Sad Day on the Farm

     "No, No, NO, NO, NO, NONONONO NOOOOO!" (The words that launched my day.)

     The day before was perfect. Perfect weather...Perfect play day for the babies.  Everyone was hoppin' and happy. The farm had life everywhere as we built new pens, played with camera ideas... worked on everything from shelves to latches to perfecting ways to make life easier when you're walking out the door, hands full of bowls and buckets...In short, it was a typical day on the farm.
     By evening, as folks left one by one, I took two hours around news time to catch up on emails and reconnect with the world. Around 8 I headed back to the barn where I played for a couple more hours, simply because the window for doing such is fleeting when it comes to goat babies, yet it'saddictive. I want to max out every moment I can. Another round of phone pix showed the world a bunch of happy and healthy, all nestling down for the night. I double checked heat lamps, assigned the pups their duties (1 outside the stalls, 2 outside doors, 1 inside with me). I left the night lights and radio on to keep everyone company. (For the record, my goats are Opry goats. They were birthed and weened on WSM.)
     Next morning, the routine starts all over again. Warm meat scraps to mix with chow for the dogs; measure chow for the kids...Suit up in the romper and juggle bowls to the gate; set things on a fence post till you get everyone in place. Open gate: stir, mix, repeat.
     Flinging open the barn doors is our favorite morning ritual...Next to goodnight, it's my favorite part of the day...Cause, behind those doors are a bunch of happy, hungry, noisy babies that the dogs can't wait to play with and I can't wait to see. They always make me laugh. It's life loving life, and for anyone who dreads getting out of bed in the mornings, I recommend farm life highly.
     Now that the babies are a week old, they prefer buddies to mamas every time but feeding time, so they had curled up together in their igloo, turned toward the heat lamp when last I'd left them. (When you lose a baby you go over every detail, time and time again--Should I have done something different? I share this mental exercise for those who write me suggesting they envy my life. There is a lot to love about this goat thing. But there are tears too. Today was a tearful day.)
     With mamas and bucks all waiting at the troughs, I do a double check to make sure all babies are present and counted for. Looking down at the igloo, it was the first thing I saw....Then came the cry that sent the workers in my direction.
     A baby had died in the night. How could this have happened? OMG were there toxic fumes in the igloo? Were the others dead too? Turns out, no. They others were still sleeping, nestled perfectly behind. Inside the igloo, it was warm, but not too warm. The warmth was mostly from their own body heat, as the lamp was a good 8 feet away.  This was some fluke (only I don't like flukes...That baby was fine yesterday. What in the world happened to my baby?)
    Interrupting my flow (which should be to keep focus on the living) I had to stop. (Writer's note: I do not share pictures out of respect young viewers to my FB page, but I do feel the need to write about it. I share that the little girl's body was as perfect in death as it was in life, meaning no trauma, no wounds, no clues...Matter of fact it must've been pre-dawn when it happened, for she was not that cold, only limp and lifeless. Again, you search for every clue in moments like these. These are the things you hash and rehash after your first encounter with death on a farm.)
     She was the gray one. Black boots. Spot on the head. Which told me...absolutely nothing. I have 5 others matching the same description. What's more, her mother is not yet aware. She is at the food troughs. As noted in earlier blogs, goats are very independent. Loyal, yes. They take care of their own. But come food time, it's survival first, so as to feed the others next...(They are the original example of putting your oxygen mask over your face before assisting small children. Airlines should use them in their ads.)
    With all the rest on standby, waiting for their food, I grab a towel and wrap my precious baby, leaving her face exposed so as to show her to TJ who has stayed back to see why his mama has hollered...(My first thought was, "Maybe they played too rough...They do love their babies. Maybe you can run one to death...At this point, the jury's still out.)
     TJ sniffs the baby, then looks at me quizzically. I think he gets it. But I'm not sure. I do the same with Hix, then with Rosey. There'll be one less baby to watch and as I have referenced already, dogs can count.
     I place the lifeless body in the back of my Jeep, and proceed to finish the morning's ritual... I think of Jesus's admonition: Let the dead, bury the dead. After all, there is life that still needs me. While all I want to do is rock a dead baby, I don't have that luxury. Life must go on.
     We finish the breakfast ritual; I head back to the house. With babies all seen to, now playing once again, all I want now, to tend to my baby, and my heart. I log on to get the number for KORD diagnostic lab--a division of the Elmington Ag Center's operation that is a godsend in times like these. For the sake of farmers everywhere, they provide free diagnostics and autopsies on farm animals, after all, if it's a bug, a parasite, if it HAD have been toxic fumes from a heat lamp near an igloo, I and everyone in the world need to know this. So there is a reason this is state funded and made free to us, as not every farmer has the time or resources to go to the trouble to find out why a baby goat died unexpectedly. I cannot say enough good about KORD.
     I gave 'em a head's up I was coming...had the baby in the Jeep (at this point, having no clue as to whose baby she was...While trying to spot it, there was really no way to know for sure, and I had to keep moving.)
     The procedure is this (for those of you curious)...You walk in; give them your name; let them know you have a body to deliver. (I have a whole new respect for undertakers at this stage.) They hand you paperwork. (Sadly, I am already in their system, but each new entry is a new case file.) I'm told someone will greet me at the door...Let's hand the baby off first so the doctors can do a cursory overview, while I finish the paperwork. (Ok. Again, another moment I would never photograph, but I misunderstood the direction, and when closed doors at the loading dock were suddenly now open, I assumed they meant for me to come inside, which was a mistake. I wish I had not done that. Won't dwell on it. Let's just say goats are not the only thing they autopsy.)
     I scurry to take my bundled, beautiful goat baby back to my Jeep where I rocked her and say a prayer until they came for me. (Pretty sure cattle farmers don't do this; then again, we each gotta do what we gotta do.)
     After filling out the paperwork, offering up everything from vet contacts to last clues on ...whatever...whenever...(I have no clue) ...They say someone will be with me shortly.
     Within minutes, a lab-coated, licensed person comes to take a few more details, and may I just say, I would not want her job, but God bless her for doing it. Her job is to find out what happened...And to let me know if I did something wrong. She is a scientist, but she also has a heart. I couldn't have asked for a kinder ambassador.
     On the drive home (which is now mid Friday rush, so I'm crawling along I-40) I receive a call from the lab. (They give you a short overview first; ask a few more questions; the full report comes later, both to you and your vet, so your vet can explain it to you.) Bottom line: still no clue. There was no blunt trauma. (Hix and TJ are off the hook.) The baby didn't freeze. (Mama feels only slightly better, but not much.) In short, the best they can offer is that the baby is anemic and that it hasn't eaten in hours (i.e no food in the digestive track). Did the mother abandon it? Did it play and forget to eat? What could I have done different? (This is pretty much the only thing I'm asking as I drive through teary eyes...Let the record reflect, there is a lot of guilt that goes with this job.)
     For now, we just don't know. Heck, I didn't even know whose baby it was, though sadly, sickly perhaps, I prayed it was one of the twins, simply so the mother would still have something to love.
     By evening, the farm seemed back to normal. No one seemed the wiser. We'd brought Rosebud home mid morning, so she was adapting after her stay at a B&B to get her through her heat cycle. My little neighbor Addison had a sleepover, so thanks to her family and friends, the babies were once again, cuddled and played with well into the night (i.e. we all stayed in the barn till almost midnight).

     The saddest part happens the next day...And today is that day.  With light comes the realization that "She isn't coming back" and only now do I know whose baby it was; only now has it dawned on Donner that she's missing a twin.
     So goes life on the farm. Death is as real as the sunrise. You cannot be angry with it, or you'll rob the living. You must simply process it, allow for it...live with it.
     RIP little baby goat. We asked for meaning to our days...Today you delivered in spades.

Learning How to Count (It's Harder Than You Think)

   

     Admittedly numbers never were my thing. Give me colors. Give me open-ended, spacious any day...Something about linear, logical, mathematical things like counting are a "got to" not a "get to" equation in my book (i.e. something I have to force myself to tend to rather than something I look forward to)...
     Except when it comes to goats.
     Granted, life has gotten pretty busy around here and the cuteness factor is off the charts, but at the end of the day, it is serious business when it comes time to count the babies, 'cause those babies can hide in the sneakiest of places and with 1 white, 3 solid black and the rest some combination of gray, not only are my helpers trained to count, but my dogs count and I count about 20 times a day. (Yes, dogs know how to count. Just try taking 3 bowls or 7 biscuits out when there are 4 dogs to do the math. Rosey is flipping Pythagoras when it comes to biscuits. Meanwhile, Hix and TJ have been homeschooled on goats.)

The Whiskey Update

     There's been some debate as to if Whiskey is blind, as the little guy is getting around quite well, and thank God (and I say that literally) he has taken to nursing. But to see him, you might not be so sure, for he's very happy, like any young kid, he's learning to play and he otherwise, fits right in.
     But to the one watching his every move, there is definitely a difference, the primary one being the reaction of his mother to him (vs. the reaction of the other mamas to their babies).
     For those new to this scene here are a few things to know about goats:
     1) Goat babies come out rather quickly. (They birth in 60 - 90 minutes once the process begins.) Once out, the mother starts cleaning; once dry, they are good to go. They'll usually wobble during the licking process, inching their way instinctively towards the milk supply. By the time they're dry, they're walking and by day two, they're hopping. It truly is amazing. Unlike with puppies or kittens, you don't have to wait 10 days for their eyes to open. They come out bright-eyed and bushy tailed and pretty much wind up toys from the get-go, which is just one more reason to love goats.
     2) Things like nursing come naturally. They have to punch their mama's udder to get the flow going (as a calf would do). In other words, they don't need me to point things out (another reason Whiskey caught my attention; he kept punching at the wrong end of his mom; fortunately, he's since figured it out).
     3) Mama goats know their own (which is a good thing since a half dozen of these babies are identical in markings.) While I'm starting to recognize them by personality, to the naked eye most you can't tell apart. The sweetest trait, which I've spoken to before, is how they pair up at night, each little family sleeping in its own cluster. Whenever I need to know for certain which baby goes with which mama, I just wait till bedtime when they make it easy for me.
     To that same end, when I need to identify someone in a one on one situation (as was the case last week when selling a couple of mamas with their babies, (definitely don't want to send the wrong duo out together as normally a goat will only nurse her own, though I have had one exception*) --all you have to do is put two babies in with one mama and (assuming one of them is hers) she'll let you know by nudging the other away. (A little quick test, which we do several times before letting anyone leave the premises for a new farm.)
    Meanwhile, it is the nature of the mama to get her baby here, lick 'em clean and teach them the routine, then get back to her normal way of life. Sure she's around for when they need milk, but she doesn't coddle; when there's chow or hay or any of the other things that make for a nanny's favorite part of the day, babies can wait. While herd animals, goats are independent thinkers and they are VERY smart. Come chow time, the mamas all rush to troughs and food bowls with little concern for their babies well being until they get theirs, after all, they've been with them all night and if they don't eat, the babies don't eat. They'll get back to them once they've eaten. But nobody puts baby over food come breakfast time, except for Callie.
     Day 4 and Callie still stays behind when I hit the door with that all too familiar food bucket. (And trust me; Callie loves to eat, she just loves her baby more.) So now we have a new routine. All the others do their usual dance of racing to troughs, jumping on spools, checking out their bowls and butting around to spot check each others' bowls. Meanwhile, Callie stands at the barn door and cries. Then slowly she'll walk towards the troughs, but not without making sure her baby is following, meanwhile "whinnying" the whole way, (i.e. making a sound like a horse). To watch little Whiskey following you'd suspect no problem. (And nothing would thrill me more than to think he could see.) But the break in the pattern (both for the mother and for the baby) suggests to me that for Whiskey, we're just going to have to take a little more time and for Callie, we're just going to have to give her her own feeding ritual, after all, blind baby or no, she gets the prize for being the world's greatest mama ~ (And I've seen some really good mamas.)

*Note: the exception I reference regarding the nanny that allowed another goat's baby to nurse came year one when little Rachel lost a baby to a mis-matched breeding that happened before I bought her. (Size of mamas to papas matters. PLEASE folks, never fence pygmies with larger breeds.) The ending was horrific, but we were able to save the mother (Rachel) who was so distraught she wandered for days crying for the baby that did not survive.  Two days later, her sister (Donner) had twins and once done drying them, nudged one over to Rachel to nurse...Again, not a normal thing to have happen with goats...Then again, nothing about this experience has been normal. (We gave that up years ago.)

50 Shades of Gray

Some days, you need no words . . . 

Love is Blind: The Story of Little Whiskey

   

      So I only had a couple of things to tend to, and then...back to business. From Thursday's emergency C-section, to Friday's sleepless night and round-the-clock bottle feedings, we were running on fumes. I needed sleep and I needed to check in with the rest of my life.
     Around 3 o'clock Saturday, I took a break from bookkeeping to go check on the kids. In the corner was Callie, my calico girl, (twin sister to Coco; daughter of Donner, who Thursday night threw her third set of twins in 3 years, bringing the kid count to 12). Thanks to Callie the count would now be 13, (save for a few we sold over the weekend).
     It was a first for Callie and she certainly didn't need my help. By the time I found her she was licking the little guy clean and looking up in her "Look what I made!" proud mama way~
     To her left was Hix, there to protect. Funniest instinct, this Pyr to pygmy bond...it starts at birth if you'll let it. Now that they've convinced me they'll go gentle on the newbies, I leave them be. Because we have so many babies, the dogs take turns picking favorites but once picked, they don't tend to share. (Though I will say, we got some serious 50 shades of gray going on over here, so it's hard to tell about 8 of them apart, though their mama's know instantly.)
     Sunday morning I headed out to the barn where opening the door normally nets me a stream of hungry, bleating energized goats ready for their chow, which we feed across the lot to free up the barn for cleaning. Like ducks in a row, they pile out...First Heffner, then Cupid, then Elsie, then . . . on and on in their little goat parade. And now we have the little ones, hopping and darting and dancing between their mamas and each other...dodging the dogs and hopping like bunnies. The entire feeding routine requires a great deal of dexterity as running from bowl to bowl is a big part of it. While I juggle and stumble about ( the trick is to try to get the food in the bowls before their heads pop up, as goats are persnickety eaters and grain on the ground is grain wasted) we manage to get everyone fed...Everyone, except Callie.
     Back at the barn I hear someone crying. She is standing at the doorway, (most unusual at feeding time) torn between eating and staying with her baby.  I head back across the lot thinking "How odd... Something must be wrong." The baby's only a day old, but that's never been a deterrent. They start hopping as soon as they're dry.  The others have learned to follow their mamas out to the troughs and this one will too. Only this one wasn't. This one (named Whiskey, for a little shot of caramel on his back right flank) was back in his corner, sound asleep despite his mother's loud bleating.
     I coax Callie out with food thinking she's the best mama ever. She doesn't want to leave her baby, so I pick the little guy up and bring him outside to play with the others while she eats. Only he's not game for playing.
     Like everyone on this farm, each baby arrives with personality. Most are curious. Some are skittish; maybe he's just shy. But with Callie's head now in a bowl of chow, I spot check her backside only to find her udders totally engorged from lack of milking. The baby appears healthy enough, but something isn't right. I let her finish, then lead her back into the barn with hay, as I attempt to get little Whisk to latch on, but to no avail. Callie lifts a hind leg welcoming the help. (I've never seen a goat do this. It's a very trusting gesture, after all, I'm not running a dairy operation here and I have never milked Callie, though she took to it quite naturally, as did I...not sure which surprised me more.) I gently pry open the little guy's mouth and physically squirt milk from his mother, but he could care less. He appears to be grasping the concept, just not the teat. Meanwhile he punches blindly near her front legs as if looking for a needle in a haystack. Then it hits me...Maybe he IS blind.
     Oddly enough it's relief, not worry that I see in Callie's eyes. Now that we know she seems perfectly fine. "We'll just have to adjust" she appears to be thinking, and about that time TJ comes to our corner, as if thinking the same. (Note: it was Hix who was first to bond at birth, but on this one, seems they've decided to share, as if to say "One of us will always be watching him Mom, don't worry."
     I head into the house for a mason jar and a baby bottle and return to a most cooperative Callie who whose relief is palpable. (The first few rounds of mother's milk are crucial, as the colostrum helps establish their little immune systems.) We get her milk into the little dude as she continues to munch on hay, fellow goats and 2 big Pyrs ever by her side.
     As with farming, especially so with goats...It really does take a village. If little a blind goat had to be born to someone, he sure picked a good mama, and a village full of open, loving, willing hearts to see him through.

I'd Rather Be Creating

     So no matter how much I love what I do, there are days I MUST focus on things that do not have me singing like Julie Andrews. No whiskers on goats-es, nor Roseys or kittens... (Let me interpret: these things involve numbers.)
     Don't get me wrong. I have a vast respect for numbers. For all my creative ideas...for all the free flowing, stream of consciousness, "Wonder why somebody hasn't come up with one of these?" moments in my day (of which there are many) nothing, and I mean NOTHING comes to fruition without a number.      Be it a book, whose dimensions are first (will it fit in the rack? how many to a case?)  whose page count is a second (did we include enough recipes?)...be it a barn (whose square footage determines the area it winds up in, determines the lumber we need for it) ...be it a  

    (Squirrel!)     As I write, with numbers on deadline, and papers strewn before me, in the background SharkTank plays...In tonight's episode-- two college girls really into sustainable living, want to save the world with a company that makes colored paper plates from recycled paper, and their slogan is: "To save the world, throw a better party!" (Ok. That's one I hadn't thought of. I thought sustainable was about not adding to the trash heap.) Let me get this straight: We're going to party our way to sustainable living with throw away party plates~hmmmm.
     (Then again, they're on Shark Tank and I'm home paying bills...Probably best I not judge it. They might just have a better mousetrap...What do I know?)

God's Little Gift to Me

   
Nothing says silence like snow...
I live for a quiet tomorrow when I'll catch my breath and go over it all again...

Until then, my day, my week, my reflections consist of one thing: in a word... gratitude...

for miracles...
for timing...
for friends....

my room's view this silent, sacred night

A Shift in Goat Birth Patterns: "Caesar the Day"

     I cannot complain for what happened next, after all we've had 8 perfect births in 9 days. Almost forgetting we had 4 more to go, birth 9 set the tone for the morning; birth 10 turned the tide.
     As if my place isn't buzzing enough already, my first meeting of the morning was with a bee keeper to discuss adding hives to the new rows of lavender we're planning for the spring. Mid conversation (with a most colorful character I might add), a worker yells out "Hey, you got another baby!" and I ask the nice man to follow me to the barn.

Shannon w/One of the Twins

    This time it's Stella. Precious little Stella. Born on Mother's Day a year and a half back, Stella (named for my grandmother, Estelle) has been held since birth and is quite frankly, more puppy than pygmy.
     For the past 3 days she's been by my side, stuck like glue watching wide eyed as the other mothers gave birth. (To be honest, she looked downright terrified, looking up after each with her big doe eyes and her poofed out little belly as if to say "I don't think I wanna.... Do I have to?"
     I was a little concerned a) because she's small and b) because she's spoiled. But my concerns were not warranted. Stella did just fine and wound up producing a teeny, tiny little clone of herself that is so cute I can't stand it.
     What was not cute was Pippi in the next stall, writhing in pain. Stella's girl arrived like clockwork --labor less than an hour...Everyone knowing naturally what to do. But Pippi (who I did NOT expect to have a problem) was having problems big time. By the time we got to her, she appeared to have already had her kid. (I'll spare you the detailed "why's" of this, but it was enough to send us searching barn corners for evidence.) Turns out, the kid was still inside her; she was just getting started.
     Unlike the rest, Pippi's labor went on for 2 hours when we grew a bit concerned. By hour 3, her contractions had gone in reverse (i.e. growing longer between not shorter, as is the pattern). Something was definitely wrong; given the amount of time she'd been pushing I felt certain a still birth was transpiring.

Precious Pat and Little Caesar

     My (so called) planned meetings turned into a neighborhood meet-n-greet. My insurance guy got to meet Mr. Bee-keeper. My digital friend out to install a goat cam got to meet the fence dude. Meanwhile, Pat and I were caught in a flurry of back and forth phone calls and google searches. (Pat, my farm hand who happens to raise Nubians, is THE authority on goats, as is his wife who was on the other end of the line, cross checking our options and seeing which vet was closest.)
     Now concerned for Pippi's survival on top of it all, I decide our best odds are getting HER to the vet rather than getting a vet to us, as there might be need for things an OR has that a farm vet might not (like a sterile environment for starters). Pat loads her up. I tend to Stella, hug on the others and pace.
     Two hours later in a text that literally made me cry, Pat writes: "Good call. Little buck--ALIVE! Was breech; would've never made it naturally. Working on mom. Call you soon."
     Moments like these stop me in my tracks. It's become my custom to light a candle I keep on the alter that came with the church. In this case, the candle had been lit all morning. Truly a miracle. Whatever was happening (and Lord knows the cost) we had just experienced answered prayers. Still and so, Pippi wasn't out of the woods yet.
     Another 45 minutes and I read "Comin' home with the family." I shake my head in awe and go in search of another candle.
   

Digital Dave and Shannon

   Meanwhile, of all the days for visits to time out, my 21-year-old niece shows up for our long anticipated holiday/ birthday sleepover before heading back to college. (Oops. I forgot. Now she's 22.) Bless her heart, Shannon's dad got Brentwood genes. Her crazy Aunt Karlen got the farm critter genes, and today those genes were on steroids. But her visit was as divinely timed as the births themselves, after all this was family at its finest...Shannon had a bunch of new cousins to meet and I, on the other hand needed all the help I could get with the feedings. (Because Pippi was knocked out the entire ordeal there was no maternal bonding moment for these two; she needed every ounce of strength for herself, having stopped breathing 4 different times while the doctor worked to get the baby free. Suffice it to say little Caesar's every nursing will come from a bottle, though they were able to milk Pippi while on the table to get the necessary nutrients from mama to baby).

God love you Pat! Couldn't have made it today without you~

     Once again I am reminded "It takes a village" Breathing a huge sigh of relief and hugging everyone in the room, I wash up and start to prepare dinner inviting everyone to stay...This has been one for the record books for sure, and while I got precious little sleep thanks to the 3-hour rotations of bottle-feedings, the exhaustion was well worth the prize of a mama, a baby and a village of friends (both two-legged and four) now centering and celebrating a miracle goat named Caesar (our first C-section baby).
   

Farming and Time Management

     The day was chock full before it started.
     By nature I am an early riser, though I prefer to leave myself room in the first hour or two as my days are those I enter from a grounded, silent beginning. (Not to mention, mornings are when the best writing hits.) Of course, some days don't afford me that luxury. Today was one of those days.
     First a farm hand, next an intern, now an assistant, I am strategically adding talent to the mix with skill sets long overdue for a full time farm operation. The reason this has now become necessary? My lack of time management skills.
     For the record, I decided to start gardening for two reasons:  1) I was double dog dared to make a Southern cookbook that didn't involve heart attack food; 2) my father passed away and I didn't feel like doing a lot of things I was once driven to do.
     With these to incentivize, I came home to the town of my birth, decided to try my hand at full time country living and began this journey with some misguided picture of Henry David Thoreau's Walden years as my guide. (Granted HDT didn't have a smart phone, nor had he seen the movie Julie and Julia, but modern technology seemed a minor alteration; turns out they change the formula entirely.)
     What I anticipated were long periods of silence, meditation and reflective writing.
     What I got was another full time job added to the many hats I was already wearing.
     In a nutshell, I came home to grow a garden, take some pictures, learn to can things and get on with the next cookbook. (In case you haven't noticed, that book's not out yet. It's got a pretty cover and we know what's going in it. I've just not blocked the "butt-to-chair" time to write it until now.)
     Meanwhile, adding to the mix of selling the others (which involves warehousing, reprinting, invoicing and other lovely business things I find less fun than creating). Now I add "farming" (which at first I took on laughingly, but immediately got hooked on).
     As a matter of true confession, I will admit: I've taken farming for granted. I think our whole planet has. "The food will always be there" and "How hard could it be?" played in the back of my mind. (I didn't say these things out loud, but clearly I must've been thinking them for I had no idea how time consuming it was to become.) The good news is, I like it. And I want to do more of it. What's more, I sense the whole planet is starting to take note. You don't have to be a doomsday prepper to sense it would behoove us all to know a little more about where our food comes from and what we are putting into our bodies. After all, our survival gene was handed down. Here of late they're calling it "sustainable living".
   

Day 365 : Happy B(log)-day to Me

    Twas a year ago today I started this little exercise...
    And while I can't say I lived up to the discipline of that Julie girl in the Julie/Julia movie, I can say I gave it my best....I can say I learned a lot...about farming, about writing, about me...
     My "diary of a first time farmer" I intend to uphold...(going into year 2, perhaps not daily...that jury's still out)
     But for what I have learned...
     I can say for sure, it was a challenge worth taking.

     (More on all this later. Day 365 was met with challenges all her own, for which days 366, 367 and 368 shall soon attest...After these, we may regroup on the plan...Right now, I mostly need sleep.)

For the three people out there still reading...I encourage you to grow your own garden...If not veggies or petunias, then the garden of your own life.

For this, this blog was written...
This journey shared...

   

On Weather and Farming

   

    Gonna give this topic more than a couple of pages of blog space, after all, seasons to a farmer are everything. In a nutshell, there's not much you can do about it save to dance with Mother Nature and hope for the best, but for the precious little time I've been at this thing I have to say no two years have been the same. The individuality of a year's weather patterns are as different as the personality traits of a first born to a middle child to the baby of the family. In the words of Forrest Gump, it's kinda like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get.
     This will mark my 4th season to grow a garden. My first year's garden I recall like mother recalls her first born's first everything. I grew broccoli that year, meaning I was so eager to get into the gardening mode that I planted winter crops. Since he wasn't crazy about the stuff himself, Thurman sent me to the co-op to buy my plants (otherwise we do these things together, but he doesn't grow broccoli). Coming back with what I thought would net a decent yield, I was met with "Good Lord child, how much broccoli you gonna eat?" (I had based my calculation on how many impatience plants it takes to cover a flowerbed, meaning I had bought two plats of broccoli. For the record, 2 - 3 plants (not plats) would've kept me more than fed. I wound up giving the bulk of things to neighbors and my UPS man.)
     The good news is, my winter crops fared well that year; my summer stuff got hit by a draught. Personally I thought I was just lousy at farming until Thurman pointed out "Ain't nobody's corn worth a dern this year." The second year made up for that. While I didn't have a winter garden (year before I had plants in the ground in February,  year two it was March owing to the wetness of things.
     Year 3 (last year) was by far my best garden to date. (I dunno. Maybe I'm getting the hang of it; then again, the weather helped; soil testing helped; adding lime and goat poop helped. Adding Pyrenees who bark at deer and rabbits helped. Lots of things helped.) What I do remember is that it was yet another full month out before I got started. Where year one found me turning my soil in November and planting in February, year two found me turning my soil in January and planting in March, year 3 found me turning the soil a few short weeks before I planted which started in April that year. As for this year, I've yet to turn the soil at all for fear of getting the tractor stuck in the mud. The combination of moist and warm are great for gardens provided it's not January when it's happening. (Turning the old soil and letting it decay is kinda key for the sake of your soil. It's driving me nuts that it hasn't happened yet, but that's just more of the patience that Mother Nature lives to teach you.)

Phantom Spring

     The only things loving this warm weather more than I am are the goats that are coming on average at one a day around here... 60 degrees in January is unseasonable even for Tennesseans, and records indicate the entire country is a good 7 - 10 degrees above their standards for this time of year. But lest you get too giddy, my farmer friends say "be warned" ...We may be loving it now, but what it can mean to crops and flowering things in the months ahead could prove to be more than a challenge.
     What we are experiencing right now is also known as a "false spring" or "black spring". It may be fun now, but what it portends for the growing season ahead could mean anything but and here's why:
     Not only do plants need a cold season, our critters do too. Right now I'm watching my Pyrenees molt as if preparing for things to get warmer, but what happens with a sudden snap which is sure to happen? (I'm trusting mine will be fine; it will just make for some extra brushing, after all, mine know where to find a heat lamp should it get down to it) but my bigger concern is for the flea and ticks that are not having their season this winter. Without a proper freeze to kill off eggs and larvae that wind up in the ground, get ready. Sunny Januarys may be fun now, but what it means to the flea and tick population for the summer months ahead I predict will not be pretty. (Oh joy.)
     And what about our plants? Well, for starters, plants (by nature) brace for the cold. Internally they prepare for winter by creating an antifreeze of sorts, converging frozen carbs in their stems to resist the freeze. As anyone can tell by spotting a dormant plant in winter, they don't normally bud this time of year, but instead protect tender new growth that would otherwise be most susceptible to cold temperatures for when it's safe to do that springtime budding thing.
     So what happens when nature fakes them out? They bud early. (Take a look at Florida where the fruits are starting to sprout.) Toss an otherwise normal winter freeze on top of them after this happens and you get what farmers call black spring, meaning plants start to grow, then they get zapped by a cold snap, then everything dies and the entire season gets thrown off kilter.
     What's worse, it won't take much of a cold snap to do it...Anything below 32 (as could happen this weekend) could do serious damage to plants that otherwise brace for such so as to survive the winter, but right now, aren't sure if they are coming or going. (Do I bloom or do I sleep? What's a plant to do?)

Farming at Full Throttle

   

    Expanded family; expanded plans. A barn with stalls is a good idea, but a barn with outdoor play pens seems an even better one. Nothing inspires creativity like beautiful weather and a bunch of goat babies hopping around at your feet.
     It's Farmville, for real. (I have yet to figure out why people send me Facebook invites to play Farmville when it's obvious I'm living in Farmville, but to each his own. I'm sure they mean well, but honestly, who has the time? Better yet, who has the desire when you can Live It in real time?)
     That said, there has not been one day in the past 7 that has gone according to plan. Meetings have been postponed. Nashville drives, rethought. I'm living the adage about making God laugh (just show him your plans) as things thought important get reprioritized about the time another goat goes into labor or a new idea shoots across my mind.
   

 For me, the secret to a happy life lies in the creative process itself, and when living in the flow of creation (the ultimate being new life coming through) you can't help but find it contagious.
     For a girl who lives to create, it is heaven on earth to look at a pile of wood and ask "Can we make that into a play pen?" or sit under a tree with a sketch pad and plan a new driveway or lay out this spring's garden.
     The good news is, things are picking up steam.  If I had to look at one thing that shifted the momentum from "fun little hobby" to "real time farmer/gardener" it would be the day I made the decision to ask for help, for with helping hands, projects have starting to take on a life of their own. This week we've brought in a builder, an intern and an assistant to add to last month's farm hand (who is the greatest gift I've ever given myself). As with my little goat family, so goes my working farm family, for if I have learned anything about this return to the earth, it is that it takes a village...You can forget the notion of doing it alone. Farming doesn't work that way...(At least mine didn't.)

And Then There Were Five!

It's a girl! Mama (Kitten) and baby are doing fine!

   

     I'm sure the world is tiring of all my adorable baby goat posts, but with this much cuteness floating about, it feels selfish NOT to share.
     (I'm making up for all the years of oohing and ahhhhing over my friends' baby posts! I'm sure they'll all oblige me.)

     

      Meanwhile, my little cousin Landon is contemplating a move to the country to become the world's littlest farmer...

     Nothing like a day in the country, complete with a ride on a big ol tractor, thanks to Neighbor Ron, and a goat being born smack dab in the middle of your visit!

      (Take THAT Fisher Price... You got nothing on us!)

      Here's to our picture perfect Saturday. (Breathe' 'em in while you can...Never take them for granted. This is my forever farming motto.)

The Pyrenees Breed

   

     No doubt I'm nuts about Pyrenees. Gentle as a kitten, yet ferocious as a tiger, this is one loyal breed and protective to a fault.
     That's why moments like these take my breath away. Every breed has unique traits, but to me the temperamental blend of a Pyr's make up is as miraculous as birth itself, and I marvel to watch them do what it is God put them on this planet to do.
     It's been an emotional week here on the farm. It's been a hormonal week. Like any blended family, we have our moments, both good and bad when living together requires a concerted effort. And no one has flexed his emotional muscles this week more than TJ.
     Still mourning the loss of Rosebud (who is absolutely fine; she's just off on vacation while she gets through her season), TJ has been the canine embodiment of Elizabeth Kubler Ross's 5 Stages of Grief. In denial he paced the pastures...("She was just here...Where could she have gone?") His anger he took out on Hix. Bargaining got him nowhere with Rosey, and the depression period broke my heart. But then there was acceptance. (Ah, blessed acceptance! We live for the stage of acceptance.)  With the birth of our first goat baby, TJ hit acceptance and from there, his whole demeanor changed.  His circle of moods now calming, TJ lost himself (as we all did) in the miracle of birth. It was now time to get to work.
     As a girl who grew up raising Siberian huskies, trust me when I say this was not an easy picture to take. The very thought of this big-headed dog (who was trenching his way under barn doors and tearing down reinforced gates to get to a dog in heat just 2 days prior) getting anywhere near a newborn baby goat seems counter intuitive, but TJ's gone downright maternal. Not since Hix taking up with Charlie goat have I seen such bonding, but that's precisely what's happening here. Spotting that Cupid was done with her labor (i.e. she was at the clean-'em-up stage when I arrived with the towels) TJ likewise spotted we were safe to enter her realm and cautiously, protectively began inching and sniffing his way toward the baby, submissively asking to assist. First watching Cupid, then eyeing me (who was also watching Cupid, AND the baby, quite closely I might add) TJ slowly mimicked Cupid in the lick-them-clean routine, with Cupid peacefully acknowledging, even encouraging. Cautiously watchful (for it would take but one "gulp"... you would NEVER let a husky near this scene) I watched, half holding my breath, half marveling at the focus that rolled in like a wave over this massive beast...Here is TJ (all 150 pounds of him...about 30 of that being his head) delicately, curiously, lovingly licking his newest best friend clean, forever imprinting the scent of this newborn into TJ's circuitry, adding him to the list of TJ's charge.
     For the record, I had removed Hix from the premises the night before as a time-out measure per the Rosebud skirmishes. (i.e. the boys just got too rough). But now, as if some heavenly reward for his calming, God gives TJ a goat of his own...bonding for which is now cemented for life. (Heaven help if I ever try to sell THIS baby.)
     These are the moments you live for...days lived in wonder ...to the point of tears.
   
   
   

The Kind of Days You Live For

     While I have more to say than one blog will contain, I retire from this day tired...utterly spent, and yet mindful that these are the days you live for on a farm.
     Starting out with my usual routine, I had just gotten everyone fed and was actually on the phone handling a business matter when I looked out to see that all too familiar dance of a goat going into labor.
      "Sorry. I'll have to call you back." I tell my lawyer. "We're about to birth a baby over here." I was in my romper quick as a flash and out the door with towels, just as the second baby was born. Cupid is the proud mother of twins: one boy/one girl...Both absolutely adorable.
     Between TJ, my big pink towels and Cupid in all her maternal glory, the babies were greeted by a diverse welcoming committee of sounds, textures and smells, but responded in full appreciation. (I marvel to this day at how quickly baby goats take to planet earth. They come out hopping and don't stop till the day they die.)
     Gushing and worthless for just wanting to eat them up, the only thing that pulled me away was a faint cry in the distance as another goat mama (Dasher) went into labor as well, birthing a picture perfect, solid black baby girl. (Dash is a tad more shy, so finding a quiet place off to herself was nothing surprising; fortunately the temps were mild and the day just perfect for this sort of thing. By the time I gathered up extra food, both mamas and all babies were ready to check out their maternity ward stalls to get used to the new digs, the new routines and the new life that lies in store.
   

Happy Birthday in Heaven

   

 .....five years ago this day
          .....three years ago this day

Does the pain ever go away?

Dear Daddy...
 Dear Uncle Dan...

     I can only pray you're celebrating over there...
     Cause I hate this day over here.

     Happy Heavenly Birthday~
     I miss you more than words can say.



http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/tennessean/obituary.aspx?pid=138631364

http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/tennessean/obituary.aspx?pid=155517327

   

   

Making God Laugh

   

    Certainly not the way I'd planned it... But anymore I'm living proof that time is an illusion and those folks thinking they can manage it have never lived on a farm.

     Let's see if I can paint you a picture...

     So yesterday it is discovered that one of my pups is no longer a pup. (How to put this delicately....? Hmmm. Rosebud's in heat.)

     For those of you unfamiliar with the timing element on this little scenario, it's really quite simple. God lives for sevens. You've got 7 days of warning. (Good luck knowing precisely when the count begins.) You've got 7 days in which to act (or avoid). You've got a 7 day cooling off period. By way of dog behavior, this nets you 21 days of male dogs going bonkers; and 14 days (broken down before and after) when your girl will eat their heads off like a preying mantis.

     Wasn't sure precisely the moment we started our count, but let's just say Rosebud had a rough night. (And TJ and Hix weren't exactly stress free, though they didn't care.)

     Came out this morning to find her stuck between two lovers (one being her uncle TJ, the other being her brother, Hix...neither being a good thing for Rosebud). My two males are fighting for her (dis)honor like Arthur and Lancelot, meanwhile, my Gwinevere Rosebud is standing her ground, but wants the heck out of dodge.

     Leaping to action, I pull her from the brawl, hoisting her safely inside our new barn (doors for which we've not perfected). Bolting her securely inside, I make my way to the side dutch door, hoping to avoid the two Cujo like males now pining away. 

   

      But I am no match for Hix, who on his hind legs, now stands a good 7 feet tall (who knew?) Having closed the bottom half of the dutch, I was not prepared for him to attempt a pole-vaulted leap across the upper opening, but seeing it in his eyes, I knew he was going to try. In a moment of reactionary brilliance, I reach for the upper half of the door just as he lunged when SLAM. I am in!  Only problem: I am LOCKED in, with no inside latch to let me out...

     Rosebud breathes a sigh of relief, circles three times and hits the hay. (Fortunately, we did have a lot of it, along with her food and fresh water.) What we did not have was a doorknob.

     On the other side are two raging hormonal male dogs, now chewing and clawing their way through the cracks. Meanwhile, Rosebud (who has not slept a wink since this all started) curls up in a goat stall as if to say "Yeah. Work it out Mom. I really need sleep."

     The good news (thank God for this part) I did have my cell phone (and amazingly, it was charged). The bad news, I had to call Thurman, who, after laughing his fool head off, did come to my rescue. On the other side of the barn doors I hear the barking go distant, and then I hear Thurman approaching with, "I dunno boys...What do you think? Think we should leave 'em in there?"

     It's a battle of the sexes. 3 against 2...which makes me think (now that we're out) God must be female...
     On the other hand, who would do this to her own?

      

     

     

     

A Goat By Any Other Name

 
     I can always tell a skeptic when I call my goats by name. Some say it's bad business, and I confess, it does prevent me taking them to auction. But to me names are everything... the naming process --ritual. Though they may look identical to the layperson, their names lend meaning. While YOU may laugh, THEY care. The whole name game, we take very seriously around here.

On Dasher, On Cupid,
(No Comet) On Vixie!

     That said (and this doesn't happen often) I have been known to change a name or two. For instance, with my first lot of 8 goats (7 predominantly black and one mostly white), we went with reindeer names. Given the time of the purchase, the group thing was an easy call, but in time, as I started to learn their little goat personalities, well, some names I had to change. Others, worked right off the bat.
      For instance, Donner got so dubbed because she births in multiples which means you can always spot her by the happy kids that follow her wherever she goes. This reminds me of my Aunt Donna, a full of life, natural mom, so Donner's name we keep. Dash was likewise an easy one: she has a dash of white across her face. (This isn't rocket science.) Cupid is my lover goat--easiest of the lot to identify as she comes straight to humans the second you step near her gate.) But those were the easy ones; others we had to change.
 

A Stella & Elsie Selfie

     For instance, Casper (the white goat of the family) became Casper the friendly goat (usurping the name Comet, which made her sound like a sink cleanser). Rachel I renamed for Biblical reasons. When, after losing her first baby owing to the idiot who allowed a brush goat to breed her (unbeknownst to me until the baby arrived with legs longer than her mama's) suffice it to say "Prancer" no longer fit. There was nothing prancey about this scenario. As I watched her mourn her excruciating loss, weeping for her baby, wandering about the wilderness of my yard, it took me back to scripture: Rachel, weeping for her children (but they were no more). It was stressful. It was painful. And to me it was downright scriptural. So Rachel she became. (She had a rough life.)
     Of the original 8, 7 have now had babies of their own. (Rachel has since passed). First baby on the scene, I named Ari, for the archangel Ariel. Arriving in spring, he came in like a lion, (which is what the name means), what's more, he was loud... (like trumpet loud). Adding to the meaning, he was my rebel child (who, in his teen years developed an unnatural fondness for his mother which landed him on another farm where he is now happily doing what male goats do, only not with his next of kin).
     Next came Gabrielle. Technically not an archangel, but an obvious special angel, netting my baby girl a special angel name. After that, came twins. Callie and Coco got named after a picture contest on Facebook. Given the calico coloring, Callie came naturally. Coco was just cute. Tannish brown in color, it was a good catch when Miss Patsy (who gets full credit along with grandmother rights) IM'd the suggestion. (Again. Some things just stick.)  
     Last year's winter Olympics (set in Russia) netted  us a Sochi, a Stoli and one Anna Karinina (littlest goat gets the longest name). We also have a Pippi who arrived sporting marks of a long stocking on one leg. But now that this generation is likewise reproducing, well, here's where things get tricky...

The Russians Gave Us 6!
(Granted they do look lots alike)

     At present, I have 16 goats. 2 are males. Of my 14 girls, 13 are pregnant (7 immediately so; 6 most likely in February; the remaining (based on Heffner's mood yesterday) is likely to birth a kid five months from yesterday, so 14 births between now and May...(yes, I will be selling from here--preferably to those wanting pets) ...but keeping the lines straight is the stuff ancestry.com was made for.
     As a matter of keeping up with the goatses, I designed my own little flow chart to ensure no one gets matched up with her brother. (Permissible as that might be in Tennessee, we're not for it.) And while I know them by name, keeping up with who birthed what in which year...well that starts to get complicated save for one little trait that I find so utterly darling I had to share it.
     Just about the time I'm asking "Was Sochi from Vixie or was her boy Stoli?" (4 days/4 goats/Rosey's pups/arctic blast....it was all a blur), the good news is goats and God make it easy for us, for when I need to recall which identically colored goat goes with which identically colored mom, I simply wait till bedtime...where nature makes it easy as (goat figure) goats sleep in family units. No matter how many generations removed, come nightfall, they cluster...in little family tribes. Granted Heffner, and now Charlie, do a bit of rotating, but as for the girls, they are as faithful as a puppy when it comes to lining up at bedtime in their loyal, little lineages.
     (Here's to the family tree for which I proudly serve as my goat's branch manager.)

Tethered to the Temps: The Countdown Begins

   

     Tis the season for heat bulbs and blowers as I watch my broad brood of nannies waddle their way between walls and stalls in attempts to get comfortable for the night. Nothing cuter than jumping baby goats, though awaiting the the arrival of said kids is a tethering sport to say the least...
     The social life I once knew now dwindles to zilch, as leaving the premises on single digit nights can mean life or death to innocent newborns. For me personally,  I don't mind the solitude. (Trust me. No one can feel lonely in a place so teeming with life.) The barn itself exudes this warm orangey glow, partly from the lamps, yes, but more it feels, as if God herself sent a delivery blanket in advance to wrap the babies soon to enter this cold, cold world.
     In the quiet of these midnight hours I marvel ...
     Four big-hearted dogs to aid in my watch, I think back on their own arrival one year ago today, where once again I was hunkered down, same anxious energy, same freezing temps as if Rosey herself was whispering,  "Thankyouverymuch Mom, but I'LL be the one to decide just where I'll do my birth thing."  Birthing her babies in the throes of Al Roker's polar vortex, all 11 within a three-foot crawl space beneath my front porch (as opposed to inside where a warm and toasty bedspread-lined refrigerator crate could've graced a Martha Stewart make-over magazine)...well... it was my lesson to learn about love and life and releasing control in exchange for fully present.
     Minds of their own, each arriving pre-wired, these critters show up to make you smile...Today I watched a flat-footed Cupid suddenly topple straight over when the baby inside of her did a back flip without warning. Tonight it was Hix, head cocked in patient perplexity, waiting for his best bud Charlie to finish his cud full of hay (something Hix has yet to comprehend as a food substance, given its lack of flavor and proper texture). My little family of 20 (on the outside) is soon to expand, and with it, my heart.
     I bless each by name as my vigil begins...My weekend plans are booked and very simple to follow: pray without ceasing  --  my only charge...From here going forward, the only thing to consume my waking thoughts will be the safety of these mothers, the health of their babies and my new year's wish for more meaningful moments such as these that I live for, for they all serve to remind once again how very precious, how very sacred, how very fragile this thing called life.
     May we never take it for granted.
     Given the Christmas I've had, the losses I've grieved and the lessons I've learned in the year that was, I can honestly say I have never found such simple farm moments more meaningful. (For those seeking the same, I recommend it highly.)
     I welcome your prayers as well.
   

Hunkering Down for the Count

   

      Not sure what's up with my goat girls and their baby cycles, but last round of goat babies came mid winter Olympics, (making for such baby names as Sochi, Stoli and Anna Karinina in honor of our Russian hosts). If you'll recall it was equally cold this time last year. (It was also when we added such phrases as  "arctic blasts" and "polar vortex" to our vocab.)
     This year we're back on track, awaiting the count, as once again, the temps dip into single digit zones. The good news is, we're heat-lamped, space-heated and rocket stove ready this go round, with a pup to goat ratio of 1 - 4 (meaning every 4 goats gets a dog of her own for protection).
     For a girl who never had kids, I'm making up for lost time as my 16 will soon become ....? (Time will tell.)  If girth is any indication, I'd say we've got a few twins and triplets in the mix....Good news is, the only thing cuter than a baby goat is a whole bunch of baby goats~ Soon and very soon the place will be hopping' (literally).

When Goosebumps Appear

     I could tell from the number of shares it was bound to be good, but it was the repeated reference to "goosebumps" that sent me on a quest. How could so many people get goosebumps, and how could they know that "I" would get goosebumps? Surely KNOWING something goosebump-worthy was coming, would be reason enough NOT to get goosebumps, after all, goosebumps are not a thinking thing, and I was thinking way too long about this.
    Well familiar with the show concept--(The "X" Factor being another version of Britain's Got Talent)-- I braced. So this guy's going to knock it out of the park. I say "Bring it" and I click the little arrow.
     Nice dramatic contrast: Christopher Mahoney...visably uncomfortable, trembling with nerves, is an average Joe, who is clearly going to knock our socks off with his talent just like Susan Boyle did a few years back. And, true to form and just like Susan, this dude also delivers.  No biggie.  But why, (even when trying not to) did I TOO, get goosebumps? After all, there was no sudden temperature shift...no bolt of surprise. I had ample warning of what was in store--you'd think that would be a buzz kill for goosebumps, but no. I got 'em too. So when it comes to goosebumps of a non-chill nature, what's really happening to our bodies?

(To test your own goose bump meter, go to: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1T9-I3wx8I)
   
     I recalled from my "I Didn't Know That" days, that goosebumps were named for chicken skin... newly plucked chickens to be exact...Chickens whose skin muscles still worked to pull up the feathers as a protective reflex against the sudden cold (only they were pulling up phantom feathers...cause they'd been plucked. The bird was basically nekked as we'd say in the country).
     Same things happens with human skin, only in our case the tiny skin muscles go to work plumping up phantom fur, which we've since evolved out of~
     But what's with emotional goosebumps? How come certain songs, a particular performance or something totally unrelated to weather can generate the exact same effect to your skin, in a bodily reflex originally designed to help protect us? What happens when a spine tingles? What happens when something sends a chill?
     Biologically speaking, the answer is adrenaline happens. The same hormone that puts us in fight or flight mode, designed to keep us alive when facing a threat like freezing to death, is the exact same hormone that does it for us when we hear the National Anthem done right. But why, when we're neither in a mood to fight or fly, can such moments trigger our bodies this way?
     Science has no great answer for this one save to say in our evolution we have some residual stuff still remaining in the pipeline.... But I have another theory.
     My own goosebumps (being a goose bump officianado, now that I've been googling for 2 hours on where they come from) ...mine come in moments of spiritual happenstance. To me, goosebumps are a spiritual barometer. The moments they pop up (when I'm not encountering cold air) are magical moments of sheer awe. I call them my Namaste moments, when the God in me spots the God in someone else...a little fifth dimensional high-five of spiritual recognition.
     By this definition, the fight or flight rule still applies, but not in the way of our ancestors. When I'm having a spine-tingling moment I want to fly alright...But not away from. I want to fly TO. There is no fight in me (save to fight back the occasional tears), but the flight in me is alive and well, though anything but fearful. This flight resonates as a matter of longing for something higher...something greater than myself, which I believe also to be our wiring. These moments we want to last longer..we like how they make us feel for they bring out the highest in us, which is to me is to me, why we tingle...It is flight in the most spiritual sense of the word.
    (Yes, I have been known to analyze such things to smithereens, but having spent the last two hours now googling what happens really when our flesh goes prickly, well... it's as good a theory as anybody's. Furthermore, it's my theory so I'm sticking with it.)