Sabbatical

 To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

 A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

 A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

 A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

 A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

 A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

 A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

 A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8(KJV)

     A year ago last January (2014) I set out on an ambitious venture. Having moved back to my hometown to take seriously the offer of a 4th generation farmer to teach me how to grow things as I put together a "Farm to Table" cookbook, I decided to share my story by way of a daily blog. (To see how far off the mark I was from where I envisioned it going, I offer you the very first entry. http://karlensgarden.blogspot.com/2014/01/diary-of-first-time-farmer.html ...Boy was I naive.) Still, I undertook the self-imposed challenge for a number of reasons:

     One: was a generous gesture, Thurman offering to mentor me. Within the first few weeks of the journey, I came to realize that even though it was my responsibility to DO the work itself, I would never have known how or where to start. Things like turning the ground (vs. plowing, vs. tilling) Things like reading an almanac ... planting by the signs... Things like "I wanna grow tomatoes." (Thurman) "What kind?" (Me) "What are my choices?" (same for corn; same for cucumbers; same for . . .) opened the door to an endless barrage of questions and a mountain of notes in journals that I felt other newbies might one day benefit from, so I decided to document my journey . . . Share my Thurman.

     Secondly, having entered this farming world (by far, the hardest work I've ever undertaken, and yet the most rewarding), I knew it would be easy to get out of the writing habit, after all (and this was the part I did NOT think through) FARMING IS A FULL TIME JOB. Given it was writing that paid my bills, I could not afford to lose the discipline. So whether I was blogging to myself or to an audience of two,  I needed to "put it out there" so to speak, to keep myself sharp. (To this day I have no clue how many people follow it. I never set up the analytics.)

     At the year one mark of the daily blog thing, I decided I'd blog only as time would permit, which up until this last week has been roughly every 2 - 3 days. To keep the farm going meant bringing in help, maintaining fences, equipment, etc...To keep the critters healthy meant building barns and calling in vets and making feed runs. In short, with each new answer came a lot more questions and a lot more challenges vying for my time, my money and my energy, all of which are in need of a reboot about now.

     With all my heart I feel there is a movement afoot...that others too are sensing this need to get back to basics. Everyday I talk to people who are looking to enhance their know how in the event they had to sustain themselves and their families, if for no other reason than it's just healthier that way. More and more I run across people who say "How long can this economy last?" as they question everything from government spending to natural disasters to wars that never end. All the while the farmers and gardeners I meet at auctions and Master Gardening classes are doing something about it.

      I've gotten good at asking the questions; I've come to adore my local ag extension people, there with the bigger picture stuff-- How to get the well dug...Who to call for fencing...Where to turn to preserve your farm for future generations. Still and so, the fields are white and the laborers are few. 

     All in all this has been quite the eye-opening journey and again, the most precious chapter of my life to date...But like the scripture quoted above, To everything there is a time and season . . .and now that I've both planted and plucked, I feel my time to speak has been spoken...a time for silence is upon me.  

     A week ago today I traveled to the mountains of East Tennessee for a 2-day get-away (first time in 3 years...That's what farming and critters will do to a travel schedule!) I attended the wedding of a dear friend and stayed in a rustic little cabin with nothing but journals and notebooks, the way I foresaw this journey playing out 17 months ago. As I sat in the silence, hearing my own voice like a long lost friend, it occurred to me, now is that time.

     With each new thing to learn, came new responsibilities...With each new responsibility, came more commitments. In short, my time--this precious commodity and the only thing we can really call our own, is needed elsewhere.

     As best I can I have tried to show both the ups and the downs of my little farm life. Yes the goats are adorable and yes, I'll fall to mush next week when Rosebud has her puppies, but there've been painful parts too, and this past year in particular left me facing more than I was ready for...

     It was a tough hit for me emotionally to lose my business partner, mentor and friend of 20+ years. (Teddy Bart passed away last December). A few months later I lost not one, not two, but three of the most precious ladies to ever walk the planet to cancer. Over the summer I had to say goodbye to Minsky, my best bud and co-pilot pup for the last 15 1/2 years...Two weeks ago little April goat died in my arms. And earlier this week I'm sad to report I lost one of my 3 (not-so-feral) kittens. 

     Today...with the seasons changing outside my door, there is a change in me as well...a change I cannot anticipate with logic and planning...one that am not totally clear on myself, but one I can only walk through as a day by day proposition. Where once I felt a desire to speak, today my heart craves silence... and in order to be fully present for the chapter that lies ahead, I take this leave of absence. 

     In order to be present...to be fully in the moment as I care for those most precious to me, I am alleviating what things I can....for what period, I cannot say...The writing will continue, I simply must release myself from the obligation of a time table.

     The biggest challenge of my life today (and I hear this from every friend I talk to, so I don't think I'm unique) is how to get it all done and still be present for the things that matter most. We are wired to our computers, addicted to texting, and we're drunk on social media. On the one hand one, it's not all bad...I adore being able to check to see what friends are up to or to laugh at someone else's silly goats. On the other hand, time on social media is costing us...It packs a powerful punch. When we spend more time online than we do caring for the people we cherish most in our lives, well, perhaps it's time for a change.

     Last night I called Thurman. His mother died yesterday. What weekend plans I thought important just went out the window, after all, what good is all this blogging if I can't be present and of comfort for someone who has given so much to my life

     Three days ago I heard from the daughter of a most precious friend -- Stage IV Pancreatic Cancer --he was given 4 weeks to live 4 weeks ago...I can't think of anything more important than the conversation we'll be having today...

     And as my own precious mother--the woman who gave me life-- faces procedures, tests and surgeries, dealing in excruciating pain along the way ...it is not my duty, but my honor to be there by her side...We'll leave no stone unturned as we walk through this valley.

     So fair warning to those whose texts may go unanswered...whose IM messages I don't always see...Short of the necessary work before me, my focus and my heart lie here...Outwardly caring for those who have cared for me...Inwardly caring and preparing myself for what lies ahead. Please don't take it personally if I don't get back to you right away. Once through it, I'm sure I'll bounce back, but for now, a season of silence is upon me...How long I am there, only time will tell. May be weeks...Maybe a month.

     I am grateful to you all for the prayers, the love and the support...and for having allowed me to share my story here with you...I'm not saying goodbye...only that it's time for a sabbatical. I am in need of a Sabbath. (In truth, I think the whole planet could use a Sabbath.)

     Here's holding it in prayer.

     

     

On Interviews and Interviewing

    I count my lucky stars to have been mentored by the best when it comes to the art of interviewing. The number one trait of a good interviewer is the ability to listen and Teddy Bart was masterful at it. As his producer I was often asked (by potential guests) "What's he gonna ask me?" or "Can you get me a list of the questions?" (Believe it or not, when authors go on tour, most write their own questions FOR the host assuming most hosts don't have time to read the book.) Teddy never needed such "cheat sheets" nor did he pre-script his questions. My producer's reply to this type of question was "Teddy doesn't know what he's gonna ask you till you get here--He doesn't know what you're gonna say back." 

http://www.tnledger.com/editorial/Article.aspx?id=83945

     Teddy's goal was to earn your confidence, then get you relaxed enough so that he might bring something out of you that others may have missed. The best interviewers are insatiably curious to start with and digging beneath the surface to find some new gem or better yet, something you (as the interviewee) are so passionate about, you open up yourself up and let 'er flow...that's when you've struck pay dirt.
     To get there involves a level of trust. There's a fine line between flowing and spewing. You don't get a "do over" if you got so comfy/cozy you slipped up and shared more than you should've. On the other hand, props to the question-asking soul who spots your sweet spot and hones in...Watch any good interviewer (and I had the honor of watching Teddy for 20 years) and you'll spot that listening is critical, but caring, really caring about what the other person is saying (provided it's not political "bumper sticker" speak) is key. And those who make it look easy...well, that speaks to how good they really are.
     It was a pleasant surprise to hear from Colleen Creamer, a successful writer, author and respected reporter whose bi-lines have ranged from the Tennessean to Nashville Arts to the New York Times. Most recently she's been writing for the Ledger, and when she reached out about doing a story on the farm, I was happy to oblige, though curious as to why someone coming OFF the beaten path seemed newsworthy. My life is pretty common fare these days compared the high-octane days of morning drive radio. What's more, farming's been around since the dawn of time and there are folks out there doing it far better than I'll ever hope to.
     Still, it was an opportunity to catch up...a chance to give credit where credit is due to folks like Thurman who are the salt of the earth. What's more, I'm all for sharing that life shifts can be done, and if gnawing at you, should be...While I haven't mastered a totally simplified life, it is a goal I recommit to each day and for those who (increasingly) reach out about considering some version of the same I'm as sincere as a heart attack when I say "Don't put it off too long."
     Whether considering a spot of land or a mapping a patio planter box, this garden thing is more than a food source. For me it's a metaphor on life: a living breathing reminder that "As we sow, so shall we reap." Planning and planting what you want to see happen in your life and then tending to it...until it appears, that's about as Beyond Reason as it gets. But the neat thing is, it's also about as real as it gets. I recall when I first ran across the word "Garden" (a word origin that made it into one of my books) it moved me. In case you didn't know, the word traces to early monastic times where these "guarded areas" (later the "guardeds" which evolved to "garden") were sacred plots, set aside in tribute to the original garden of Eden. They were there to provide physical sustenance for the entire monastery or Abbey, yes, but they were also a part of a monk's daily ritual......where they'd go to practice a more mindful communion with God via a physical meditation.
     Same thing happens today if you let it...There's something very mystical about seeing something spring forth out of nothing. Something otherworldly takes over If. You. Let it.
     While "Sustainable Living" is the all the buzz these days, I contend it's "meaningful living" that we're seeking...As with interviews...so with gardens...so with life, the best stuff comes from digging deeper. And for that, I give major props to Colleen Creamer and the Nashville Ledger for going for the root of the story... For that I also extend my heartfelt thanks.
   

   
   

The Crazy Bunch (Sung to the Tune of The Brady Bunch)

Here's the story...
Of a crazy lady...
Who was living with 3 not-so-feral cats...
They showed up in different makes and different colors...
(Cause their mama was a slut and rolled like that!)




Here's the story...
From the other side now
Of a pen that houses goats and big white pups...
Who are chompin' at the bit to meet their playmates~
(But we reinforced the gate to keep them up!)

The Crazy Bunch ~
The Crazy Bunch ~
That's the way we all became the Crazy Bunch!

RIP April: The Rest of the Story (for those who have asked)

     With several books to my credit citing phrases and their origins, I had never included "not out of the woods yet" though it's an expression I've come to appreciate more and more these past few days. (For the record, some trace the expression to Benjamin Franklin, who used it in the context of early frontiersmen, trekking through forests, not setting up camp until they'd found safe clearing, meaning for the more difficult part of the journey they were "not out of the woods yet".)
     For me, it will forever be an expression tied to baby goat, April, for she was not out of the woods figuratively, and when we found her, she was in the woods literally, where we found her (I thought) dead.(Thank God for Pat, who knows more about goats than I will ever hope to learn. He was worth his weight in gold yesterday.)
     Having played with her just the night before, sharing her with friends...hugging her goodnight when I did my final rounds, I honestly thought she was on the mend. She had made it two days, after serious rounds of de-worming medication and was eating quite well (though still distancing herself from the others). We kept a close eye on her, having given her a pretty strong dose of worm meds, parasites being the nemesis as anyone raising sheep and goats knows.
     But yesterday morning was different; April did not show up for breakfast. Walking into the woods, it was Pat who found her, second only to Hix, who just like the day she was born, had no intentions of letting us anywhere near. Her body was limp. Hix's growl, ferociously guttural. Her body had started to draw flies. It's the worst sight in the world, made tougher by not knowing how long Hix would stay poised...(My guess: until the first buzzard appeared as we all know how Hix feels about buzzards.) My only saving grace was that Hix had not yet eaten his breakfast.
     I confess, I assumed her dead; it was Pat who spotted (from a safe distance) a pulse! "She's still breathing!" he hollered. I bolted to the house for Hix's food...the distraction alone, giving Pat just enough time to pick her up. (God bless this man.)
     Feeding dogs and goats at warp speed, I cried when I saw Pat round the corner, holding a weak, but still alive little goat.
     "Doesn't look good" he warned; that much I could see. But she was trying and we were going to give it all we had.
 

A very concerned Rosebud helps me check on sweet April the night before

      The vet was on another farm call. Pat held her, dripping water from a syringe as I raided my basement fridge of every medical concoction I had on hand. One by one I texted pictures of bottle labels asking the vet: "Yes or no?" and if yes, "How much?" Antibiotics are a staple you keep on hand (big challenge if you're going organic); dewormers, iron supplements and B vitamins are things one should also have. I had some but not all. Turns out, it wouldn't have mattered anyway. April was deathly anemic. Diagnosis: Haemonchus Contortus, a.k.a. barber's pole worms.  (https://hoeggerfarmyard.com/goat-vs-barber-pole-dont-let-the-worms-win/ in case you're not familiar)...A deadly parasite increasingly problematic here in the South.
      This barber's pole worm I had been warned about early on...External exams are done by pulling down the eyelid to check for color. (Note: pull down your own; it should be pink, meaning your blood count is good; if it's white like April's was, the bloodsucking parasite has won. It's called the FAMACHA test. We didn't need a vet to tell us. This is the sort of thing Pat knows like the back of his hand, but I wanted to do everything possible just the same.)
     First water, then a little goat's milk....later a few drops of pedialyte. We had 2 of the necessary shots on hand; anything more would have to wait. For a few minutes she perked up (not as in walking, but as in holding her head up; I so wanted to believe, but Pat knew better. Still, he graciously allowed me my hope, I suspect knowing my vet bill was unnecessary. For my peace of mind, I had to try.)
     I texted, "She's fading fast...HURRY!" The vet rearranged his schedule, texting back "I'm on my way." Slower and slower her breathing...her heartbeat steadily fading..."Hang in there girl...Hang in there..." I begged as I walked, bounced and rocked... To her credit, she DID hang in-- just long enough for the vet to get one more shot in her, (a heavier dose of de-worming medication), but to no avail. I felt the last breath leave her tired little body. We had done all we could do...(For April at least...for now.)
     But her death was not in vain.
     While a weaker goat from birth, smaller in size, born to a very small mama, April was no doubt more susceptible to the parasite. However, what April sacrificed in her own precious life, may very well have saved the whole herd, for her death and now the vet's presence, prompted the FAMACHA check of everyone's eyes, and strict instruction for immediately de-worming of the entire lot.

While I would not normally share a picture of
a dying creature, I do so here for educational
purposes...Below is the chart, now commonly
used to judge externally, how anemia is diagnosed
per the FAMACHA method.

(There are various theories on how often to de-worm as the immunity against this parasite in particular is building rather rapidly. Some farmers alternate de-wormers; some adhere to "medicated" feeds; others drench orally, the sickest in the herd; as for me, the entire lot is undergoing a 5-day shift in diet to a strict deworming product, while moving their electric fencing for more regular rotation of their grazing pastures, seeded with grasses like lespedeza, a 'natural dewormer' we this year, planted in spades.)
     In the end, it is my nature to look for the good in these moments. They are painful. There are tears.  What's more, it is my nature to beat myself up pretty sorely for not having spotted things sooner...acted more aggressively...It's all a part of the process, I suppose. It also serves to remind that no matter how much we think we control this thing called life, in the end, it's the releasing to these life, not the resistance of, that makes for the greatest growth. (At least that's been my experience.)
     If a lesson can be learned, a warning shared, then even a little life like April's will have served a useful good, which in the end, is what she would've wanted.
[Post Script: I will be taking April's body in for autopsy to make absolutely certain nothing else contributed to her passing. As I have shared in prior posts,  Kord Diagnostic Laboratory on the Ellington Agricultural Campus in Nashville provides this service free of charge to those working to keep their farms contamination free. If you have lost a farm animal to disease or something unknown, I cannot recommend Kord highly enough. It is to everyone's advantage to keep track of things such as parasites, worms and other debilitating diseases that can spread throughout a region if left unseen to.]

     Again, my heartfelt thanks for the many thoughts, prayers and condolences throughout this ordeal. It never ceases to amaze me the love that can channel through social media in times like these. I am humbled. I am grateful. I thank you all.

The Cost of Caring: When Innocent Creatures Suffer

   

     Goats are God's definition of joy in a critter body. Minutes after they are born, they are up on their little goat feet and within their first hour they're doing that happy little sideways dance that makes for endless Facebook posts and darling YouTube videos. In a nutshell, goats embody love. You can't look a goat in the face without smiling...(I double dog dare you.)
     As lively and fun as the little buggers are, your heart breaks when one goes limp, which is how I found April last night.
Last check of the night and all was not well. Things you don't want to see include lifeless eyes, a goat flat on its side (or back, even worse) or a worried mama goat, trying to nurture her baby back to health. The other goats instinctively gave distance. Like all nature, they know when something is wrong.
     Born to the smallest goat in my herd, April's mama was a surviving twin, born TO a twin on the coldest night of the year before...(That polar arctic thing was dangerous all the way around, and doubly hard on a mama giving birth as it's hard to keep one baby alive, much less two, when birth fluids freeze instantly, which is what happened to April's twin brother before I could get to him; talk about a sad night.)
     Anna Karinina, April's mama, was one of several given Russian names, as they arrived opening week of the Russian Olympics.  Anna (AK as we call her) was tiny. So tiny I decided to have her fixed, as Heff, twice her size and twice as determined, was no match for her. Sadly, I got her to the vet too late; she was 3 months pregnant (gestation on goats is 5). A baby taking on Heff's gene for size could've been deadly. Fortunately, AK inherited her mother's gene for size and color and came out fine. (We've have lived with the tragedy before when the first goats I purchased were bred by a brush (goat) billy...For the record, NEVER pair a pygmy with a standard size goat; 2 mamas of my initial herd had tragic births with babies' legs longer their mothers, making for emergency surgeries costing life and limb.
       Pygmies are tiny on a good day; April was teacup size at birth, and even today is more akin to a Nigerian Dwarf than a Pygmy. Fully grown, today she is now smaller than Cupid's recent twins (Jack and Jill, born 6 weeks ago. Given her mother's small stature, April inherited small genes (and fortunately, not Heff's), but her immune system was challenged from the get-go.
     For those unfamiliar, wattles (those little nodes that dangle from the neck of some (but not all) goats) are sometimes called neck-earrings. Best I can tell, they serve no useful purpose...They're just cute...again, not all goats have them, but April does.
   

     Around 2 months of age, beneath her left waddle a cyst had formed, the size of a small marble. Fortunately it did not have the texture of a marble (i.e. it was not hard, but rather fluid-filled, which was easily enough drained, only it came back....It was drained again, but it is now forming for a third time, leading us to believe it may not be benign.) Time will tell. Right now, the focus is managing the dehydration factor. (I'll spare you the vivid details here, or you may check my earlier blogs on the poop factor, i.e. quickest way to spot a problem in farm animals, and for goats, even more so, given they have 4 stomachs...Suffice it to say, if their poop is off, their system's off. It's the number one tell-tale sign of a problem, leading me to believe that clearly God has a great sense of humor.)
     I'll spare you the details save to say, April made it through the night. (Good sign.) This morning, she ate. (Another good sign.) The others butted her, leaving her flat on her back (Bad sign...Suggests they know she's weak and are counting her gone, but I was there...and will be watching over her like a hawk until the doctor arrives.)
     While yes, this goes with the territory, it's not the part of the territory I like. It's a part of life-- just not the fun part, but it is the cost of caring so deeply.  To avoid the pain of hurting over an innocent critter would mean avoiding animals all together and that's a price I do not wish to pay.
     That said, I DO so marvel at the kind wishes, the thoughtful comments...the prayers I KNOW were prayed. (I felt them.) The tender hearted replies from so many caring people --fellow animal lovers, friends...even total strangers -- warmed my heart and brought great comfort at a time I was otherwise feeling lost and helpless.
     There is something about watching innocence suffer that both bonds us and reminds us of how very fragile life is, (and how very helpless we are at times to do anything BUT pray).  Yet for all the pain felt while watching it, there is a sweet peace that comes with knowing others care. And for this, I am truly...TRULY grateful.
     I'll keep you posted.
     My heartfelt thanks for your precious tender hearts.
     For now, it's an April kinda day.

Learning Curves (Feral Cat Meets Her Pyr)

    I recall every detail of Rosey's first (and only) litter of pups. Because it happened smack dab in the middle of the 2013 arctic blast, we (like a mother arguing with her teenage daughter) "debated" where the pups should be born. Me? I thought they should wind up under the dining room table for their first days so I could keep a close eye on them. Part of that was selfish I admit, but part of that was cautionary: given the size of both mama and litter, it is advised to keep an eye on the count as it is not uncommon for a mama Pyr to accidentally smother one in her sleep. Determined NOT to let that happen, I made one heck of a refrigerator box-puppy crib, but Rosey, being Rosey, said "Screw that" and commenced to having her puppies in the great outdoors in her favorite spot under the deck. (Only Rosey wasn't watching the weather channel, nor did she understand just how cold that "Polar Arctic Blast" could be.)
     At 32 degrees and falling when it started, Rosey hunkered down in her pick of places as I pulled out extension cords, blowers, heat bulbs, blankets and towels, and in my thermal romper and earmuffs spent the next 8 hours crouched along side her making sure every puppy got dried as quickly as possible. (Breaking water and freezing temps can make for instant pup-cicles if you're not careful.) By evening, with the help of neighbors and friends, we managed (in the 2 seconds Rosey got up to pee) to shift the puppies indoors; 2 days later, we shifted them to a make-shift nursery in the basement where they stayed for the next 8 weeks of their precious puppy lives.
     By week six, my farmer friend Thurman was chiding: "You're gonna spoil them dogs; they won't be worth a plug nickel if you don't get 'em out there with the goats. These dogs need to be getting used to the things they're gonna protect." Thurman is right about this, but of course, being Rosey's dogs they were extra smart pups to start with. Today I'm happy to report that no one got damaged by me keeping them indoors an extra couple of weeks. Today, 2 of the pups guard alpacas; 2 live on a horse farm in upstate New York; 1 guards a rescue shelter including dogs, cats and a goose with a broken leg and Rosebud and Hix, of course, do a masterful job keeping watch over our goats here along with their big-headed uncle, TJ.
     But an interesting thing happened throughout this ordeal.  Rosey, whose first year of life was spent with goats, patrols their parameter, but given all the time and energy spent indoors, her true guard is now more the house and everything residing therein and around, which means she now has new protectorates to consider.
     I'm proud to say, Rosey (the most self-actualized dog I have ever known) takes to these things quite well. She was unphased when Lilly, a rescue we fostered, shared her space for 2 weeks. Throughout Layla's ordeal, Rosey was sympathetic and mothering, lying next to the wounded pup as she healed from her surgery, sharing space, food, treats and (biggest share of all) her mama. (i.e. Rosey was not at all jealous, which as any dog lover knows, is always a risk.) And for the week we enjoyed the company of two 10-week old pups TJ sired, well, Rosey actually tried to nurse them despite the fact that she had been out of milk for 6 whole months.
     But now we have new critters. Our (so called) feral cats are now venturing forth, discovering new turf, appearing on porch decks....climbing big trees. It was bound to happen. One by one they must encounter Rosey, who basically needs to sniff 'em out and get used to the fact that they are here to stay.
     [Author's Note: when it comes to smaller critters like chickens or kittens, it IS best to raise a Pyr as a pup alongside the animals you wish them to protect, as their instinctive wiring is for goats, sheep and larger things. Rosebud's rambunctious reaction gave pause (paws) for concern a few weeks ago, but fortunately today she's back on her old turf and a bit preoccupied. Furthermore, if these cats have any remaining feral in them at all, which they do, I truly do not worry, after all God gave 'em tree-climbing gear for a reason, and that stuff works great for swatting big dog noses in addition to everything else.]
     As for Rosey, who was taught by Boo how to properly respect a cat...we're feeling good about things, despite this one scary moment when brave little Gracie met great big Rosey for the first time!

Up Next: Woodburning 101

   

Ahh...Nothing like the sound of chainsaws and
barking dogs to start your day . . .

     For the past 2 years (ever since the polar/artic blast) I have been contemplating a shift from propane heat to wood-burning alternatives. Let me tell you why.
     1) I have more access to wood than I do propane. (Actually, I love my propane people; but I don't love when the stuff gets rationed, which happened 2 years ago, which sent me on a search for alternative heat sources, lest it happen again.)
     2) I live in a rather drafty home. No. Let me restate that. I live in a VERY drafty home, what's more, the flow patterns for heat and air are funky, because it's a renovated church, meaning gaps in the windows leak air, settled floors leak air...Trust me. It's drafty, and a fortune to heat in the winter months.
     3) With every sustainable, alternative option I exercise, I feel a bit better about my life. Don't ask me why. I would not call myself a prepper. But it is increasingly my experience that the more I can simplify...the more I can entertain a "sustainable" alternative, the more I have to give to the things I love and the causes I care about. This alone makes the sustainable journey a fascinating one. (Plus, I love to learn, so there's that too.)

     The learning curve is now on overdrive, as I have now begun the search for wood-burning alternatives, only to find "There are many." What's more, everyone's situation is unique so what I share on my journey here may NOT be ideal for you. (I'm learning there are a lot of specific things to look into. I had no idea just how many variations there are on what clearly goes back to the dawn of time, which is humanoids warming their bodies by way of fire.)

     For starters, the tree in the photo had died (which makes me very sad, as it was a beautiful oak, but it got overtaken by poison oak, making it susceptible to a fungus, so there was that as well). For the past 2 years I have watched its slow decline, which was sad enough. But now, it serves to remind that everything has new life in it if you shift your perspective, so I reached out to my country-bumpkin pals who know how to do these things and now we have....firewood! (Nothing to inspire the search for wood-burning options like a wall of firewood, now neatly stacked and waiting for winter.)

     For reasons I do not know (I must've heard an ad) I had my sites set on an outdoor, wood-burning furnace. I had researched the components. Gone to visit a few. But when it got down to it, and I was told the thing had to be 25 feet away from my house AND any trees (I have a lot of trees), this began to look like the way I would NOT want to start a winter's day. So my search reverted to "indoor" units.
     For those who've not gone through this journey...welcome to mine. Indoor units are as varied as the individuals who seek them out, but the first order of business is "furnace or stove" (there is a difference. If you're like me and have been using the terms interchangeably, well...get ready to change.)
     Stoves--come in a vast range of adorable assortments, from cast iron square things to pot-bellied cute things. The sit in the middle of your home and they heat the area they are situated in to high heavens and if you opt for blowers and such, can be directional. (So far I'm thinking this is not ideal for me, but they are awfully cute.)
     Furnaces--can tie into your central heat and air options (if you are, like most people, living with such modern day conveniences) and can be routed to your duct-work, meaning you have an alternative (even if you choose to stick with propane when it's not being rationed). In other words, there are full blown furnaces for first time home-buyers who want to really start rugged...and there are component furnaces..."add ons" as some call them...that allow you the option of heating with wood or whatever else you had in mind. For me, (as of this writing) this is looking to be best.

     For those who have made this decision already, I welcome your thoughts and feedback. For those living with decisions they wish now they had not made, I welcome your insights as well, as I plan to document throughout this journey for the sake of others contemplating the same.

     Should be an interesting winter...I'm big on planning ahead. Stay tuned.

On Your Mark, Get Set... GOats!

     As the garden comes to a dwindle, (only sweet potatoes and a few pepper plants remain), our thoughts turn to fall and other projects in the wings...(and when I say wings, I mean that literally).
     Topping this list is equipping the barn and goat areas with cameras, after all, who doesn't love seeing goats jumping on things? If the internet is any indication, the world just can't get enough cute goats, be they jumping on spools or romping through garages wearing pajamas.
     With this in mind, I have decided mine should do their duty to upping the happiness factor everywhere, so get ready as we prep the site with Goat Cams and Go(at) Pros!

     (Note: we are not so certain Goat Drones will make the cut, however, as these are noisy little buggers, and first attempts to shoot drone footage found my goats hovering under a tree and my dogs barking at the sky. Clearly from their perspective, the drone strongly resembled a buzzard, and. . . well...we all know how that turned out.)

We're Changing Her Name to Houdini

     Under the subtitle: Milking It For All It's Worth, my darling Rosebud has become the world's greatest escape artist. While we repair the gate she tore down, and replace the leash she managed to snap in two, I offer you a glimpse of my latest attempts to keep her from making Boo's life a miserable hell. (Until yesterday, she did not grasp how spiral staircases worked. Suffice it to say, today, she figured this out.)

     To the center is Rosey who is thinking "I liked it better when it was just us, Mom" (to which I say, "Yes, Rosey, me too. Vacuuming three times a day was not exactly how I wanted to spend my fall.")
     Fortunately, we only have six more weeks to go until Rosebud will be preoccupied...
     So hang in there Rosey-Posey~ (I, like you, wish those puppies would get here already~ Something needs to calm this girl down!)

Fleas, Dogs and Collars: Part 3

   

     Though it was three months ago, the last days of Minsky's life I remember like yesterday. Painful goodbyes have a way of etching themselves deeply in both heart and cells and when it's your co-pilot, your baby, your best friend of 15 1/2 years...well, some things take longer to heal, and the mental reliving of the ordeal is not something I've been eager to embrace.
     That said, I choose to share her story here in the off chance it might somehow help someone else (and especially now that I have watched another baby of mine suffer from the toxins in a flea-killing ointment).
     I begin with this disclaimer: these are my observations. I did not have Minsky autopsied, though a flurry of google searches has shown me that I am not alone for having concerns.
     The product: Seresto Flea and Tick collar by Bayer.
     The tragedy: my beloved Minsky.
     The background is this:
     I first heard of Seresto collars a year and a half ago. With four huge outside dogs (one going back and forth daily), fleas go with the territory. But when I overheard a groomer swear by this collar, I immediately set out to find not one, but four, as the fur /hair combination of the Pyrenees breed, can make for a matted mess if you don't stay on top of these things.
     And I must say, I was totally impressed. The good news: they last for 8 months, so there's no monthly mess of drops and dips that do not cut it for dogs of this size romping in the great outdoors. The bad news: they're expensive as heck, and (little did I know at the time) they are controversial, and can even be deadly.
     Let the record reflect, my big dogs love their collars, as Rosebud, here will attest: (Note: this is the day she got her new one:http://karlensgarden.blogspot.com/2015/05/blog-post_4.html ... Not sure if they grasp the flea repelling concept or if they simply like feeling as if they belong, but as you can from their glee, it's a big day when we break out the new collars. I had to make special adjustments to get one to fit TJ as his head is so big, but with a little ingenuity, we managed.)

Hix and Rosebud

     This year, I did myself one better. Because these things are so costly, I went online to look for specials. ($70 at the vet; $50 online--It pays to shop around.) Given their success the year before, I decided this year to buy a small one for Minks as well (who weighed 18 lbs; they also make them for cats; though I did not purchase one for Boo.)
     One week prior to Minsky's passing I had taken her to the vet to check out a horrendous hacking cough that had worsened over the past few weeks. $125 worth of x-rays later and I was told her trachea was collapsing, which I attributed to the many meds that had extended her life thus far, (steroids and pain pills being amongst them). Per this examination, the doctors upped her steroids. We knew we were on borrowed time, and I in no way blame the collar entirely. But I am convinced it contributed. And here's why...
     Minka's last day on earth was pure hell for us both. Her cough had worsened and the increase in meds had her throwing up repeatedly, (roughly every 7 minutes at the end). After 22 rounds in 3 hours, I made the call every pet owner dreads, for there was nothing left in her to throw up anymore...Her little body was giving out.
     Keep in mind (for those who follow these things) I had an extra dog on my hands during this ordeal: Layla-- recovering from leg surgery, was back and forth from outside to in, as was Rosey. Given we were in peak flea season, and given Minka's expensive collar was fairly new, I popped in on Boo as a preventive measure. (For the record, Boo weighs 15 pounds...3 pounds less than Minka, but with twice the hair. Per the packaging, ingredients in the small dog collar were identical to that for grown cats, not that it mattered. We didn't get that far.)
     No sooner had I placed the collar on Boo, did I numbly begin going about my day, picking up Minka's bowl, her toys, her bedding...Then suddenly, I heard that God-forsaken sound, now forever etched in my memory--the sound I had heard incessantly over the past week from Minka...The sound I heard throughout her last hours, every seven minutes...There was no denying this sound.  Only this time, it was coming from Boo!  Boo had not had the collar on for one hour when he launched into the identical hacking sound of an irritated trachea.

     In an instant, I grabbed him and snapped the collar off. He ran for water. I ran for my laptop whereupon googling, I found a series of complaints about these collars, particularly on smaller animals. Symptoms ranged from hacking coughs to seizures, to yes, even deaths. Oddly enough, there's very little gray area here. People either love these collars or they hate them. (When you put this kind of money in a collar, I guess you're gonna have strong opinions.)
     As for me, I still keep them on the big dogs. Then again, Pyrs have an undercoat of fur beneath their top coat of hair --2 layers of protection between collar and neck, as opposed to Minka, whose summer cut left precious little fur around her precious little neck. (Boo's fur would've been more akin to the Pyrs by way of thickness, but it mattered not. The sound alone was enough for me. I cringed to hear the familiar hack. So for Boo, it's flea combs and herbal formulas from now on.)

     Again, I reiterate, Minks had several problems in her latter days. I in no way blame the collar entirely. But I am convinced it contributed. And I am sufficiently convinced it has done harm to other smaller breeds of dog, so if you're considering one, please do your homework.

     Meanwhile, I share Minka's memory once again...May her little life serve as a reminder to us all to cherish every moment of every day...Not a day goes by that I don't think of her with love and gratitude for the time we had. Here's to you Minka girl...I'm praying there are no fleas in heaven.

http://karlensgarden.blogspot.com/2015/06/love-of-all-time.html

   
   

Fleas: Part 2 -- Sammy

   

L-R: Hissy Missy (my Tortie'),  Sammy (Siamese) and Gracie (Gray and White)

     As anyone reading this blog is aware, I recently acquired 3 new family members about six weeks back: my feral cats. I'm going to use the term only once in this post, as it's become the running joke between the friend who delivered them to me that my cats are broken as there is nothing feral about them.(We can thank his girlfriend for holding them while little and blame me for thinking for 2 seconds I was gonna have a critter around these parts that I didn't at least try to tame.)

     In case you haven't met them, their names are Gracie (gray and white), Sammy (Siamese) and Hissy Missy (a brindle colored cat, also known as a "tortie"-- personality for which is unmistakeable.)

(i.e. In addition to their distinctive coloring, torties also have a reputation for unique personalities, sometimes referred to as “tortitude.”  They tend to be strong-willed, a bit hot-tempered, and they can be very possessive of their human.  Other words used to describe torties are fiercely independent, feisty and unpredictable.  They’re usually very talkative and make their presence and needs known with anything from a hiss to a meow to a strong purr. Author's Note: Hissy Missy has these traits in spades. I've never seen a cat hiss and purr simultaneously, but she does, which netted her her name...)

     But today's story is about Sammy...

     Given the fruit basket turnover of alpha energies and hormones (i.e. Rosebud's in her last week of a three week heat cycle...Thank GOD!) life around here has been more topsy turvy than usual. (i.e. Rosebud, though safe from being bred by a family member, has acclimated quite nicely to air conditioning and as a result, has learned (when put in the pen) how to jump out, so she's been in the house with Rosey and me for the past week. As a result, Boo has retreated upstairs, totally confused as to where this Rosey-clone came from; the new kitties (who have not met Boo, as their jobs were SUPPOSED to be keeping mice at bay) have been in the basement, where they are allowed access to the great outdoors in the day. (Although given the jungle gym of stored furnishings and ductwork, they are blissfully content to play indoors where it's cool.) But because they can go back and forth, from outdoor to in, they have contracted a nasty case of the"fleasles".

     Fleas, as every pet owner knows, are a nuisance to any fur bearing critter, and they are particularly bad here in the South. My dogs have flea collars (more on this in my next blog). As for Boo, he gets the occasional back-of-the-neck "spot on" formula, and we keep a flea comb handy, but given he's not intermingling with the babies in the basement, he's relatively safe.

     So with a gorgeous day to do it in, I set out to bomb the basement (for those unfamiliar, go to http://www.wikihow.com/Flea-Bomb-a-House; this is not for the faint of heart, but given the complexity of the situation, it was the only real choice) moving my trio of playful teenage kitties to the back deck, (which simultaneously turned my indoors into a life size pinball machine with Rosebud as the ball.) Suffice it to say it was not a quiet afternoon, though fortunately, the kitties, were un-phased by Rosebud. (I wish I could say the same about my furniture.) 

     Next up: treat the kitties.

     Running across a year-old tube of flea formula, I checked the label to confirm it could be used on kittens, but to be EXTRA cautious (fully knowing this might not rid me of all the fleas, but it was a start), I divvied the one tube among 4 cats (Boo, upstairs, got a tad; the three kittens got a tad; note the formula was to be used entirely on one full grown cat; again, I THOUGHT I was being safe.) Turns out...not so much.
      Coinciding with this event, was the fact that this was going to be the kitties first night in the great outdoors. I had cleaned, moved (even painted) the Igloo house that once sheltered Rosey's puppies their first night outdoors (If you aren't familiar, these are weather resistant dog houses shaped like an igloo, supposedly to keep animals from jumping on them, though my goats have mastered this to perfection)...In short, I was both excited and relieved to be finally shifting my growing kittens onto their intended turf. They could stay on the porch, huddle in their igloo, or climb down a tree if they wanted. It was, in fact, kitty paradise. Last step of the process: apply the flea formula (1 tube, divided by 4, with Boo getting half because he's HUGE, and the remaining 3 kitties getting a third of the other half, making that ....? Someone else can do the math.)

     The next morning (Sunday...another beautiful day), I go outside to check on the babies to find only one there to greet me. (Three guesses as to which one: yep. The tortie.) Hissy Missy is swishing and swaying and doing the tail-around-your-leg thing, hoping he's gonna get all three bowls of food I've toted out. The other two are nowhere to be found...though I could hear them.

     Gracie, was directly under the deck, poised to pounce, guestimating the leap between porch rafter and log pile. Sammy, on the other hand, had made his way back to the familiar basement door where he was hunkered down, crying and shaking uncontrollably.

     At first glance he appeared to be traumatized by something. I picked him up and held him close, as he continued to shake and purr simultaneously. "It's OK Sammy....It's OK...It's OK...I'm sorry I left you outside...Did something scare you? Who scared you?" (Rosebud had not been out without a leash, though clearly in the country, any number of animals prowl at night. I'm wondering "Maybe a possum?..But on closer inspection, there were no wound marks...nothing to indicate physical damage.)

     Placing him on the floor, I watched him stumble, then stagger, his little body spasming as he tried to walk. Fortunately, he did eat, though the water part seemed to confuse him. Suddenly it dawned on me: he wasn't  traumatized: he was toxified!

     I raced upstairs for my Dawn detergent and a clean towel to scrub whatever residual flea formula I could off his little blonde body, which did not resist (unusual for a cat). "Hang in there Sammy! Hang on bud...Mommy's SO Sorry.... I am SO sorry, Sammy, I'm SO SORRY..." (I'm crying and scrubbing...crying and scrubbing.)

     I guess it was subconscious. (I didn't google till after.) But something from all the animal rescue footage I've seen over the years must've kicked in (visions of the Valdez oil spill in particular). After 2 - 3 round of washing and rinsing (fleas flowing off the little guy like crazy) I patted him dry as I held him and rocked his little body, that twitch every so often out of sheer reflex. I went for a dropper and got a few rounds of goat's milk into his little brown mouth; then I bundled him up as I went to gather the other two to keep him company. 

     NEXT came the google search. And I searched. And I searched. And I searched. There were plenty of links on how to SPOT flea formula toxicity...Hotlines to call so folks could confirm your symptoms (which I didn't need; I knew what I was looking at). But sadly there was no real advice as to what to do about it after the fact. So I called my trusting vet friend, Dr. G, who, though now retired, cared for my every childhood pet from dogs to cats to hamsters and is the wisest man I know when it comes to caring for animals. While I could not find the packaging (I feared I had tossed it in trash I had already hauled; fortunately, I DID find it later) Dr. G already surmised what was happening, assuring me that if my little guy pulled through (and eating was a good sign) that the good news is, the damage would not be permanent.

     This story ends on a good note. (Thank you God.) If you ever encounter this situation, the good news is the effects are not permanent. What I feared would do irreversible damage to little Sammy's nervous system, fortunately proved unfounded. Today, Sammy is back to his bouncy, normal kitty self, playfully enjoying both outdoors and in with his fellow partners in crime.

     That said, today finds me on a mission to study the ingredients, not only in the toxic formulas I will no longer be using, but in the alternatives, which, if I can grow it, I'll be making myself. 

     (And if I do...I'll let you know.)

     

A Word About Fleas, Flea Collars and Flea Treatments (1 of 3 in a series)

     Lest you think it's all lollypops and roses living with all these adorable faces, let me take a moment to tackle one very serious, could be fatal topic. One cannot live with outside critters without encountering the bloodsucking parasite otherwise known as: the flea.  Everybody I know has his/her own approach to the topic. (Farmers in particular, but even my city-dwelling friends seek answers.) Some swear by certain flea dips. Others swear by certain collars (as I once did). I even have one neighbor who Seven Dusts his dog. (Not uncommon in the country though I personally don't recommend it...Then again, I don't recommend anything I am about to tell you here...) I simply feel it a topic worthy of a blog, that's how significant it is to me, and to those who (like me)  love so deeply it hurts.
     For starters, fleas are not only a nuisance, they can be downright deadly. While spending an inordinate amount of time researching the subject this weekend, I ran across this -- (as if I weren't scared enough already).
Fleas are notorious for having carried the bubonic plague that wiped out a substantial portion of Europe's population during the Middle Ages. Although we like to think that the plague is ancient history, the truth is that fleas, particularly in the southwestern United States, still carry the bacteria that causes it. Cats are as susceptible to this disease as humans, and if not treated, it can be fatal.
     I share this bit of news to say, fleas are serious business and left untreated, can be deadly. But what can also be deadly are the products we use to treat fleas...a subject I now feel led to write about. As a journalist, I can only pray you know how much I weigh these sorts of things before I write, particularly as it pertains to name brands and incidents (which I feel led to share here)...More particularly yet, as it pertains to babies I've known and loved.  That said, owing to two heartbreaking incidents I have lived all too recently, I feel this is something I need not gloss over with fun, furry, happy faces, but something I should offer up as I share my due diligence. Sadly, some of the sweet faces I have posted,  didn't make it...Those that did, I feel would want me to share this information  for the pain they endured.
     One such event happened just this weekend and involved one of my newly acquired "feral" cats; the other involved my beloved Minka.
     As I debate the pictures...I struggle with a starting point...
     But the story, journalistically
     I feel, I must share. . .
   

Unmet Expectations

     There is nothing more disappointing than watching something you've been working on for weeks, go up in smoke....Nothing more disappointing than anticipating... looking forward to something you've poured heart and soul into, going flat out bust. (Wait. I take that back. There is something more disappointing. It's when you've invested that time and energy into someONE. There is nothing more disappointing than when someone you thought you could count on, lets you down.)
     Sure, it happens. You see it in business all the time. But when your business and your personal go hand in hand...when your partners are like family, let's just say it packs an extra punch to the gut.
     Here of late I've seen a lot of board rooms; I've been involved more meetings than usual. The business side of my world (i.e. the part that pays my bills) is suddenly filled with entrepreneurial types taking (what appears to be) a sudden interest in the sorts of things I've been doing and writing about for the past 2 -3 years, with my garden, critters and creations. Granted, I love this farm life, and I plan to stay. But it turns out, what I embraced as a new chapter, born of a gnawing, internal desire to step back, hole up, figure out my life, (while documenting the journey) others see as trend-worthy, marketable...i.e. the future.
     While flattered that business types see potential in what they call "sustainable living' to me it's personal. So it stands to reason I'm going to weigh things with a little more heart despite what business numbers and market trends might suggest, (though don't get me wrong, I take these things seriously too).
     It comes as no surprise to me, this growing interest in sustainable living. Call it the environmental right thing, call it health-driven or call it common sense, somewhere deep inside seems others too, are sensing we can't keep up the facade without repercussion. I have been careful in wording these blogs not to lean into doomsday scenarios or "prepper" theories, for in truth, that is not what brought me to this table. But I will say I hear from these folks...often. And you'd be surprised to find how very everyday and ordinary they are. (They just have food and water stored alongside their generators, and  like me, want to know how to grow and store more should the situation call for it.)
     It doesn't take a rocket scientist to spot that the US economy is not that stable; and despite our thinking that what's happening in Greece is their problem, it is not. It is a global problem, and one that governments can't keep bailing out without it coming from somewhere. And while investor types come at this self-sustaining wave with impressive research to back it, what I have is a gut feel, based on paying attention to one life (namely my own)--taking note as I go.
     My market research consists of increases in emails from people I barely know wanting to know how much land it takes. I'm noticing more hits on FB when it comes to certain topics...The number of folks reaching out personally, asking questions about growing their own or wanting to come visit and experience first hand, has started to take up larger and larger portions of my working day, so much so, that we are now making plans to walk you through things via video blog next go round.
     As a matter of spiritual philosophy, I'm a big believer that if you seek, you will find...if you knock, doors will open. (I'm also a big believer that when one door closes, a better one awaits, especially when what you've been asking is to be protected from those who might be there for the wrong reasons. I'm big on asking for protection.) It is also my belief that God protects those who seek to make use of the talents they've been given, provided they're doing it for good and not just selfish gain. And it's been my experience that the sooner I can forgive, the sooner my energy can return to its normal creative flow. (As it turns out, the same energy it takes to process disappointment, is the same energy you need to create new solutions or entirely new projects all together.)
     It was not for thinking of doomsday scenarios that led me to ask "What matters most in my life?" It was a spiritual search that led me to question, "If I am going to invest my time and energy into something for good, what will it be and who am I best working with to make it happen?" for it is also my belief that we are only as good, productive, successful (pick your adjective) as those we surround ourselves with, and for me, trustworthiness tops that list. I want to surround myself with people who share my vision for helping others...people who want the best and highest good not just for themselves, but for those around them, and for others who can benefit in the grander scheme of things.
     You can plan till the cows come home for what you'd do in the event of a crisis. But meanwhile life is lived in the day to day, and fortunately, the day to day gives us ample opportunity to see things for what they are. Any soldier will tell you the buddy who winds up with you in your foxhole is as important as the foxhole plan itself. And to my way of thinking, it's good to test this mettle early, even in the small stuff...long before the bigger plan is called for.
   

Rosebud and Cotton, Sittin' in a Tree . . .

     Parental discretion is advised. (Not to worry; this is not a graphic video...This is the happy aftermath when Cotton's mom called to share the happy news of two dogs, that, 3 days prior, we had to separate...Ah the difference a few days can make. When it comes to breeding dogs, it's everything...Here's how it works...)

     For those unfamiliar with the breeding habits of large dogs, it boils down to this: 

     You have 7 days warning. There are tell-tale (tail) signs, but mostly you know it's time when your boys start fighting again and your girl stays tail-tucked under a rock. (As for this farm, I'm sad to note that for all the progress with Hix in the alpha-dominance training, all the name-stating, bowl-setting exercises go pretty much out the window when it gets down to real tests like who's gonna get the girl, even if the girl IS your sister, or your niece as the case may be.)
      Bottom line; dogs don't care. Nature is nature and for the record, TJ is still alpha supreme in these parts. (Between that buzzard, the possum and now TJ once again, poor Hix's muzzle is starting to resemble Mike Tyson's face.)

     Second 7-day window IS your window. Tail-tucked goes to tail-strut. That said, you can have a girl who simply will not breed, which is what I feared we might have in Rosebud, ah but just about time we were about to call it quits...

     We have contact!

     Turns out Rosebud and Cotton DO like each other! Very much! (Oh the comforts of modern day cell technology! Nothing like seeing the happy faces of your kids off at at camp...Doesn't this just warm the heart?)

     Waiting out the final 7 days is the patience test of all patience tests. Having brought Rosebud home and reintroduced her to her tribe, I became concerned that someone might tear down a gate or jump a fence to get to her. In this period, your girl is once again, totally uninterested in the males around her, but that doesn't mean they aren't interested in her (as is every other male dog in the neighborhood).

     Bottom line, you start counting. While women take 9 months, girl dogs take nine weeks, which means Rosebud's babies should be up and playing by Thanksgiving, and ready for new homes by Christmas, good Lord willing. 

     For those who have reached out over the course of this year inquiring about Pyrs to protect your goats and / or your spring chicks, this Rose-bud (may be)  for you. As I have shared in prior blogs, it is my habit to allow each girl one breeding before spaying to keep Rosey's line going. At present three of Rosebud's pups are spoken for. For more information, you can contact me direct at karlenevins@gmail.com.

No ER This August!

     True to form, Augusts find me slammed more than any other month of the year (including December) thanks to this farm and garden thing, so much so that when I stopped to think back, I came to realize the last 3 landed me in the ER for one reason or another. First year, it was a brown recluse bite; second year, I judged a pie contest at the county fair totally forgetting that in my 20s I battled Crohn's. (Let's just say I can no longer brag on a 20-year "sympton free" run). Third year found me flat out tired. (Turns out I was anemic. Not sure whose blood they gave me, but I was sure happy to get it.)
     While clearly each of these are separate scenarios, they do share one common denominator and that is the guilt I feel when I can't pick it all, pickle it all, freeze it all or even find homes for it all once the harvest comes in. Given this inevitability (i.e. that what you plant in the spring, WILL show up in the fall) the combination of trying (and failing), coupled with the sheer, raw guilt of seeing a tomato rot on the vine or an okra grow 12 " long because you skipped a day of picking...well guess what? Turns out stressing over these things can do you in ...even weaken an immune system or else it can leave you so exhausted you forget to shake the jeans you left lying on the bathroom floor and a spider bites you!

     For that reason, I entered this year with a new mantra: No ER in August! (Actually, I didn't come up with it. My workers did, but I'm on board with it...Almost printed up bumper stickers.) This year I decided to plan ahead. First, we added a new freezer. (I now have 3.) And I blocked off time to just BE with the corn and the okra and the . . . (whatever came up today that needs tending to before it rots). What's more, (and this was even more important)  I forgave myself when the kitchen looked like a bomb went of in it -- for two weeks. (Turns out those who dropped by during this period didn't mind a bit; amazing how forgiving your friends can be when you send 'em packing with a basket of veggies!)

     Likewise, starting late last month, I made it a point to never leave the house without a car full of whatever came up that day (which means if you're my bank teller, my oil changer, my postal person, or the person who parks beside me in the parking lot, Congratulations! You've just won some okra!... or "Lucky you-- it's Tomato Tuesday!" (You should've seen the expression on Watermelon Wednesday.)
     In short it occurred to me that what made August so difficult was the fact that while most farmers  grow a garden just to GET to this month, I grew mine for other reasons (i.e. to learn how to do it, to spend time with Thurman or Miss Duff hearing stories of how their parents did it, to take pretty pictures for the next cookbook, etc.). In other words, the veggies were an afterthought (so much so that trying to make up for having not made them a "fore thought" found me scrambling...and worse--stressing.)
     If a garden is about anything, it's about life, and if life is about anything, it's about enjoying...savoring...BEing fully present for it.  That's why this August, we took a different tact. Having learned long ago that definition of insanity (doing the same thing over and over and hoping for a different outcome) we decided that in order to enjoy things like last month's blue moon or this month's gorgeous sunsets and meteor showers, we'd be wise to change our plan...Take time to savor each elemental part of the process, just as I had taken time to savor the earlier parts that I love so much (like planting, and tilling, and yes, even weeding...i.e. the process).
     For in the end,  let's face it -- it's ALL about the process. If you miss the joy in that, you've missed the point entirely. (My experience anyway...So far, so good. Of course, we've still got half a month to go, so knock wood and say a prayer!)

Given the amount of this stuff I've given away,
I've decided to call it Okra- Win-Free!

   
   

Playing Possum

     Sometimes you just gotta marvel at God's sense of humor, if not Nature's sense of wonder and awe There is nothing more fascinating than that "so-ugly-they're-cute" marsupial, the possum. (And no, we're not talking George Jones).
     To be technical, they're called opossums, and as anyone in the country knows, they have the unique defense mechanism of playing dead in order to have their predator (in this case, Rosey) leave them alone. (Only Rosey cannot understand it when her prey starts to slowly crawl away. It would be like watching your steak walk off your plate...Poor Rosey. Poor Possum.)
     One wiki search and you'll find that playing dead isn't the only trick little dude is capable of. For starters, it turns out this coma-like state he goes into when in extreme fear is totally involuntary and that by going into this state, the predator after it, looses all interest in eating it. But in case that's not enough, a really startled possum drool starts to form drool, which appears as bubbles blowing out its nose, leaving predators like Rosey thinking it's sick (another unappetizing plus for Mr. O).
     Just as involuntary, is the teeth-showing snarl that leaves humans thinking the little guys are fierce. (And while I'm told they are not, no one in her right mind would reach down to pet one in this posture.) But finally, as if Mother Nature had not used all her tricks on this otherwise defenseless little creature, as a final message of "back away dude" a REALLY scared opossum will emit a green stench of a back-side fluid, just for good measure. (They do not spray like skunks, but I'm told it can smell just as bad. Fortunately, we didn't get that far with ours.)
     Suffice it to say when I heard all the commotion, and my flashlight revealed what was going on, it was easy enough to get Rosey inside. (Turns out Rosey, my cookie-monstor Pyr, will take "Cookie? Cookie?"any day over apparently dead, stinking possum.)
     Once left to his own devices, a few kibbles and a little humming, the guy was up and at 'em, scurrying quietly into the dark of night.

In the Words of Scooby-Doo...

   

                    "Rut Row!"
      So much for all the dog whispering. . .
      No sooner do I brag on my boys... no sooner are TJ and Hix finally getting along, does all chaos break loose!
     Turns out no matter whose bowl you put down first, it only takes one female going into heat to let know who's really in charge. (FYI, TJs back in the driver's seat and RoseBUD's on her way to visit a friend...)
      Stay tuned.
                          Film at 11.
                                             (#neverboring)
   

Good Boy, Hix, Good Boy! (Cracking the Alpha Code)

   

Hix, My Ever-Growin' Boy

     While therapy for me to process out loud various challenges that go along with life on the farm, I am deeply moved when people write or post comments about my critters. Be they prayers or some tidbit of advice I am grateful for the information and I marvel at the time people will take to show they care.

TJ Meets Hiccapup for the Very First Time

     Several weeks ago I wrote about dominance challenges between my 2 male Pyrs, TJ and Hiccapup (a.k.a."Hix"--the pup that keeps on growing). At issue: TJ (brother to Rosey) has been my established alpha. Hix (son of Rosey, brother to Rosebud) came into TJs world as an 8 week old puppy, and as such, simply became part of TJs charge. (Since he was the size of a goat, TJ viewed him as such, but what happens when the thing you are protecting shoots past you in growth? Food fights for starters...and now dominance issues that has Hix vying for alpha rights.)
     Having decided to love the big guy through it (a human if not spiritual approach to what most will tell you is a primal issue dating back to the dawn of time), my former radio colleague and fellow dog-lover Lee Swain reached out to offer this keen insight:
       Your dogs will NOT obey you BECAUSE you actively give them love all the time ....they will obey because they recognize you as the natural supreme Alpha (via food, etc) and they will will respect your authority from your CONSISTENTCY of commands, play, love, treat and food giving ....... dogs acclimated to human co-existence still respond to the primal instincts of pack order ....ie who eats first in a feral wolf pack .... the alpha male and female ..... and as regards elective neutering, the younger male wolves are "encouraged" to leave the pack when they are mature enough to challenge the alpha's breeding rights
      (One can see right away why Lee was such a good talk show host.)
      I still maintain my one-on-one, eyeball-to-eyeball, heart-to-heart time with Hix is an investment worthy of cultivating as it reinforces, 1) he has a place in this family and will not be abandoned over what I perceive as bad behavior and 2) around here, we choose love reinforcements over fear. That said, Lee makes a valid point that, much as they are my babies, their wiring is that of dogs. Furthermore I agree that left to nature, Hix, by now, would have left the family pack rather than give up his shot at alpha because TJ got there first (something he can't do while domesticated as he's fenced in).

Brekfuss: Most Important
Meal of the Day (We take it
very seriously around here. )

     Lee went on to suggest that given I'm in charge of the food around here (minus the occasional bird or a possum) the order in which I call the dogs each morning, and the order in which I place their bowls sends a powerful message as to alpha reinforcements, something I had not thought about, but something I was eager to try. (And I must say, it is making a difference --3 days and no fights. We shall continue this practice.)
     Until these past few, the "brekfuss" ritual consisted of Rosey bolting out with me, eager to get in the pen with the others, as this is where brekfuss is served! (For the sake of consistency and to be able to get her in the pen for when I need her there, Rosey must eat with all the others. Fortunately, she wants to.)
     But based on this newfound info, what I failed to notice, is that it's neither Hix nor TJ who is alpha, but ROSEY...something "I" have affected owing to the fact that Rosey's goat to guard is me.
     As she enters the pen, everyone comes to greet her.  Hix and Rosebud are happy to see their mom; TJ comes out to inspect his sister. They romp, they run, they wait for me to put bowls down --bowls Rosey has had the honor of watching me prepare, again, I suppose, reinforcing (in her at least) just how alpha she really is.
      Until now, I simply placed the bowls several yards apart, as to allow any dog the bowl of his/her choice...As far as who went first, the order has always been Rosey first, then Hix or Rosebud... (Sometimes Hix wanders to see if someone else got more in their bowl, or goes to turn one over, either way losing time to Rosebud who hunkers down pretty early once she finds a bowl to call her own.) Last but not least comes TJ. (As a matter of practice, TJ normally doesn't start eating until he sees EVERYONE eating, including the goats; he stands beside his bowl and watches. Whether this makes him alpha or tenderhearted, it's what he does.)
     So by way of the alpha message, what has happened is, I have clearly messed with the pack.
     For starters, TJ took over Rosey's role when the pups came into the pen. Alpha, maybe. But mostly TJ is maternal. He took Rosey's role, after Rosey's pups were weaned and Rosey resumed her role back with me. TJ does not as a rule eat first, but now, something about Hix annoys him (as Hix is no longer WANTING TJ's protection, but wanting to be in charge himself. Only Hix isn't Tj. TJ's got more feminine in him. He's a nurturer. Hix, is a fighter and I think it's that fighting energy that's making TJ wonder if he shouldn't be more aggressive as well...So recently, he's started showing his teeth. (As a side note, I have to smile. TJ LOVES stuff toys. Hix, loves bones. At any given time, you'll see TJ toting his teddy bear over to his favorite shade tree; you'll see Hix hauling his bowls into the woods. They are VERY different dogs; both male; both protectors, but in very different ways. (You'll note it's TJ who follows the babies around, nudging them to their mothers. Meanwhile it's HIX who growls ferociously when those babies are first born making sure nothing gets anywhere near until their mother has her baby totally cleaned of afterbirth --a scent that draws predators like nothing else).
     So I tried a new theory (and so far it's working). If I'm the main alpha, and Rosey's second (after all, I am her primary focus), how do I acknowledge who's next? (For when Rosey and I are inside, this is the pecking order that rules the great outdoors.)

TJ and Hix, Sharin' the Shade
(any idea how happy this makes me?)

     Before when stepping into the pen to feed everyone, I called them by name as they showed up. Some mornings Rosebud might come out first; others might find TJ already in his shady spot. It never occurred to me that whose name I speak first sends a signal to THEM. This time, I called for Hix. I did not place any bowls until Hix was in the mix and if Hix showed up first, I gave him his first. (He's still a little bumfuzzled right now...Kinda like winning the lottery and not totally believing it. He's got this "What just happened here?" look about him, as there's nothing to fight over since I said it was so.)
      First morning, Rosey bolted to her food as I tried to give Hix his bowl even BEFORE Rosey. (Didn't work, but I tried.) What DID work was I finally figured out the alpha isn't the boys, it's Rosey.
      Day 2, I spoke to Hix. (Rosey gets talked to in the kitchen...She's so focused on what's in the bowl by the time we get to the pen, she doesn't need to hear her name anymore. As I've always said, Rosey's a dog most comfortable in her own fur.) While preparing to set the bowls down, I intentionally (i.e while making eye contact and speaking his name repeatedly, which dogs love) placed Hix's bowl down at precisely the same time I set Rosey's down as if to say "You two are alphas together--Rosey outside of this fence; Hix inside." Again, Hix looked a bit perplexed, but he was plenty pleased.

TJ:Keeper of the Sock-Monkey

     Question became, what about TJ?
     Curiously, because TJ is such a sweetie (to be so big and scary when he snarls) all it took for TJ was for me (after Hix was eating) to take his food to him (not make him come to me) ...Place it on the ground and (yes, with TJ I can do this) I pet him while he eats. Given a choice, TJs a softie. He's rather have my undivided attention (even if it means Hix gets to eat first) than fight for alpha.  In short, everybody wins.
     Rosebud (who is wired a lot like her mom, but with even more of an independent streak) is focused on her own bowl. Like her mother, she doesn't need all this coddling. She's the beta of the bunch (or the delta...or whatever the baby of the family is called in dog kingdom). The only time I've ever seen Rosebud come unglued was when Layla was here as oddly enough, Layla was a threat to her "lowest pup on the totem pole" position and she didn't like it one bit.

Rosebud: My Go-Along, Get-Along Dog
(except when it comes to Layla)

     But now that Layla's in a paradise of her own, Rosebud is happy in last place (in pecking order only). Rosey's focused on her food. TJ gets my undivided attention until he's done eating, by which time Hix is toting his bowl to the woods and everyone's back to doing their favorite thing.
     Long way of getting here, but this is the update. As of now at least, we're cracking the alpha code one day at a time.