It all started when I killed my tiller. OK, so maybe it's not a mortal wound, but it doesn't exactly till, either. When the thingy that holds the roundy part in place fell completely off as  I rammed gently bumped the cinder blocks at the end of a row, I knew I was in trouble. 

Having been raised in the inner city, and knowing little about gardening that I didn't read in a book, I keep quiet and learn a lot from watching my friends. When I noticed two weeks ago that my friend-who-was-born-with-a-hoe-in-his-hand, had his garden turned over, the "Aha!" moment came, and I knew that it was the appointed time. I still couldn't tell you the last frost date for my area, so I'll listen and learn when to sow my collards, too. 

After killing breaking the tiller, my first thought was that my coveted outside time was over, and, after a winter's worth of being cooped up inside, this was no small matter. Crushed, I instantly started thinking of the steps involved in repairing the tiller: load up the tiller, spend half a day getting everyone shoed and jacketed, drive into town, find the part, escort seven children to a public restroom, then drag everyone home only to discover that I didn't get the right part. Then I was sure the broken part would cost thousands of dollars, have to be special ordered, take months to be delivered, and gardening season would be over before it ever got started at my house. 

Once I caught myself and called this thought process by it's rightful name, Worry, I repented, and began to look for the bright side of not having the tiller available. My garden is not terribly labor-intensive, anyway. It is a raised-bed (read that: very soft soil) Square Foot (read that: very tiny) garden. I could always  just turn over the soil with a hoe. Even though tilling was kinda fun, it was still a little more like breaking a wild pony than I preferred. So this would be an enjoyable form of exercise with immediate tangible results (read that: instant gratification).

Anyway, I am the girl who is always lamenting about the ridiculous ironies in our culture. What sense does it make to get a desk job, determined to 'not work as hard as my parents did', then buy a riding lawnmower because you don't have time to cut grass, then a health club membership to 'get some exercise'?  It is like simultaneously running the air conditioner to cool air on a hot sunny day and the clothes dryer to heat air. Or driving to the park to take a walk. Or sending Momma to work to be able to pay for private schooling and convenience meals (and therapy because of the stress). Simpler is better.

So I pulled out my hoe.

About half-way through my methodical hand turning of the garden I started to wish I had never been so smug regarding the aforementioned inconsistencies. At our house, you lose any right to fuss about stuff that you aren't doing something about (read that: Don't talk the talk if you aren't willing to walk the walk). Just as I determined to suck it up and smile my way through to the end, Mr Visionary showed up with the exact piece needed to repair the tiller. When he had the thing perfectly fixed and tested in less than five minutes, I knew two things. First, my worrying had been way out-of-hand. The piece cost $.68, and was easily picked up on a routine errand while Mr. Visionary was already in town. Second,much as I would have liked to should finish it by hand,  I would have go against my high ideals resigned determination and use the tiller to finish the garden.

After all, I wouldn't want to offend Mr. Visionary.

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I surely would have thought the days of women swooning were over. What with the 1960’s having done their upheaval and corsets, too, being a thing of the distant past, fainting was, in my humble opinion, only for the overly dramatic. Recent events however, have caused me to rethink my position.

Not having bounced back from this stomach virus quite as quickly or as well as Mr. Visionary and the children, my felt need was rest. Still quite dizzy upon standing, I was hoping to be horizontal most of yesterday, and school was conducted from Mom’s bed.  Queasiness was making the thought of preparing food less-than-delightful, so when our dear friend (who is now even dearer) Miss Elizabeth brought us soup for lunch, my gratefulness to her and the Lord abounded.

Lunch over, and naptime graciously looming on the horizon, a knock at the door alerted me that perhaps my plans were changing. Greeted by a large mass of raw-and-dripping meat, I learned that Old Mr. Clark had been hunting.  His I-come-bearing-gifts grin alerted me that perhaps I should delegate the ‘stroll on over to the back of the truck’ to the boys. Neighborliness having gotten the better of me, I helped him hang our gift-deer in the woodshed and managed to stomach a few instructions about how to proceed from here, all the while purposing to not look the thing in the mouth.

After watching the Flower Child scratch the horns and coochie-coo at this dangling dead deer, I knew I needed to call in reinforcements. A frantic plea to Mr. Visionary to get home speedily, a cold washcloth to my face, and a parenting-by-speaker-phone conference with Dad and the boys to “not talk about it to Mom” were stop-gap measures to tide me over until said help arrived. With instruction from Old Mr. Clark, Dad and the kids skinned the deer after dinner, but the rest (cutting, packing) was left until this morning. Before breakfast.

There’s been a lot of under-the-breath muttering in my house recently. When Mr. Clark left, I was reminding myself that ‘the blessings of the Lord, it maketh rich, and he addeth no sorrow with it’.  When I pined for that nap that was not to be, I repeated, “…as thy days, so shall thy strength be”. Overheard just this morning: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me…I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me… I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me…all things. ..I can do this…I can do this…even (gulp) this…”

Before leaving, Old Mr. Clark mentioned one last thing,"If any strangers show up and leave you deer, I sent 'um. I told four or five of my buddies that y'all wanted venison".

Suddenly even those last nine pounds of pregnancy weight seem surmountable.

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Deep sigh.


It's over. I was truly dreading it, knowing that the dispersing of such information could very well cause us to be the laughing stock of the church, I didn't want to tell.


When you go to church with almost all farmers, especially folks who were raised on a farm, eating, sleeping, breathing farm life, you just know they giggle at you when you make mistakes. A dear sister from church who runs a feed store has visibly reddened and had to exercise tremendous amounts of self control over some of my questions to her.  She's a patient woman. She manages to maintain her composure enough to educate me even when her coffee is attempting to come out of her nose.


But it didn't happen. Actually, it never has. As much as I anticipate it, it never actually occurs-they never laugh. Instead, our revealing the newest of our dumb mistakes educational experiences simply spurs our friends'  stories of their early years on their own farms, when they were just learning .


Case in point: we were recently expecting our Jersey dairy cows to calve. I was joyfully expecting their arrival, and the ensuing flood of milk, butter, ice cream, cream cheese, yogurt, ice cream, kefir, ricotta and ice cream that we would have once more. Did I mention ice cream? (Our children used to have asthma and ezcema, and can't have pasteurized milk, so we've been without dairy during the dry period.)

When we recently announced that we found out our cows are not even pregnant, lots of folks were disappointed with us, but they assured us that it was a common mistake. Not having them checked by the vet after breeding to be sure they were pregnant is an ommission that apparently everyone has made. But only once.


'Well, I guess you won't be making that mistake again!'


No, I can assure you, we will not make that mistake again.


We'll have a list of plenty of others to work on...

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While I've never read the book or seen the movie, I am vaguely familliar with the story of The Horse Whisperer. Sounds like an interesting story, and I may read it someday (or perhaps not). But for now, our family has stumbled into the lead roles of a real-life version of the spin-off.  It has been given a working title of The Cow Watchers.   Bred at the same time, our two Jersey cows are expecting calves soon any minute, and we are more-than-a-little-excited. Our first experience with calving last summer was less-than-perfect. In fact, we missed the whole thing. Since our newly-bought Millie delivered three months earlier than we were expecting, we woke up to find the calf instead of getting to watch the birth. We have high hopes for this go-round.   Just like human Mommas, we have an idea when to expect the calves, but don't know for sure when they will arrive. Enter the Cow Watchers. We have spent much time observing these ladies, scrutinizing every minute change in their anatomy and behavior. We have discussed, speculated and wondered aloud (but not at dinner). In true Johnny Bench fashion, I have even squatted behind my cows, gazing so fixedly at pieces-parts that I have at times blushed and felt the need to aplogize to my ladies.   Life just never seems to turn out like you imagine it. When I was saved in high school (Thanks, Mike!), I was not-so-affectionately dubbed the Head-Chick-Gone-Jesus-Freak. I seemed to my friends then as changed as I seem to myself now. I cannot believe I am living this life. I cannot believe I am enjoying it so much. God is good. Life is good. And suprisingly enough, cows are fun.   Now, I have to go watch. I hope I remember my lines...   Pardon Me, Ladiies...

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I perhaps should have been a bit more specific in my prayers for labor to start.  Although this morning was a little too much excitement for me, the kids had a wonderful time.

I awoke to find tree guys from the power company limbing branches inside our second cow pasture. Concerned about this particular cow, who is a little flighty, I called Mr. Visionary asking if we should put her temporarily in another pasture. He assured me that my nine-month pregnant self would not have to chase the cow, as the tree guys were "old country boys" and would be very careful and not let her get out. 

Fast forward: an hour later, we finished chasing the cow from the neighbor's hay almost 1/2 mile away, and got Miss Millie safely in pasture once again. So the schedule for the day has now been tossed, but there have been a few serendipities:

1. I got two truckloads of mulch out of the tree guys for free.
2. We got our outside time in before it got too hot.
   
3. The kids had been looking for some excitement, and now they've had some.
4. This may be a new way to start labor. ( I wonder if I can patent it?)

My kind of excitement doesn't involve chasing cows, but when things settled down some, and I checked e-mail, I found something more my speed from our Homestead Blog.

Thanks HomesteadBlogger! And thanks to the tree guys, too.

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He taught me a lot about men and women-even though he was neither. Male-yes, human-no. Mr. McGillicutty was my first experience with roosters. And he was my hero.   When we ordered our billion Buff Orpington hens and roosters from the hatchery, Mr. McGillicutty was the free exotic breed chick. Being much larger than the others, he commanded their respect, and being distinct in appearance, he garnered our attention. His two-stepping-don't-make-me-come-after-you dance kept the hens in line, and his larger-than-average spurs governed the roosters (and us).   I marveled to watch Mr. McGillicutty in action, caring for his flock. As harsh as he may have seemed, he truly was conscientious in meeting their needs. Whenever he'd find a tasty morsel, he called the flock, allowing them to enjoy the treat while he remained vigilant in watching for dangers.  When the security of the flock was in any way threatened, he quick as lightning herded the ladies to safety, while he stood firm, ready to face the enemy.    And face the enemy he did, many times. Even when the enemy was us.   Standard procedure with Mr. McGillicutty involved not stepping foot out of the house without a large stick. We kept an assorted supply by the back door since his patriarchal ways demanded that we be armed at all times. The neighbors never did quite get used to seeing me hanging out laundry with a stick in one hand and clothespins in the other, and our UPS driver was sure he'd never seen anyone meet him at the sidewalk "packing that kind of heat".    It seemed a fair trade for the safety he provided for our hens. We also couldn't have asked for better training ground for our boys young men. Every time the girls went outside, the boys went along, weapons in hand, and formed a protective barrier from Mr. McGillicutty. Their opportunities to put into use their mental preparations for war and chivalry abounded. Mr. McGillicutty helped our guys put their sticks where their mouths had been. Our guys grew from green and boastful to experienced and humble with Mr. McGillicutty's assistance. Mr. McGillicutty is gone now, but I still hear the children speak of the lessons to be learned from the roosters and hens. We watch the hens and are aware that they trust their roosters and know they will provide for and protect them. We watch the roosters and understand responsibility and authority.   When we watch our boys, we are proud to know that our security will one day be in their hands.     When we watch them whack themselves with their own stick, we're thankful that this is not that day.

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There's a conspiracy going on around our farm. Somebody is holding out on me in the egg department. A lot of somebodies.

I got oh-so spoiled when our first group of hens started laying. I had billions of hens, and billions of eggs to go along. When you're feeding a crew three meals a day cooking from scratch, you need a boatload of eggs. Boy, did we live it up! Eggs for breakfast every morning, quiche for dinner some nights, custards for dessert, not to mention mine and the children's favorite: thick homemade eggnog.

Last spring we lost 24 hens and three roosters in one fell swoop when a pack of wild dogs came running through the farm in the middle of the day (when all the chickens were free-ranging). Now that one hurt. To make up for the loss, we picked up a few dozen pullets from a local store. 

Our first encounter with hens-on-strike was last summer after the new hens had gotten integrated in to the clan. I turns out that the new ladies must have brought lice into the coop.  We didn't figure out why the hens were getting so skinny until it was really bad.  Since we didn't want any creepy chemicals covering our critters (catch the alliteration?), we treated the lice with diatomaceous earth. The plan was succesful, and their laying pattern picked back up again.

Our second encounter is happening now. My ladies are molting. I have never seen such ugly chickens in my life. (I know, being a city kid, that doesn't say much.) Those sweet, puffy mommas have recently become jagged, scrawny creatures that will never grace the cover of any magazine. I have been rationing eggs fiercely the last month or so, because it appears that molting and being on strike go together.

Since hope springs eternal even when grocery budgets do not, I'm on the lookout for an increased harvest from the nesting boxes. "Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen" Hebrews 11:1.

Things not seen, huh? I think eggs qualify there.  

It doesn't look like she knows, either...

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I was so inspired by JenIG's recent post, The Inner Farmer Emerges Triumphant, that I thought I'd share our own gardening success.

Our very first squash of the season (and what we eat while waiting for our green beans to grow).

Thanks for the inspiration, Jen! I'm feeling veclempt.

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Few chickens have ever lived so well. Of this I am confident. Two years ago, when we moved to Old Paths Family Farm (our first farm!), we bought baby chicks. Fifty-five of them to be exact. Fifty beautiful Buff Orpington hens and five roosters. It is probably everyone's starter critter project. They are little (at first), and cute. What could be better? Chickens are to farm critters what radishes are for gardeners-a good first project. Their housing is generally simpler as well. A chicken coop is easier and quicker to build than say, a barn.

That is, unless you are married to Mr. Visionary.

I had fifty-five chickens living in an enormous makeshift cage in my mudroom for months waiting for housing to be built for them. "With housing so simple, what took so long?" you may be wondering. My Mr. Visionary was building no ordinary chicken coop, you see. Everything he does turns out to be more than I expected, more than I needed, and able to withstand hurricanes, floods, earthquakes, and even young boys. (Those of you with young boys will fully understand the criteria involved in that building code.)

The Chicken Castle, as we lovingly refer to it now that the ordeal is over, is a masterpiece. It is 10X14' on a concrete slab. It has 8-foot high sidewalls, vaulted ceiling, two standard steel walk-doors, a billion nesting boxes, and enough roosting posts for an army of chickens. Every nook of this stronghold is trimmed, caulked, or covered with wire. It has attached to it a 10X16', 8' high cage area with chain-link fencing on three sides and on top.

Our chickens free-range during the day, occasionally popping in to lay or for a snack or drink, then stay in their Castle at night to sleep. Once the door is closed at night (the opperative word being closed), it is an insurmountable fortress for any chicken predator. The only time we have lost any chickens have been during the day, when they are roaming about, or in the evening before we have closed the steel door. I have a feeling that most critters in the woods around here tell bedtime stories to their offspring about our Chicken Castle. And about their relatives who have lost their lives attempting to break in. I may have to check with Mr. Visionary on this, but at last count the roll was 1 fox, 2 raccoons, 6 opposums, and one wild dog who have lost their lives to Mr. Visionary's shotgun. With Charlotte's Web, Wind In The Willows, and Milo and Otis floating around in their memories, the kids are convinced that there is a Legend of The Chicken Castle being  recited to the young in animal land.

Once while working outside an overhead  shadow alerted us that a chicken hawk was flying by. Quickly, we visually scanned the yard for chickens. Not a hen in sight. After a brief panic, we checked the Chicken Castle. Our rooster, Chief (that's Head Rooster to you), had rounded up every hen into the Castle. Mr . Visionary looked poignant and muttered, "They feel safe in there, don't they?" I think I even saw a glistening in his eyes. Yes, Mr. Visionary, they do feel safe there-you done good. You done real good.

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