH.

Now, I knew it'd be a hard thing. But I had no idea just HOW hard a thing it'd be.

These animals were not pets, but they had names, a history with us, distinct personalities. And so I faced the drive with trepidation, reasoning with myself all the way. Self, I said, We can't afford to keep 21 sheep,the money and food from these sheep will ensure that we can afford the others. What's more, these animals, by virtue of health, build or all-out spookiness, are not suitable for breeding and keeping, and we can't, in good conscience, sell them as such. Furthermore, we've given them good, carefree lives, better by far than those of the animals in supermarket freezers and this is just part of the process...

Oh I reasoned alright.... but this helped my reluctant self not a bit. I drove the two hours with a heavy heart, barely able to look back at the make-shift pen behind me.

And when I arrived at the USDA facility (USDA sounded a lot fancier on the phone than the scattered warehouse the place turned out to be) I began to tear up immediately.

What I really wanted was to turn around and go home. I wanted to, but I didn't. Some of these lambs had been presold for meat, and so meat they would be. Besides (here's some more rationalization...) Keeping this bunch would add close to 10 dollars a day in hay expenses, a burden our farm, and family couldn't bear. So I opened the back of the van, and helped the handler shoo my little group into a holding pen.

I didn't say good bye. I didn't even dare to look at them. I went into the small office and went through the paperwork; I checked off which cuts, which parts. Then I went out to my empty van, put it in gear, and cried for about an hour. Really. It thoroughly, thoroughly sucked.

I sat in a bagel store parking lot for another hour, re-justifying. Checking off all the reasons why this was the right and logical thing to do, and I felt like crap about it just the same. I thought about going back to retrieve my sheep-- WAIT! Never mind!-- but once their feet touched down in the dirt of the "facility" they couldn't return to the farm to transmit whatever bacteria and illness they might have com in contact with. It was done. A done deal.

I had planned to go to work after the drop off, but this was overly hopeful. Honestly, I didn't know what to expect, didn't know the day would be so out and out miserable.

Perhaps "real" farmers are used to this process, and bringing animals to slaughter is just like any farm chore for them. But It's caused me to question the whole farm premise.

When we began this enterprise, we hoped to grow good quality wool and breeding stock, and perhaps also some meat to feed our family. The trouble with this model is that meat is the farm product people want the most. We have had no trouble selling meat lambs, and if we had 20 more, we'd probably be able to sell them as well. Local meat, with good reason, is in.

Wool, however.... wool is slow going, expensive to produce, hard to market and such a specialty product. Ditto for roving. Our wool is beautiful, knitters love it, but there are a lot less knitters than meat-eaters out there.

And breeding animals? Well, we've been able to find breeding homes and fiber homes for some of our lambs but we had 11 this year, and the economy's in the toilet and several big Icelandic Farms have dispersed this year, so... nope, not sustainable.

Before yesterday, meat seemed like it might be a way to go, but I'm feeling pretty shaky-- okay, REALLY SHAKY-- about that now. Dan and I like to joke that the sheep are our retirement plan (This is a joke because the sheep COST us a heck of a lot of money each year and have yet to break even close to even.) But we cannot continue to pour money into the farm without the sheep at least earning for their own keep.

But the meat idea is a lot more real for me today than it was a week ago. I do not want to get callous about death. Yesterday,I talked the one of the young handlers at the slaughterhouse while picking up the hides of the animals I'd dropped off. The conversation went something like this:

Me (blinking back the day's ever present tears): "It must be hard, what you do..."

Him: "Oh yeah. It's not easy to get the cuts right. People think they can just do their own. Like my buddy who got a moose yesterday. I told him it ain't so easy"

Me: "No, I mean the killing part..."

Him: "Oh, THAT. That's easy. We do 250 animals a day. That's the easy part..."

When you go to the supermarket or buy local or order a deli sandwich at subway, somewhere, somebody has unloaded a bunch of scared animals off a truck into some ugly warehouse and asked somebody to kill them. That reality was pretty abstract for me, until yesterday. Even locally grown, free ranging meat is not a pretty thing to contemplate. At least not right now. Perhaps if we had a traveling butcher who'd come and do the slaughtering right here on site... perhaps at the new, "state of the art" facility opening up a few towns over this year, one designed by Temple Grandin to minimize stress... Or perhaps, I'll go back to the primarily vegetarian diet of my 20's, win the lottery and and buy hay for our growing flock like nobody's business....

Or, perhaps things will look different in a day or two.

If you've been involved in this process, or plan to be, I sure would appreciate some advice or feedback on this.

Goodbye Gobbles

2008-10-15T16:16:00.003-04:00

The turkeys went to the butcher today. It was tough to see them go, but not quite as tough as it might have been; I have had it up to here with their troublesome wanderings, their voracious--expensive!-- appetites, their tearing up the lawn something fierce. It was a chore and a half to coach them into the barn at night (We'd sort of given up on it at the end here, leaving the flock to take its chances on the pasture fence and on the ground beside the water pump.) And I could have offed the group of them myself the day I returned home to find the whole flock up on the porch pecking at our freshly picked bins of apples and leaving a tremendous mess behind... So yes, the turks had outstayed their welcome.

But somehow-- there's always a catch isn't there?-- I miss them already.

Turkeys are kind of cool in a clueless, show-offy, wholly unexpected way. They are drama kings, prancing and sighing, sneezing and gobbling, and fighting-- oh the fighting!-- all the time. I'll miss the spectacle of our slate gray tom, smaller but full of game, bumping up against the bigger bronze toms. I'll miss "Blinky" who had some sort of neurological issue, listing and lurching in circles, bumping into trees and calling after her buddies. Blinky was so obviously in need that even our puppy Luka, nudged her in the right direction sometimes. I'll miss the gaudy colors, the toms' skin going from red to blue at the whim of some internal barometer, their comical snoods, the way the flock gathered around as I picked apples, toms gliding around at my feet like schooners at full sail. There might be a hundred apples on the ground around them, but turkey wisdom dictated that the only good apples come from the hand of a weary human.

I will miss them-- I DO miss them-- but it was time. (Long past time, according to Dan, who is right this minute cleaning out the tremendous stinky, turkey-fied mess that is our barn.) And I can console myself with several weeks worth of home-produced dinners and the chance to supply a farm-fresh, wholesome well-raised food to friends and co-workers. I choose to focus on this aspect today, the day our first turkeys went to the butcher.

And a Good Time Was Had By All

2008-10-07T19:18:00.004-04:00

The Greenway Celebration was our initiation into a new world, a world chock full of interested customers who wanted to know a little bit about Massachusetts' rural heritage, small town living, apples, wool, sheep and chickens. 30,000+ interested customers as it turned out.

The build-up and market day were some of the busiest of my life, and also the most productive. I baked and peeled apples and organized yarns and apple crisps and whatnot. Dan developed a lovely banner, brochures, business cards and labels, Micah made some beautiful signs. We were all up late into the night readying for the big day. Saturday morning found us up at four packing the minivan, waking Micah (who chose to come along for the day) and driving the two and a half hours into the heart of the big, B-i-i-i-g city to sell our wares.

Now, at past events, we barely had our "stuff" together; we set out a card table and hung around chatting. It was lots of fun, but part of the fun was our sheer, amateur-ness. We considered these small events a chance to meet other vendors and learn about the whole process of marketing.

This Greenway Celebration, however, was the BIG TIME. And we were (more) prepared. We had a brand new canopy and our professional looking banners, and we even brought a cash register... well, it was our kids' bright red toy cash register.... But you get the idea. A friend of mine made cute soaps to help fill our table and we also offered, baked goods-- Apple flax blueberry bread and apple flax walnut bread, apple oatmeal bread and apple crisp, and Dan's homemade peach, plum and blueberry jams. We also offered plain old apples to the hungry folks who came by and fresh cider. None of this has to do with our primary business, but we were advised to have food to offer.

We also offered yarn and roving, and I brought a few of my hand-crafted items, hats and scarves, to demonstrate what a person might DO with all this wonderful stuff.

We figured there'd be lots of other small family farms at the farmer's market, but mostly there were small family businesses: a cookie company, a bread company, a jam company, a coffee micro-roaster, etc etc. Businesses with inventory and a few employees and such. So once again, prepared as we were, were were, achem... out of our league once again. (It may say something about the state of Massachusetts' rural heritage that the Greenway Farmer's Market had so few small farms.) The Rodale Institute, the event's sponser had a really neat passport system to help get customers and farmers talking and also gave us free canvas bags that we could offer to customers with a $10 purchase. These were great ideas and the event organizers have our thanks and gratitude.

Anyway, being out of our league turned out to be an advantage of sorts because people were really interested in what it was like to work a genuine small family farm (They were surprised to learn that we had to work full-time jobs to support our rural lifestyle, for example.) Micah showed pictures from our farming album and answered questions. (One couple asked her if she liked having chickens and she said "Sort of. Because when you have chickens you can never go out barefoot"!) Luminaries came by; Thomas Menino, Mayor of Boston, and Caroline Kennedy sampled the apple oatmeal bread. It was really fun to "talk sheep" with so many new people. (I love to "talk sheep" any time, any place!). Micah managed to take a few pictures for us and she was quite the soap-seller, explaining exactly why that the goldfish soap was great for kids. (From the moment our feet hit the pavement, Dan and I were generally too busy to BREATHE so it was great to have our own photographer along!)

I ended up selling one of my scarves and a felted hat, although I hadn't planned on it. (I have a long way to go before I am skilled enough to set up shop) because the customers insisted on buying the items, flaws and all. I wasn't prepared for the lump in my throat as I watched by cool, reversable lizard/goldfish hat walk away on someone else's head. But I was also happy it was going to a new home where it was obviously loved and appreciated. Here it is:

So it was a beautiful, busy, joyous day. We sold out of breads and crisps and also sold a lot of yarn and roving. We met a lot of wonderful people and gave out every last brochure and business card, arrived home exhausted at 11 PM, slogged out to take care of the animals in the dark, put our zonked daughter to bed and collapsed on the couch.

And for some crazy reason, we hope to do more of this sort of thing in the future!

To Market, To Market

2008-10-03T14:25:00.002-04:00

Saturday's the day.

Dan and I are headed off to the opening celebration of the Rose Kennedy Greenway in Boston. The Greenway is the snaky park that's replaced Boston's old raised highways. (Think "Big Dig".) The celebration is an enormous farmer's market, concert, happenin' event.

...And we, well, we are bringin' it. All of it: Yarn, roving, apples, baked thingys, homemade soap, etc. etc.

It promises to be a HUGE event-- much larger than we envisioned when we agreed to go.

Truth be told, we are rookies, raw rookies, when it comes to hawking our wares. We putter and dawdle and are not as focused on the "business end of our business" as we could be. So this event-- upwards of 50,000 people-- is a bit, um... terrifying. But really exciting as well.

Maggie's Farm may be turning a corner. The sheep may actually pay for a portion of their own feed this year. That'd be nice. Then we wouldn't have to talk so much about what a "fun long-term project" the farm is or chuckle self-deprecatingly about how the sheep are our retirement plan.

....Maybe. Whatever else, I'm sure we'll meet a lot of nice people and come away with some terrific stories. And isn't that what it's all about anyway?

So if you're in Boston this weekend, come by and say hello.

Hay, Hay, Hay, It's Fall!

2008-09-25T10:08:00.009-04:00

Fall is a crazy-busy season.

All summer we've been lying semi-low, keeping one step ahead of parasites and short pastures, but more or less letting things beef up on their own. But as winter starts sniffing around the apple trees and maple leaves, the randy rams and hyper-randy turkeys, we find we have a lot of work to do.

First and foremost is separating the rams and ewes. Autumn frost sets sheepy hormones aflame, and there's been quite a bit of jousting and jumping up out there. We don't want questionable parantages or early season lambs, tough enough to support the little guys when the weather cooperates, so we divvy the flock up. "Boys" in the "down pasture" and "girls" up by the main barn.

While divvying Sunday night, we checked condition and were pleased to note that the flock was healthy and worm free (Yay!). This is especially good news after the worry and wetness of summer 2008.

I've been developing my own mineral mix to help the sheep maintain under the worst of the summer wormload and perhaps the mix has helped some. "The mix", for all you shepherds out there, consists of 2 parts standard sheep minerals and one part goat minerals (Goat minerals have copper which sheep DO need.... but in moderation. Research indicates that Icelandic sheep may have a greater need for copper than more "developed" breeds. But be careful-- Too much can kill them!) To this mineral base, I add kelp, yeast-based selenium/E powder, and flax seeds. I've also been offering the flock black oil sunflower seeds, which they are developing a taste for. Oh, and they've been scarfing apples. A LOT of apples. So, whatever the reason, our flock is in pretty good condition here at the tail end of parasite-worry season-- a happy discovery!

We expected the ram lambs might take the separation hard, but surprisingly, even Connor-- who stuck to his Mama Louise like glue all season, seem quite happy in the "down pasture". And they have been tussling and jousting and acting just as you expect a bunch of rammy youngsters might. Here's Champ, one of our few unspoken-for lambs:

My attempt to get the flock to eat pumpkins last year (EAT! EAT! You know, You're SUPPOSED to LIKE pumpkins!!!!) resulted in a hardy, feral pumpkin plant grown all on it's own. Here it is, with the male half of our flock in the background:

Another big fall issue is hay. We need it. BAD. We always need it, and it is always more expensive than we expected. This year, Dan's been stockpiling a van-load at a time in the hay loft. It's been slow going. But we were were extra lucky this week; a dairy farmer friend managed to arrange delivery of 80 more bales at only $4.00 each! Yay! We were able to borrow her hay elevator which made the storing process about a hundred times easier. The kids had a great time playing in the haypile and even helped load it into the loft.

We still need more-- we ALWAYS need more. But it's a good start anyway.

Fall also means wood. We need it. BAD. (Sense a theme here?) Although Dan's been putting every spare minute into chopping. Spare minutes are few and far between around here and we weren't helped much in the way of windfalls (our best source of weathered logs) so we are still pretty durn low this year. Here's our winter supply so far:

And here's the ATV loaded up with a bit more:

Not much for a wood-heated house. We may have to (gulp!) buy a few cords this year.... um....maybe....

And then there are apples, beautiful rosy apples desperately needing picking. When do we find the time? Well, that's the crux of it.... we haven't. Yet.

Oh, and there's shearing and butchering to do, not to mention the girl's birthday parties! And Holidays.

So that's fall in a nutshell: Busy, busy busy.

Diabolical Little Hearts

2008-09-23T09:40:00.004-04:00

Are you sick of turkeys yet?

I'm beginning to be.

The big birds have an eye for misadventure, what can I say?

Today, I had to rescue a turkey hen who had accidentally sat on our single line of electric tape fencing and couldn't figure out that she had to get up and run away. (I rushed into the barn and cut the switch, then gently led her out of the pasture.)

The newest episode in our interminable "Turkeys, What the Heck were they thinking?" drama came last Thursday. I was down at the barn for chores and found our biggest tom-- barely functional due to his heavy poundage-- flopping around beside the grain feeder. "Oh, no." Though I "He's finally gone and eaten himself into the category of total lameness." But he managed to flop around the corner of the barn after the rest of the flock. So I grabbed the feed bucket and resolved to check on him after I filled up the feed and water.

Well.... I rounded the corner of the barn to find the big tom in the tall grass with one of the bronze toms ON TOP OF HIM STOMPING AND PECKING in murderous frenzy! It was too late for the big guy. He was quite dead. What a gory scene. I would never have believed that turkeys--TURKEYS!-- were such murderous beasts! But evidently, behind the goofy gobbles and contemplative looks, the comically enlarging snoods and stately waddles, lie diabolical little hearts.

I couldn't-- couldn't-- salvage another gigantic bird alone (See "Cold Turkey, Hot Day" for THAT story.) The kids were up at the house playing Stratego and waiting for dinner. I dragged the gigantic bird to the lower barn and, with great difficulty, hung him up. It was the most I could do. I had a nasty cold and it was just about dark and dinner was... nowhere yet.

Back at the house, I told the kids about the incident. Used to all sorts of odd animal related hi-jinks the kids just said "Really? Oh.." and craned their necks to look out the window at the turkey hanging by the barn. Back to Stratego for them.

Dan, well, I caught up with him as well. "All right," he said, the rush of road sounds loud in the background. "Guess I know what I'll be doing when I get home..." True to his word, he arrived home at 8:30 or so, changed out of his "Perfesser Suit" (Tweedy looking jacket with the leather elbow pads and everything), put on and apron and rubber gloves, sharpened up his knives and spent two hours down by the barn in the dark doing right by the turkey and all of us. What a guy!

He returned with a 32 pound turkey, cleaned and ready for cooling. And so we have a jump on Thanksgiving I guess.

I hope I forget the murder scene by then.

Not a Turnkey Turkey Operation

2008-09-18T09:31:00.004-04:00

Well, It was "Turkey Tuesday" again.

Some of you might recall the sudden death and processing of a giant turkey from last week (Cold Turkey, Hot Day). Wellllll... turkeys just loooovve Tuesdays, I tell ya. This week, the entire flock (now down to 12) decided to go a-visiting. They walked a good ways, no mean feet for a bunch of tottering meat-bound heavies, and ended up on the doorstep of "L", the one neighborhood dog who is an unrepentant poultry killer.

Luckily, "L" was tied up.

Unluckily (Or perhaps just stupidly) the turkeys, used to dogs that pretty much ignore them, didn't see anything dangerous in a lab/chow mix straining at it's chain and barking ferociously. They thought it might be a good time to preen and strut and impress each other as young turks so often do.

Well, the chain snapped and, as you might imagine, the birds finally got the hint, scattering as "L" mowed through them, a shower of feathers in her wake.

That was when I got the call from our neighbor. I believe she said "There are a lot of feathers but I don't think there are any bodies around" or something like that.

So off I went. Some turkeys had already returned on their own, they looked winded and grim. Five were still missing. So I spent round about an hour calling and calling and traipsing around in the woods checking out every stump that, from a distance, looked like it just might be a big ol' dead broad-breasted bronze. Please oh, please let there be no dead turkeys, I muttered, not wanting to repeat the whole miserable butchering-gigantic-bird-all-alone scenario of the previous week.

I found no dead bodies. Just one traumatized slate-blue turkey sitting veeeerrry very still in the woods. When she saw me, she got up and headed back home on her own. Another slate blue was in the sheep pasture. "Blinky", as I've been taken to calling her due to her peculiar habit, was in rough shape. Too, exhausted to fight, she let me carry her back down to her buds where she curled up and fell asleep.

I continued hunting about. I got quite good at turkey calls. (Turkeys make a variety of really cool sounds: From the expected gobbagobba to rumbly purrs, sneezy exclaimations, chirps and a beautiful two-note whistle.) But none of this mattered. The turkeys all found their way back on their own.

I brought water and grain over to where they clumped beside the barn, but they were too exhausted to get up and eat. They stayed there all the rest of the day and when I went to close up the barn at 9:30 that night, they were still clumped outside, refusing to budge.

And so... the full moon found me prodding cajoling and carrying-- yes, carrying!-- 12 miserable, shaken and VERY HEAVY turkeys into the barn. So however cool the big fowl are-- and they ARE quite cool-- don't expect a turnkey operation!

Amaranth All Over Again

2008-09-13T09:55:00.005-04:00

Last year, our garden was happier, a veritable cornucopia of tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers. This year, we've been more than a little preoccupied with sheep, turkeys, chicks, work, house guests, oh, and children-- increasingly busy children.

The poor little garden, already cramped against the side of the house to maximize pasture space, has suffered. But it hasn't been a total bust. The little 15 X 5 foot patch has bestowed a few tomatoes and cucumbers, even some zucchinis pretty much all on its own. Somehow, Dan's eternally-optimistic corn crop is happening. But things are beyond scraggly, things are verging on downright unkempt out there.

Undeterred, last year's heritage tomatoes have traveled through the digestive systems of our free-ranging chickens and installed themselves in brand new places. Likewise for the regal zucchini plant holding court in the sheep pasture. But most impressive of all is the amaranth.

Last year, fresh with spring exuberance, I ordered a packet of amaranth seeds. Amaranth, plant of the Aztec, is both beautiful and practical. The deep red seeds are high in iron and other essentials. Last year's amaranth was on the puny side. We left it alone to drop its seeds, and this year, it rewarded us with extravagant, deep red blooms!

We will harvest these after the first frost and try our hand at shaking the grains loose and serving them up. I'll let you know how THAT goes.....

And next year, regardless of the state of our garden, these hardy perennials will ensure that it'll be Amaranth all over again!

Cold Turkey, Hot Day

2008-09-09T11:00:00.006-04:00

This story is not for the faint of heart. Oh, no... it's for those out there who aspire to "earn their chops", "put their money where their mouths are" and "do what has to be done" when "the rubber hits the road." I could come up with a few more cliches if ya like, but basically, I found my homesteading, self-sufficient ideals tested last week. Seriously tested.

The day started out ordinarily enough. I was working from home. Engaged in some sort of work-related phone conversation. The turkeys had been making a bit of noise. Nothing unusual, just the squawks and whistles and "gubbagubbabubba" of everyday life around here. (There's quite a cacophony around here: roosters, hens, guineas, sheep all chiming in about whatever interests them whenever it interests them.) Anyway, I glanced out the window and saw a turkey-- one of our HUMONGOUS white turkeys-- lying suspiciously still in the pasture.

I extricated myself from the phone as quickly as I could. (No, I did not use the time-worn "Um, dead turkey in the field gotta go.") And with pounding heart, I hustled down to survey the damage.

The giant lay flat on his back. Spread-eagled, you might say. He had not been attacked or injured in any obvious way. Near as I could tell, he'd been tussling with the other toms, fell down and couldn't get up. I learned later that giant double-breasted turkeys like this are prone to heart attacks.

Whatever the case, I grabbed those gigantic feet and wrestled the body out of the pasture. The rest of the turkeys gave me quite the wide berth as I hobbled along, half-dragging half carrying the body. They peeped over the fence one last time as we passed from view, and then resumed their regular turkey duties, strutting and pecking and wandering about in a tight little flock.

I set the body in the barn. It was a hot, hot day and already, flies were gathering.

Ugh. What now?

Well.... I thought about it a while. And then a longer while... and then I called Dan. (OF COURSE he was at work, far, far away in my hour of need, and not due for oh, a half a day or so.)

My better half was suitably apologetic about not being around and also suitably sympathetic. But then he threw me a little curve ball: "You can't let all that meat go to waste." He said.

Oh, he was right. Completely, utterly right. What a miserable thing it'd be to raise a turkey-- for meat no less-- and then leave it to rot because it happened to keel at an inopportune moment!

But dressing a full-grown, no-- GI-NORMOUSLY-grown-- turkey without the proper prep and equipment. Well, daunting is an understatement. Also, in our few previous meat-prepping adventures, Dan did the gory stuff. I, um, plucked.

We didn't have a pot big enough to scald the turkey (Scalding is the step before plucking) and anyway, I could not lift it into a pot of boiling water safely. Heck, I couldn't lift it period. Oh, and the kids were due home in less than an hour and I was due to meet their bus (Preferably not while up to my eyeballs in gore...)

I decided, after some research that I'd work on salvaging the breast and legs. And go from there.

So.... that's how I came to be skinning and cutting and hacking away at a dead turkey when, with a screech of bus brakes, the kids arrived home and I ran up the hill to meet them up to my eyeballs in gore. Oh, this self-sufficient farming is the life I tell you!

For those who want a little more information and a little less story: When you come upon a recently-deceased turkey or other fowl, you have to hang and "bleed out" the bird the best you can before attempting this sort of thing. Skinning the bird and removing the breast was relatively easy-- and we ended up with at least 3 pounds of breast meat. The legs were a bit more tricky (this is where the hacking came in) and a bit higher on the gross-awful-Ican'tbelieveI'mdoingthis scale. The meat once removed, must be cooled immediately in a tub of cold water, then can be transferred to the fridge. Cooling should continue for at least a day. Then you can freeze it or eat it. (We froze ours because, honestly, it'll be a while before I care to see THAT turkey again.)

We did waste the rest of the bird. I just couldn't figure out how to remove any other parts in a usuable way. And I was pretty grossed out by then. And the kids had arrived. And there were about a million flies around. And, well, because I couldn't do any more just then. I really couldn't.

Well, that's the whole gory story. In a way, I'm glad I had to do this on my own. It's easy-- too easy-- to leave the hardest things to my better half and if I'm gonna eat it, I really should be able to butcher it. But watch out! Those homesteading aspirations of yours might see you to hacking away at an unexpectedly deceased turkey on a lonely fly-ridden, unbearably hot afternoon.

Isn't She Lovely?

2008-09-01T14:42:00.004-04:00

It being labor day, and these little guys and gals being, in part the fruits of one type of labor, I thought I'd put up a couple recent pictures of our lambs.

After all, we still have quite a few of them. (If'n anybody's interested...)

They are really quite grown-up these days, so different from the leggy, little bundles that cavorted about the place in May, with their tight little curls and charming bleats.

Nowadays, the lambs have no time for fun; it's all graze and graze and browse with them. Which brings me to the fall, when the already-failing grass is gone for good and the hay is too expensive and some of these little guys-- the ones that are not sold for breeding or fleece-- will find themselves into our freezer.

This will be a first for us, but the daunting notion of feeding and housing 21 sheep combined with the need to know exactly where and how our meat came to us is making it seem somewhat more doable.... somewhat....

Living Under Bees

2008-08-30T12:52:00.004-04:00

Remember this hornet's nest?

Since my last post, I've done some research about hornets, "white-faced hornets" to be exact. Evidently, this football-sized nest can house up to 700 of the little beasties. They eat flies and other "meat" but will also eat rotten fruit or whatever. Usually, hornets are peaceful, but if the nest is disturbed, watch out! Unfortunately, they chose a maple tree rather prone to disturbances. And chose to live rather low in said tree, beside the chicken coop and barn.

Sooooo....

In light of these details, Dan and I did some soul-searching. He is a live-and-let live kind of guy and I aspire to be his equal in going with the flow, not worrying/being happy, etc. Okay, I was willing to give the hornets a chance.

After all, I reasoned, life is always tenuous. However we humans try to minimize threats they exist just the same. We dodge bullets every day, bullets we may not ever be aware of.

Unbeknownst to us, the hornets' nest in question was dangling right above the slip-n'-slide at Joe's 5th birthday party, dangling above a wild water balloon war, kids against adults, dangling above the cake and candles and present unwrapping. I shudder to think of what could have happened that day.

But there are always could-have-happeneds. Near misses and moments of grace as well.

Having experienced the lightning strike of sudden tragedy in the past, I can sometimes dwell on these possibilies. Threats seem very, very real to me. So I thought I'd approach the hornets as a lesson, a case in point. I could live under threat of bees. After all, the bees are just one of a countless nasty possibilities made manifest. They could teach me to loosen up a little.

But then, one of the hornets dive-bombed me as I walked down the hill to do the chores. Now, it didn't sting me-- Did I mention I am severely allergic to bees?--- just bounced off the top of my head. And all this philosophy, the live-and-let-liveness and in the moment, no-worries zen-ness I thought I was cultivating, flew out the window.

I went inside and called an extreminator.

We do live under all sorts of visible and invisible threats, and yes, anything can happen at any time and being okay with that-- if you can manage it-- is a real gift. But I'm not quite there yet, not willing to live under threat of bees.