Thurman

            Finding a wholesale chow our goats might like, Thurman brought me two bags this morning to see if my pygmies might eat it too. (Cause that’s the kinda farmer/neighbor Thurman is…)

            Southern gentleman through and through, Thurman is my gardening mentor, my almanac tutor and (without a doubt) this farm girl’s best friend…

            He wouldn’t give you a plug nickel for high priced vet bills or me doing google searches… Nope. Wisdom like his comes from fathers, grandfathers, great-grandfathers (i.e. generations past) along with life experiences lived by the man himself.

            I first met Thurman thanks to a mutual neighbor (who happened to be his rabbit-hunting buddy). I had mentioned to said friend that I wanted to grow a garden. Next thing I know, I came home one evening to find the front third of my yard plowed up and ready to go…(whathefrig?)

            Next morning I awoke to a knock on my door…(I kid you not. If you WORKED for central casting, this dude would’ve won you a promotion. You find me someone who looks more like a Thurman than Thurman, and I’ll find you both an agent. This all to say: Thurman is the real deal.)

“I heerd you wanted a garden.” (I’m meeting this angel of a neighbor for the first time. Southern to the Core is he.)

“Figure you meant it,” he continued. “Gotta turn your soil before the frost.” (At this point Thurman is now my new best friend.)         

Thus began my life’s 3^rd chapter…(And my life long love affair with those who’ve done it for us….)

Ladies and gentlemen…You’ve met Rosey. You’ve met TJ. You’ve met pups and you’ve met goats. But I guaran-dang-tee you, you’ve never met Thurman until now.

In ways I so don’t even know…I say (out of habit), “Stay tuned…”

On Feeling Powerless

They say God never gives us more than we can handle, but I think God’s got me confused with somebody else.

            No sooner do I get the first round of preliminary results in on KitKat, am I planning a second drive to the autopsy lab today, with twin baby goats, born overnight to my second largest mama, Katie.

            Katie and KitKat (along with one baby each) came from a man who buys goats each spring to clear off his land, then sells them each fall. They never eat chow. They never have names. They live in nature and do what goats do. Like most people who sell goats, once ready to sell, he takes them to auction to be sold for slaughter. It’s a business. Like cows. Like pigs. I don’t judge it. I just don’t eat goats.  I’d been looking for nannies while growing my herd. It seemed a win-win to buy from him and spare their lives.

            His goats were different. Yes, they were pygmies, but the 2 mamas (KitKat and Katie) were quite a bit larger than my original herd of 8; what’s more, my own had been “coddled” as my farmer friend puts it. They eat twice a day in addition of having a field to graze in (or hay in the winter). They have a gingerbread house with heaters and spools to jump on and most important, they all have names. (Naming things is where I’m told I’m screwing up. Folks who raise goats for a living do not name them. Guess I’m just not like the other folks.)

            That said, I was determined not to name these. I had a couple of billies (ie boys) born to mamas of my own this past year. Too many of these in a herd and you can run into trouble, as you don’t want brothers mating sisters and papa’s mating daughters. (We will spare all the Tennessee references here. This is a sad day.) My plan was to find mates for my billies and sell them in pairs or groups of three to folks who are likewise wanting a few pygmy goats around. (They do make wonderful pets.)

            My day started with a call to the autopsy lab to get the results on KitKat. No disease; no parasitic problem; no bruising or trauma. The only thing the vet said looked wrong was she was very, very thin. Of course she’d had miscarried 10 days before, plus three days had passed before I got her to the lab -her preservation, helped by the weather. Still, I figure autopsy people know what they are looking for. She hadn’t looked thin to me. If anything, I'm bad to overfeed my critters. That she might’ve needed more bothered me greatly. She DID have a healthy appetite, right up to the end…All I knew was after her miscarriage, she tested anemic and her legs had weakened to the point that for her last 4 days she was unable to stand up at all. (But still she ate. As a matter of fact, she died with her head in a bowl of food. I took small comfort knowing she left this world doing what she loved most.)

            I told the vet of Katie…her counterpart in the group that came from the man who used them for land clearing. Katie was likewise as large, likewise as pregnant. If she too, miscarried, I was going to be suspicious. But if her goats were strong, well KitKat’s was an isolated case.

            Today we have our answer. The good news is Katie gave birth to two picture perfect twin girls…More precious goats you will never see…The bad news: they did not survive the cold of last night. She had had them outside, not inside the shed where the heat was.

            As harsh as the cold nights have been, yesterday was misleading, as the sun brought a welcome respite. My entire herd spent their day outside sunning and grazing on hay. At any given point I looked to see several goats grazing in the yard, while others were reclined and relaxed and chewing their cuds. Katie was in this mix, looking happy and content. She was right on time for her evening feeding; nothing looked amiss. Must’ve been just after that, when she opted to have them outside the shed and not in it. (Rosey too, wanted outdoors, not enclosed come birthing time. Seems temps don’t matter when nature calls.)

            But they matter to a baby …coming out in a sack of water. Katie had managed to clean them, so they may have survived a little while. They look the way baby goats are supposed to look a few hours after clean up. This morning after eating a rather large meal, Katie led me to one baby. In time, Rosey brought me the other.

            I am torn to pieces as I write. Full of guilt…Full of sadness. I had spoken with a farmer friend last night whose nanny had twins the night before just fine, no heater, no nothing. But his boy next door lost two. “It’s just how it goes with farm animals” he said. I’m sure this is true, but it doesn’t make it any easier to accept.

            I was talking with a friend in recovery recently about how truly we are all powerless. It’s the human in me to want to say “I could’ve controlled it; I should’ve fixed it.” My mind is certainly doing a number on my heart this morning, after all I could’ve gotten up round the clock. I could’ve kept a closer eye.  Every fiber of the human in me says I should’ve done something different.

            But anymore, I’m not feeling so in charge. What’s worse, I’m not sure what the right approach is for me. On the one hand, I love til it hurts and a part of me likes that about me. On the other, I see where those farmers who don’t name their babies and who, like any good business person learns to “not fall in love with the merchandise” might be better suited for this profession.

            Part of me prays for a thicker skin. (You’d think I’d developed one from all those years in talk radio, but I guess it softened back once I got away from the anger.) But being sensitive to innocent critters –for better or worse--is a part of who I am. Question is: Am I kidding myself to think my nature has what it takes to do this for a living?

All I can say is I’m glad the vote is not today.

           

City Dog/Country Dog: A "Tail" of Two Lifestyles

City Dog/Country Dog

A ‘Tail’ of Two Lifestyles

Yesterday was a city day, which means I get the critters fed, give Rosey an extra dose of outside time while lining up meetings and loading up Jeep. City days mean I cram every city task I can into one day so as to make the most of my time, energy and gas.

As mentioned in an earlier blog, everybody around here has a job:

            --TJ’s (my male Pyrenees) protects the goats

            --Rosey (my female Pyrenees) protects house and pups

            --Goats (all 17 Pygmies) trim grass and trees while providing fertilizer for the garden (not to  mention they make me laugh)

            --Boo (my ragdoll, snooty cat) allegedly catches mice, but mostly serves as a sound machine to help me sleep

            --Minsky’s job… is to just be cute. (She’s my rescued Lhasa poo who turns 14 this year.) This also means she goes with me most everywhere. You’ve seen that bumper sticker: God is my co-pilot? Well, “dog” is mine.

            Minks has the city dog drill down pat. She parks it at the door about the second time I load the Jeep, because while it doesn’t happen often, there is nothing worse to Minsky than being left behind with the cat. (It makes her feel like an animal and she is not an animal.) Being the sophisticated traveler she is, Minsky can shift from country dog to city dog in zero to sixty. The transformation usually takes place about the time we cross the Davidson county line.

            If our outer days reflect our inner lives, well, I guess I’m schizophrenic. Morning was classic farm life: feed critters, clean buckets, love on babies, clean up puppy poop, etc. Once in the city my mind shifts its focus to artist interviews, computer training, planning sessions and all things running a company. My evening was spent chairing a board meeting for a non-profit whose future strategic plan we deliberated at length. And then it ends by coming home to the babies I love, repeating the morning routine all over again before going to bed.

But it was between two city stops, where the vast difference in lifestyles really hit home, thanks to my critters.

            For anyone who has a little house dog, you are most likely familiar with that cute little circle scoot they do, letting you know it’s time to get “squeezed”. (For those unfamiliar, smaller dogs have anal glands that must be “expressed” every so often, and while I’m told you do it yourself, I leave this task to the pros.)

 Between stops I had just enough time to run Minsky by her vet in the city for said procedure (which usually takes about 10  minutes). While there, I asked if they’d likewise give her a face trim as her eyes were getting lost in the fur. The cheerful clerk said sure asking if I’d like her nails trimmed as well, and I figured “what the heck”. Leaving her in their capable hands, I dashed out to squeeze in one more errand, only to come back to a $67.00 bill. “What the heck?”  Well, the squeeze, it appears, has gone up. That little nail thing was an additional $20. In short, prices have changed since I last went to this vet. (And suffice it to say this WAS my last visit to this vet.)

            I left a little perplexed, having no option but to pay, though I did feel scammed, after all, I pay less than that to groom the dog’s full body, so the rate to me was entirely out of whack.

            But with Minks back in her co-pilot seat, eyes now visible and nails looking, well, pretty much the same as they did before, we headed off to Ellington Agricultural Center, where I would encounter another veterinary set up, whose protocols were a 180 opposite of the place I’d just left.

            Kord Diagnostic Labs, for those unfamiliar, provides free autopsies to vets and farmers raising livestock in Tennessee. They are a state-funded division of the Department of Agriculture and may I just say, the services they provide are invaluable. After filling out the paperwork and speaking at length with a vet about events leading up to KitKat’s untimely death, I was utterly amazed at the amount of focus and concern (not to mention sympathy) they gave to the passing of a lone pygmy goat. They came for her body and told me someone would call within the next couple of days while sending a full report to my vet. By the time I made it home, they had already left a message.

I cannot begin to imagine what an autopsy would’ve cost me at Minsky’s city vet, (though it does make me wonder if they use Kord for these things, and if so, if they mark things up).  For more information, go to http://www.tn.gov/agriculture/regulatory/kord.shtml) 

The World to Come

           

      When I took on the self-induced commitment of a daily blog, some questioned my sanity, after all, my life was pretty full to start and that was before adding “learn to farm” to the mix.

Fortunately, I wake around 4 am, which works for blogging, as I’m already in reflection mode anyway.

            This morning I slept til 8, as I didn’t get to bed til 2. Yesterday was a long one, culminating with my standard Monday evening commitment (in the winter months) of working with the homeless via Room in the Inn. Last night was particularly busy, given the dramatic temperature drop, and by the time I got back home, I got to do more of the same reinforcing goats and dogs with extra heat lamps, electric water buckets and the like, so it was rather late when I hit the hay myself.

            I was also late awakening, because I was having a dream about my high school classmates and a reunion (which we aren’t due to have for a few years). My class (Friendship Christian School) was small and particularly close given the newness of the school. We’ve now gone our separate ways, though I think we all recognize our bond as something special. This was the essence of my dream.

            In my dream, we were in a different city. The reunion had ended, but none of us wanted to leave. One of our classmates (the one who happens to run a feed store in real life-- know who you are) had taken charge to see that we were able to stay (wherever we were) and had thought ahead securing food and shelter for us all. (We were not in a bunker, mind you. We were in a modern city, and the food he had was lasagna, not raw farm veggies, but he had a lot of it. I view these things symbolically.)

            We were pondering life, talking about the deeper stuff, just wanting to “be” in this place of reflection, I was mindful it would not have been possible had someone not thought ahead for us. (I also recall the cable being out, which is probably because I fell asleep reading a book by Ruth Montgomery saying that we’re facing a global shift and when it happens, the way we communicate will change, but that comes later.)

            Much as I have on my agenda for the day, I had to stop and write it all down, as I know dreams this vivid are begging for my attention.

            More than any specific earth warning, my takeaway interpretation is, again, the meek are gonna inherit this thing. The farmers, the thoughtful ones…the ones who act, not out of fear, but out of love to see that their fellow human beings are surviving will be our leaders.

            By no means was my reason for launching this blog done with Chicken Little in mind.  My honest intention for starting this thing is to share what I’m learning by asking every stupid question in the book of farmers and those doing it now. Did I subconsciously think it wouldn’t hurt to know how to live off the land should a catastrophe occur? Sure. Who doesn’t? But that was not my focus…That said…an odd pattern is developing here. . .

Today marks day 7…one full week I’ve been at this blog thing. Granted, while January is hardly planting season for a garden, it IS planning season. Yet I cannot tell you how many responses from just FB friends alone are asking if I’m planning for end times.  (Sorry, I‘ve yet to figure out the “comments” button  on the blog itself, so if you’ve responded, sit tight. If you can’t respond…well, we’re working on that.)

            My mother for instance, (notorious for forwarding cute animal pictures, and barely able to find my blog) forwards a statistical kinda email about army rations being the number one stockpile-able item these days.

            In casual conversation, a friend shares he keeps water and same said rations under his staircase and has emergency plans for his mother and 100 year old grandmother, which they talk about on a regular basis.

            But when (totally unrelated to the blog) I was introduced to a rather influential business man who shared with me that he had known Ruth Montgomery personally, reminding me of her predictions of a global shift, I dug out the book he was referencing and gave it a re-read.

            Ruth Montgomery, for those who are not familiar, was a highly read political columnist in the 40s…a deeply respected journalist steeped in world affairs and politics. When introduced to famed medium Arthur Ford (yes, like Teresa of Long Island fame only in Ford’s day there were no reality shows…just séances) Ruth was a skeptic, being one trained in verifying facts. But when she agreed to cover Ford as a matter of journalistic investigation, her life changed forever. Her father came through with info only he and she knew; Ford became her mentor, and with guides from the other side, she was instructed to change her journalistic focus as she began to write of past lives and days to come.

Opening herself to the world of spirit Ruth became one of the most respected writers to ever address the unknown. She was a significant part of my own career as it was her interview done by Teddy Bart on his brainchild show “Beyond Reason” that led me to talk radio. (A show I miss to this day. A show that was before its time, and a show created by one of the most brilliant talents to ever grace a microphone-- a blog for another day.)

            In her book The World to Come, Ruth speaks of a planetary shift that will result from the earth tipping on its polar axis. With weather changes, polar ice melts, and shifting tides of heavy water changing the weight of this wobbling ball we all ride, Ruth’s guides say it’s coming, and when it does, the world as we know it will change forever, AND (major note) change for the good.

            (FYI, for the religious amongst us, some believe this is precisely what happened with Noah’s flood-- that too, was the result of a polar shift, whereby the earth was literally baptized anew.)

            According to Ruth, the earth will be cleansed. Many will cross over, but since souls never die, this is not so much a cataclysm as a revival. Those remaining on the planet will experience an inner shift in consciousness.  Wars will be a thing of the past as humans will now value, cherish and preserve our planetary resources. We’ll lean on each other to survive. “Busy hands will replace idle chatter.” Ruth writes. And while some worry as to how we’ll communicate when the grid goes down, Ruth says it won’t matter as our telepathic abilities will be fully engaged. (In short, we’ll have tapped that other 90-95% of our brain matter that we’ve yet to figure out what it’s there for.)

            But of utmost importance according to Ruth, we are not to fear. Life goes on be it this world or the next. Material possessions will relinquish their hold over us. Our spiritual well-being and that of mankind will replace our competitive, animalistic, warring nature.

            How this relates to a first time farmer’s blog is this: Ruth writes, “For those who wish to remain in flesh, now is the time to acquire seeds, staples, tools, safe housing and the like.” And to me, that’s just common sense. You don’t need to be an end-of-time conspiracy theorist to know this is just good planning, so for that reason, this blog exists.

            As we say in talk radio, “Stay tuned.”