tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460478683577280122024-03-17T05:14:27.907-04:00Mud on the TracksIn which your typical suburban family with rural aspirations makes it happen. A warts-and-all description of our go at sustainable living, shepherding, and parenting three young children, all while holding down two full time jobs with long commutes.Perrihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08485133856416996635noreply@blogger.comBlogger183125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146047868357728012.post-63971075595409995812011-07-21T15:55:00.007-04:002011-07-21T16:49:36.901-04:00One-Legged Rooster<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlSuagUhNAz-Sev5SeHl09uXj4UwbxM9vI3yy0WgupgcrM1HdluRnVuBNutYyiklPFMOpV2pLBRJHQ3QLxl1Nkhj7XrXbOod7NdcIlFzDfUYxoV8mLT4aKZ_9yGjA80jFNEMnsiKiuI1eo/s1600/Barn+rooster.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlSuagUhNAz-Sev5SeHl09uXj4UwbxM9vI3yy0WgupgcrM1HdluRnVuBNutYyiklPFMOpV2pLBRJHQ3QLxl1Nkhj7XrXbOod7NdcIlFzDfUYxoV8mLT4aKZ_9yGjA80jFNEMnsiKiuI1eo/s320/Barn+rooster.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631901546837233922" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span">Dan and I gave the eat-your-own-meat thing a good solid try. We've raised and eaten 15 meat chickens, our pigs "the three Daves", the yearly turkey flock and quite a few sheep. And we will try again, I'm sure. </span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span">Yet we still manage to get overly attached, we feel sorry, we hesitate. In short we are too soft for farming. Bad, bad farmers.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span">Case in point: our One-Legged Rooster.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span">Back when I wrote about our ongoing poultry melodrama, this guy was "Vlad Vladikof, the black-bottomed rooster." Massive and proud, he skulked in the lower barn, crowing constant challenges at the more established Jaguar.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span">Then came a time the two fought. And fought... It didn't seem all that violent, a few scrabbly flutters and the dogs would come flying down the hill to break it up. (Quick aside: Even small farms have their own unique quirks and rhythms, busybody dogs intervening in the poultry soap opera is one of ours. Hey, it works. Usually...) </span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span">However, after one of these fights, Vlad came up lame. Worse than lame. His leg was so messed up he couldn't put any weight on it at all. </span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span">Now, there is nothing more pitiful than a one-legged rooster. No longer proud, Vlad hid in the barn, hopping to and from the feeder we set out for him. </span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span">We stopped calling him Vlad at all. Instead, he was "that poor guy" or "that poor rooster in the barn" and so on. His gaggle of outsider hens deserted him for the more sturdy roo in the coop.</span></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span">We knew that we should end his misery. It's what any decent farmer should do. There was no way to make a splint, no way to catch him without bringing on a painful panic. </span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span">Clearly we lacked the correct mentality. And the poor one-legged guy in the barn hobbled through June.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span">Then one day last week, the guy was out in the sunlight. He isn't better, but he <i>is</i> putting weight down. he IS crowing challenges at Jaguar again (questionable rooster judgement is a subject for some other post) and for all our bad farmer technique, it appears he's pulled through.</span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span">***Pardon for the repeat picture, our camera is broken.</span></b></div>Perrihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08485133856416996635noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146047868357728012.post-12863229912061199482011-06-25T12:00:00.003-04:002011-06-25T12:26:13.780-04:00Farm Update<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAMXIWVX4zT47mtKYHSD4OakWWmrmMj75FtdbHaHwELLdvDQEMDdwl8Al3t3kN6pvOodOWiyXlScZKsgq-Oe_kLH9TZX0C7zCqF_t5Bnxwt70t754N0-MA73ZXsaM_gyVB7DGD6eIMIQLs/s1600/IMG_0002.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAMXIWVX4zT47mtKYHSD4OakWWmrmMj75FtdbHaHwELLdvDQEMDdwl8Al3t3kN6pvOodOWiyXlScZKsgq-Oe_kLH9TZX0C7zCqF_t5Bnxwt70t754N0-MA73ZXsaM_gyVB7DGD6eIMIQLs/s320/IMG_0002.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622193456956515298" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>Well, now that I've thoroughly bummed you all out on the last post (people seemed to down to comment, even) We're due for some cheer.</div><div><br /></div><div>There's lots of cool new life on the farm this time of year. We have swallows nesting in the barn, a burgeoning garden, growing lambs</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_c40GYMxR6h3JsflOhnC3Pqb5pNa0nsx-jHKhYxTncqtX5WqrxXuI_riNk-XoHqK3BKILYjgdHXPugHNyC_3Bq1lqCZeqxTMycHWDugFeVsT3VTz0DtcurhciCN08ZoeBLH6dsg9VKE-N/s320/IMG_0038.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622193472866255026" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div> Seaport chicks</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPLlpCvsA3DTAxyNLgQQ6e3OSXunl0GWoKwhS2aWXDLbF6amU6VQOATp9JxSwWH0BS-jKnFI8CxL0eApA2VuApM90IrboqZBqz-wFmII5SrmKustd-Fs7KSNWSA3wozencHbq3IYHqE2v-/s320/IMG_0003.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622193463876947330" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div>Coop-hatched chicks </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO0_VALitFNDw9Il30zDwlNny8G6VlBiFvxPVkFeQwBhHsUN7Z2stPqTNfThx4ZnvX_8hXIFAkWCmeTCpuydrj5cSTV2b8jtDJKWrbX5hAPSZlC84VmtXHuzBypkrGZvSWsc05qXSewbbd/s320/IMG_0030.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622193472307312610" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>and turkey poults</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjysyMSbmSuhD0qTIuA00vIZddIq1MqGAqCqPiruUtKR-7AMl_FAuxgAvfa_SfsYF_CJKV1wQbznfhAbJw_2nl486A9kQw017NEh-vTNMJi0TFhrMnXRjmhA5D9wsrUr-1kt5Q4ibqjRlav/s320/IMG_0013.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622194418487250306" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>Whew! </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div>Perrihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08485133856416996635noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146047868357728012.post-50690637626443367082011-06-19T09:17:00.003-04:002011-06-19T09:42:17.396-04:00A Small Tragedy<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>There are lots of cool and happy things happening on Maggie's farm these days: new turkey poults in the barn, our 7 adolescent chicks orphaned but thriving, no significant sheep troubles. But we had a bit of a tragedy this week as well.<div><br /></div><div>It all started with the baby raccoons. These two were found wandering around on the dirt road in front of the house. </div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfwcqvlmYi4fPpUMe7FK5giMebQek_b7UJrD10X1IjpDQDL5ez7-FT8S4vA0dUhLlGU4U2VV87557TYAd-yzo8ZBvH_D_mtcC7-ur_nGb5ngYxPkQ6e48qax-Lcif5HxOpMaS_jq2kF9hu/s320/june2011+066.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5619924937882886962" /></div><div>What to do? They were young, though not infants. Did they still need their mother? Would she be back? </div><div><br /></div><div>Before long a crowd (well, a rural New England-sized crowd) had gathered, the neighbors and their kids and grandkids, me and my kids. We tried feeding them (dogfood) but they seemed only slightly interested.</div><div><br /></div><div>We tried capturing the raccoons to give to a wildlife rehabber but the babies were not into that idea, spitting and screaming and quite unexpectedly frightening. </div><div><br /></div><div>I called the rehabber, and she said to let them be, that the mother was off foraging and would probably be back for them later. </div><div><br /></div><div>So we did. </div><div><br /></div><div>We didn't see them the next day or the next or next and so we felt we had made a good decision. The mother raccoon must have indeed returned.</div><div><br /></div><div>Which brings me to yesterday... when our dog, Luka (Not Maggie who at 14 is quite deaf and somewhat blind, and not Milo who is too goofy and sweet for such things) found these two wandering around the woodpile and killed them.</div><div><br /></div><div>I can tell you that as a mother and farmer, raccoons are sketchy creatures. They eat chickens and carry rabies and some other neurological diseases. But they are also cute as hell, at least when they are babies. Am I a bad farmer to care so much about this small tragedy? To think about it more or less <b>all day</b>? To be mad at my dog and myself? </div><div><br /></div><div>With any bad thing, there's the second guessing-- if I had just disregarded the rehabber's advice and gone with my instincts... if I had searched a little harder... if I had kept Luka inside..... No. Some things feel orchestrated like Greek tragedies, everything following from the first all the way to the (miserable) end. This incident was a bit like that.</div><div><br /></div><div>Wouldn't it be nice, though, to be able to peel back the curtain of the future and see where one simple decision would lead? </div><div><br /></div><div>Sorry about the sad post, June always sets me to thinking this way. Maybe it's because we've had family losses in past Junes, maybe it's because all the joy of this burgeoning spring comes with a slick black tail of death, orphaned chicks and raccoons, frog eggs laid in disappearing pools, baby birds fallen from nests. June is a raw month.</div><div><br /></div><div>Next time, we'll be on to something more uplifting.</div><div><br /></div>Perrihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08485133856416996635noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146047868357728012.post-54446127037457759752011-05-29T12:40:00.004-04:002011-05-29T13:37:33.031-04:00So Sweet!<div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqby3CKM9EJJPBT0hMbCy_G_ov1WFsfxI6yTxHSUD_HCZrG0Vl7_fjohv5v9MJCyr2U_h9zfMa4V-oAaJMcEUNcmPGS5KYQ8wJYFDY-NzkLfuIXJNO7JE8AvKoFZFnGym-2uuG_WWLZgs/s150/sweetblogaward.png" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Thanks to Kelly at <a href="http://writinginthemarginsburstingattheseams.blogspot.com/">Writing in the Margins, Bursting at the Seams</a> for this lovely award. Check out her blog-- there's a lot of wisdom there.</div><div><br /></div><div>So.... quick 7 things about myself:</div><div><br /></div><div>1) We are having a fox predation problem again this year-- miserable for all of us, except the dogs who LOVE being called upon to patrol the borders in the early mornings.</div><div><br /></div><div>2) Due to the fox predation, we have 7 orphaned chicks in a brooder on our porch. I took them to work for a few weeks and now they are home-- with cool new student-given names like "Mohawk", "Oreo" and "Hawkeye"</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4BCihcJnKxosLEkBdNQSlNKxrBF38w3sIO98W1g1KBi4_niD9dmqwzeN4iEf_to7v6VLRXemERvcJkAyTdb5EjfTjmORmtfKnUl3pvt4Qf0lHVckx9vJaanhEtIY-NKqZNIFbcZuvylbC/s320/chicks.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612189418912272450" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; " /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>3) I worry about these chicks much more than usual... because they have cool student-given names and I would hate to have to tell the kids that something bad happened.</div><div><br /></div><div>4) Our 15 turkey poults are arriving on June 15th. I am trying to pony up a little enthusiasm but...</div><div><br /></div><div>5) I hate to admit this but I am feeling a little <i>done</i> with farming. The responsibility feels more burden and less joy lately. Especially as the kids are involved in all sorts of other activities (baseball, hip hop dance, clarinet, science club, art and writing groups) and I too am deep in novel revisions.</div><div><br /></div><div>6) Our above ground pool was flattened by heavy snowfall this winter. I am not much of a swimmer (The pool-- which came with the house-- seemed a lot of money and trouble and upkeep to me, but the rest of the family is bummed)</div><div><br /></div><div>7) I have about 75 singular socks on the laundry room table. Years worth of missing socks. NO idea how this happens. Where do those matches go? </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm passing this award on to these cool blogs:</div><div><br /></div><div>Allie at <a href="http://visualize-industrial-collapse.blogspot.com/">Visualize Industrial Collapse</a>. Allie is an ambitious farmer who many years ago took in our first two lambs. Check out her amazing yarn!</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://amateuryankee.blogspot.com/">Amateur Yankee</a>. Beautiful photos and thoughtful posts from Vermont</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://razzberrycorner.blogspot.com/">Razzberry Corne</a>r: Great and farmy. I don't have much love for our own gunea fowl, but I love reading about the Razzberry Corner crew</div><div><br /></div><div>Chai Chai at <a href="http://operationhomestead.blogspot.com/">Homestead...From Scratch</a> who has been such a wonderful commenter over the years (yes, years!) and has a terrific farmy blog too</div><div><br /></div><div>Christy of <a href="http://farmdreams-christy.blogspot.com/">Whistling Wind Farm</a> who started off with "Farm Dreams" and now has the whole kit n' caboodle</div><div><br /></div><div>And<a href="http://www.mackhillfarm.com/"> Lisa</a> who has a fabulous farm up in NH. </div><div> </div>Perrihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08485133856416996635noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146047868357728012.post-65924381014889287722011-05-03T17:56:00.008-04:002011-05-03T21:09:54.071-04:00My Three Roosters<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV7rysm3QCHo72FCz6KroE3CYAWoHbEmZC9NnrC5LGBQDzGNWrX3Z5ItfZne6Cf8UgfUpAx169-fNTuklGtS4aCUSRrhhCC6nsH3tsv-vyYTp9PKfu1Qj7bnXuRaHLw9xxFUHAlhAxkiU_/s1600/red+hen.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA9X4u6V5nHpp7DBtWF9zwr_iAOkSstUc08FK6oCfZiOHf_4sIh-MX9icRPGKSVxH7R4VPrL9F1mPxnEdOqGqdBSpZvvuHNUiZ1aNVspFD0tjZzMUsnlpkStnXbBNqmA6KAYn6TMiX-HMr/s1600/vlad.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp4ieAC4ejL1K_GFfUsw_8L6e_0CCoqAVWFra6h8kUB6BqZgBoYT54Fr7cTzZCBg4R3zxW6tp3fAwUVtdZB6SvGb1kn0J3j930UccivlnzkQI8Rro9RHMIs3Oyow84oPllTYutTGL12tA_/s1600/vlad+close+up.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp4ieAC4ejL1K_GFfUsw_8L6e_0CCoqAVWFra6h8kUB6BqZgBoYT54Fr7cTzZCBg4R3zxW6tp3fAwUVtdZB6SvGb1kn0J3j930UccivlnzkQI8Rro9RHMIs3Oyow84oPllTYutTGL12tA_/s320/vlad+close+up.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602654945175652226" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Winter's big rooster round-up is over and done with. The daffodils are out, the mint is starting to sprout in the garden (and everywhere else it can get to) and the hens are scratching fall's last shriveled leaves to bits.</div><div><br /></div><div>Also, the three remaining roosters are figuring out the pecking order.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Chickens really do have them. There's always a fat, glossy hen with an evil glint in her eye, not so different from those Housewives of Orange County. (Okay, I confess, I've never SEEN one of those housewives shows so this last part pure guesswork) </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV7rysm3QCHo72FCz6KroE3CYAWoHbEmZC9NnrC5LGBQDzGNWrX3Z5ItfZne6Cf8UgfUpAx169-fNTuklGtS4aCUSRrhhCC6nsH3tsv-vyYTp9PKfu1Qj7bnXuRaHLw9xxFUHAlhAxkiU_/s320/red+hen.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602656798818845810" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, there's also the timid bottom rung girls </div><div><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqSA-IiTXO3fVcXykhs8hgR_-4DQszEVcUsB2zoEeoEsTxlrUzpVNL-GK6l3z8CB8Vu0-4MnhLVdCJUhGEwNOMvNJ_y_QjDmuYpljxVdaE4KmsHKFrD-fLMZJ3TqTyFTmrA9129oAmo5Zz/s320/low+ranked+hen.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602654944238062322" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span><div> who are lean and rangy and dart more often then they waddle.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Often there are squabbles between them, but these last a few seconds. High ranking hen says "Move it pipsqueak!" and low ranking hen, flutters off clucking apologies, that sort of thing.</div><div><br /></div><div>But with roosters, this stuff is more like "Lock-Up" or something (Again, haven't actually seen this show, but I don't exactly live in a cave either.)</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Our main man rooster, Jaguar is 3 or 4 years old now (He's the khaki fellow on the far left)</div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8rGyNgvXxJL03pn6ddJmGg4WFebTDYOeQG8Ysm_7u8J2g4vLsAJGqdvesref47K2fWQV75GnNydwRkNOPt4cU76iqSP9A37iMCWDcLDRI8984WrmoKlQqWc9IwgvOGSyPtF3ynJX7bYpp/s320/jag+flock.png" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602651840018688130" /><div><br /></div><div>Jaguar has been king of this here castle quite a while, and he has all the swagger of John Wayne. He doesn't start fights, but he can end them. </div><div><br /></div><div>Usually.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Too bad for Jaguar, our second ranking rooster is two this year, a mature and weighty bird with a magnificent dark green tail. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyLdpWrLr9ARnbDlevqO4VmVoADbct1EKsRUyRevqddczxUJfw2EmYCqJpwpXBquhlCqWHAYMK-yZZEUz860_jcMEpPbzJ-RrdrpldIu_Nh2WtKW4RZzoSx5TzAL4ReMjJhkWUwXBtPmBV/s320/tail.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602654941782512802" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; ">And plenty swagger of his own.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA9X4u6V5nHpp7DBtWF9zwr_iAOkSstUc08FK6oCfZiOHf_4sIh-MX9icRPGKSVxH7R4VPrL9F1mPxnEdOqGqdBSpZvvuHNUiZ1aNVspFD0tjZzMUsnlpkStnXbBNqmA6KAYn6TMiX-HMr/s320/vlad.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602655496107358034" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div>He used to be "Dionysus" until he <a href="http://maggiesfarmicelandics.blogspot.com/2010/04/boys-being-boys.html">beat up his brother Apollo</a></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwo8vf_yrVYiBIUVBh5O1p5TFJ9KD2Zj84yUUaZp3Cg9q57P1azftKCvbQXn0TRZA3lCzEksRgVoyUzM9zRBlidEDs5sOmbE45JeOCSlcpaK3WF3K38cUgQrJtN0f3vQMalfljFvoQ1RQ-/s320/fight.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602651851473151298" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 286px; height: 320px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>Since then, he's lived with his own small harem away from Jaguar in the lower barn. We now call this dude "Vlad" or "The Black-Bottomed Rooster" after the vulture in Horton Hears a Who </div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://th01.deviantart.net/fs38/150/f/2008/352/0/1/Vlad_Vladikoff_colored_by_SargesGrl12.jpg" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://t0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSMX1qju5zboQ5x3nkhucQdjXI1T0pZsCQvjNLMkjMBnzb4KJ9nOA" /></div><div><br /></div><div>Vlad had an edge, and he has been angling to displace Jaguar for a while now. Today they had a run in in the no-bird's land between the coop and the barn. But the dogs made such a fuss, they went their separate ways without resolving anything. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's a waiting game now.</div><div><br /></div><div>Which brings us to the last of the Maggie's Farm Roos: Blackbeard</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuw4mePqsmD5wKxJuFdQZ_FH7GvSaVn7IpHnvmNcHfrH9kAi4V6DKVOKuP4Z1FZftEFcVcniA_O8amyxLMT_IMOH_7ft_U2vDlvRiRXcrBFy3_IvE9zBjhJsu-xwsbmfltuEt0vvXLsXiN/s320/Blackbeard.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602654298824207714" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div> This guy is young. He still has that gangly, goofball quality (just look at that face!)</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheFJw_k_WEoSfzv-t0gSD6-T7PoNfTFRXxUfw76Nr2gsUPPVZ3QxcB_bGshLWbsEpzslQPkzcA9TOuhRD6aJC_pCa5FXLKHLAXBL4YiaEjE3lwe7aqFhbflwprnmgKGbvBX4MDU0bQbRyc/s320/blackbeard2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602654294133905106" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div>The hens just don't take him seriously, but he hangs around the outskirts of Jaguar's flock, trying to snatch them away (Roosters are not above rape.) Of course, when he starts after one, Jaguar comes barreling to the rescue. So mostly Blackbeard runs, and watches and waits. I don't think he's eating much.</div><div><br /></div><div>So that's our current triumvirate. But I'll keep you posted.</div>Perrihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08485133856416996635noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146047868357728012.post-20533894568547786892011-04-18T10:51:00.003-04:002011-04-18T11:09:14.493-04:00Finally!<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Acorn had triplets on Thursday-- two ewe lambs and a little ram! Our first ever set, a gaggle of moorit lambs. And she bore them like a pro. Her easiest lambing to date; I only had to help pull the first (nose and one hoof delivery). The second she managed pretty much alone. The third, was a total surprise delivered as Acorn stood among her miniature flock and we helpers rubbed them dry.<div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3eUmJWCfu6Cc_sr11NO8dYHMiJuUDkxzgKZIOtKwXTIfEz29aPblyJsxHe7Tu4JF-vyC4-rvKcCASXt49Eh8HKCoOfA8xWWAaw8DMaVG3OJNO1Ar2aU67Vw_hpMvmmpUOy-pxeef4RCQM/s320/three+lambs%2521.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5596938512338947906" /></div><div>Unfortunately, Acorn didn't seem to have enough milk for three. The old mastitis blocked one side at least partially (Dan was able to get a few drops with some serious milking). But the lambs were constantly hungry and small.</div><div><br /></div><div>So we gave one of the ewes to some lovely farmers in New Hampshire who have a lot of experience with bottle lambs and are already spoiling her rotten. They've named her after her mother.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was sad to drive her up to New Hampshire, but this was eased by her comfortable calm (she rode all the way on my eldest's lap!) and the immediate love her new "parents" showed for her. </div><div><br /></div><div>Also, I swear Acorn seemed a little relieved. Three is a lot for a mama (I can attest to that!) especially with milk issues.</div><div><br /></div><div>One more ewe left to lamb. And Penny appears at least three weeks away. Whew!</div></div>Perrihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08485133856416996635noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146047868357728012.post-51438187070495826962011-04-12T14:29:00.002-04:002011-04-12T14:30:19.185-04:00Spring Flower<div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: left; ">Well now. We are STILL waiting for poor Acorn to lamb. This is how she's looking these days:</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-gfzqSRs0kUjRMMn0roMgIP6MaixhYrRgYYGgTzYKSi-ZfWj2cKMV2nJbEx4UxiorwGbG6jwRrpI91uThYACzR9dyWwLiPiinZsEZqcw8Yv2KNYRiZ5S8LWzp2yBT4_OBusY4jEXz-rV1/s320/Acorn%2527s+Bum.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594764017377336258" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 308px; " /></div><div><br /></div><div>Poor thing. I mean, how much longer is this going to take????</div><div><br /></div><div>While we were keeping watch on Acorn, waking early, midnight barn checking, wily old matriarch, Copper, decided to go ahead and get the lambing over with.</div><div><br /></div><div>In between the frequent checks, she birthed herself a nice little ewe lamb.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiMoHRBsl61rUg_53-wDiNuVWrkbTsS0iEkxhbO-U0I9zJrBlPN3hfGFr_z22sNcfRt83KTs4zoGQk44X_c93I6G_fxAfFGLjfF2xhyLg4dRmsqH60GAbNB_XVg1XInt1ydJx6zSLaCdic/s320/Copper+and+Flower.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594765069729485922" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>The kids have named her Flower.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-egInJI2Tkkh6KB-_Qlyn6z4RTGnEym0NL6tt0xnizmUo1XdiQTCkM7AY0oXdS2Hb0aH_GYOVHGxGqc1N4X2GjEil5Un5jMiX2Yo-FrnuaueGh_2OkHG-I-lr-zyN7jTM0pIWW-EDh3RZ/s320/new+lamb+nursing.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594765067786676450" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div>Perrihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08485133856416996635noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146047868357728012.post-56966658718843598022011-03-20T10:14:00.005-04:002011-03-20T10:52:55.564-04:00A Watched Sheep...<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Take a look at poor Acorn:</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiexT5sFOcUnnKKqNn7M2oAnyjSSFAEYYe4D23MEYKYMZra44ltpKh62_9m41Dbw1dC6hIaf5t0YziCV6mUd-TfhX7dqkOzahby5I3qyeJMFhELjOlHJ8DGf4l-tQICP0m7c2ekjBSL5UTZ/s320/acorn+pregnant.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586171957480135106" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>She is sooooo totally pregnant. I've been expecting her to lamb for <b>five days</b> now, checking every few hours all daylong, then twice at night and waking up extra early too.</div><div><br /></div><div>And still, nothing. Except an uncomfortable ewe with a "What are YOU looking at?" expression on her sheepy face.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFMa6BhWZjDtxTzjfJDrJSktwPFice5eGh1fAph3wzgV3X7dr455CiPHux5BGLQOLNA6o_CpT1w0mB9fGB8i65hqMFh3NIYsTgWjh5vrzuyUHD6FpBji87wZ1ubo2kCw8c11Hs2QTWlBdD/s320/big+acorn.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586171943871950594" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>It appears that the old adage is true: A watched sheep never lambs </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Acorn is our friendliest ewe. Also the ewe that has had the most "issues". We had to assist in her first lambing (two lovely twins!) and in her second (one 11 pound ram lamb with enormous horn buds) and then she was <a href="http://maggiesfarmicelandics.blogspot.com/2009/05/cast-and-call.html">cast</a>, developed a case of dry mastitis, a cut that happened at the peak of fly season (luckily she did NOT get <a href="http://maggiesfarmicelandics.blogspot.com/2007/09/star-belly-sneetch.html">flystrike</a>). We gave her a lambing break last year but now here she is: huge and miserable all over again.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQqZrjgXyFso69geebWee0a6hkXsbdgXxUazUiGxLbbXCpebNgH6z3p0QP3pwbmj2KcujlmhvRYxak5a_Srlxgl7CROVCBgfF3gUKtGFAaB-e4VN-2FehGaQz4JQz7f3CiuA1wE2yThlOG/s320/acorn+pregnant2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586171955220372882" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; " /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>Hopefully, this will be an easy spring for the old gal.</div><div><br /></div><div>As some of you might know, we drastically reduced our flock last year. Well, truth is, we'd <a href="http://maggiesfarmicelandics.blogspot.com/2010/08/disrepair.html">planned to quit with sheep altogether</a>. <a href="http://maggiesfarmicelandics.blogspot.com/2010/07/award-and-update.html">But we're just too attached to these old girls</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div>Here's current flock:</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6ACnyI1FLzZbYDAhj1I7S4QflgpEqgcX3CnZUw2BTVfgkvCKKjeobyCBTiOOT3i07a9naBVjjGCyySbv8S0WanauW41paHG2hGpd2ovO6h4LE_628R7oI0FRc3r1hDJsKeUlMT-NG3j-v/s320/3+sheep.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586171941743840562" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>Matriarch Copper (she's 12 now!), young ram, Ewok, and flighty gal Penny. And of course, our dear Acorn (pictured and pictured and pictured above)</div><div><br /></div><div>But <b>any day now</b>, this little flock will expand.</div><div><br /></div>Perrihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08485133856416996635noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146047868357728012.post-51606999794063916432011-03-10T12:04:00.002-05:002011-03-10T12:29:42.903-05:00Sending Off the Roos<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcq_ByHd_Jj8VXKmZSLsQ8iE_idWqzxCrN7QL0vMXTz9MoR7cnaSCuw4xRu3TaAqzqEzqJUTMtAo90daVtHqo76m-U6yg61j3_EF6Csc0azvlIzxUU9YuLpKKkXsTm3coO2g02DtOflBgD/s1600/rooster.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcq_ByHd_Jj8VXKmZSLsQ8iE_idWqzxCrN7QL0vMXTz9MoR7cnaSCuw4xRu3TaAqzqEzqJUTMtAo90daVtHqo76m-U6yg61j3_EF6Csc0azvlIzxUU9YuLpKKkXsTm3coO2g02DtOflBgD/s320/rooster.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582504711157946978" /></a><br />I'm all for the new, localvore, non-industrialized, back-to-the-land type of farming. Heck I AM it-- at least on a very small scale. <div><br /></div><div>But it is what it is, which is to say: not pretty. </div><div><br /></div><div>Farming (even vegetable farming) is, at its most basic level, about manipulating natural things so that they serve you. In other words "using" them. It is not really a quaint, idyllic pastime. It is messy and brutal, beautiful and hard and very, very real.<div><br /></div><div>I have to re-learn this every few months here on Maggie's farm. Yesterday was a case in point.</div><div><br /></div><div>Y'see, we had five too many roosters. They'd been part of the batches of hen-brooded chicks that blessed last spring. The ones that survived the fox attacks and hawk swoops. And they were now grown up enough to bully each other and stress out the hens and generally act like the feathered bags of testosterone they were. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>We knew we should eat them. But Dan wasn't up for it after the last time, and I didn't want to try it alone. (Have I mentioned we are wimpy farmers)</div><div><br /></div><div>So I put an add in Craigslist knowing that what I was too soft to manage, some other person could do with a quick twist of the neck. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then I chased down those five roosters, feeling all the while so sad and sorry as only an absolute farming wimp can. In the crate, the cocky birds continued their squabbles, the weaker ones, crouching in the corners, the toughies crowing victory. "Soccerball," who'd turned out to be a beautiful feisty rooster was in there, and the soft ginormous "Mongo Rooster."</div><div><br /></div><div>(LESSON LEARNED: Never name your rooster chicks.)</div><div><br /></div><div>And then the guy came to get them and I felt..... awful. </div><div><br /></div><div>I know. It makes no sense. They were making themselves (and the hens) miserable. They'd kicked our formerly-dominant rooster, Jaguar, out of the coop, they were all fight and fury, but I felt so responsible for their fate. I hoped the guy who bought them would give them a decent life/death, but I had no more control over that.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I sold them. For $2 each. And washed my hands.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then I moped about the way farming is not the bucolic wonderland that is sometimes portrayed. </div><div><br /></div><div> </div></div>Perrihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08485133856416996635noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146047868357728012.post-66217273801649466642011-02-23T19:08:00.006-05:002011-02-23T19:58:53.694-05:00In the Land of Poo<div style="text-align: left;">It's February Vacation (I believe this is a special New England Holiday, sort of a President's day/let's-not-bust-the-school-budget-on-heating-oil thing) and the kids and I have been keeping busy.</div><div><br /></div><div>We have been to the library, done wood crafts, sand art, baking, Ice Skating and a Museum. And we have watched a few DVDs. (I try to limit the kids' "screen time", but this is increasingly like trying to hold back the ocean with a spatula.)</div><div><br /></div><div>One of the DVDs we watched was <a href="http://www.nannymcphee.com/"><b>Nanny McPhee Returns</b></a>. In it, a pair of "sophisticated" city cousins are dropped off to stay with their poor, dirty, farming kin.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHwh_mfm_itZ0ep7d4e0BiYcTgwYa5H8e61tm3CyNK_MYvGq3mD6y0kjpxo7l5Yh7gunGFLkI3DMr4Llrp-Porw2f4tKp1iReO-9KCQ9GQU6UE84kfxqcf4j7k3yhlDkOAA1Qv2ja6mK_B/s320/3+kids.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577053065518014258" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 198px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>The cousins' car pulls into the farmyard, which is a typical, if somewhat exaggerated slop of mud and um, <i>waste</i>, and the boy grimaces, turns to his sister and says:</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><br /></i></span></div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; ">"</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; ">We are in the land of poo. Duck poo, cow poo, goat poo..."</span></i><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px;"><i><img src="http://www.nannymcphee.com/home/images/gallery/img12.jpg" alt="Image12" /></i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; ">Well we here on Maggie's farm got a kick out of that. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><span class="Apple-style-span">Farming is inextricably tied to "poo". Poo in infinite variety, Poo that seems barely possible. Poo that </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span">has</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span"> poo. </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; font-size: large; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><span class="Apple-style-span"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; ">I often wonder what our suburban and urban visitors think of the free-ranging chicken#**&! strewn about the yard and the barn and (often) the porch</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); font-family: Georgia, serif; -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; line-height: normal; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi87G1qFSzO-M8SJdPxAhZVYt2frOo0x-sGxL5PdMvWY4oSrWpU3cwuWy_sUtWrVJ6_zVbAkyRsfmHO7SWZxWMQsN-heQoCsYWTDOwodKPf670r0ANapjjhV9xnH5QWFfdReFiAg7JMh3Fe/s320/chicken+poo.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577052118359244162" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); font-family: Georgia, serif; -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; line-height: normal; "><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "> the sheep "fertilizing" away in the fields </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); font-family: Georgia, serif; -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; line-height: normal; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhariS-e_2GxpoArNYPurNJ8KCyVi0UMBLUHZHxI-voC5IpHc6KBFr_rCLLDyxuIrdtl2eLBXcrMhFBtEMt86_uu6U_y8GVbMWjuNXQhSoMtHi_h9vSoH0peFKASXhj7S3JSFfjj0V5Vmcm/s320/sheep+poo.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577052121268023010" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); font-family: Georgia, serif; -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; line-height: normal; "><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; ">the gummy newborn lamb butts that often need wiping (<i>don't ask.</i>..). The three dogs alone create quite a stink (well, yes, the pun WAS intended). </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; ">I imagine we might indeed seem to be living in the Land of Poo. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><span class="Apple-style-span">But, then, poo is one of the inevitabilities of life. It happens. And on a farm, as I've said, it happens<i> a lot</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span">.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; ">I know from experience that you can shield yourself from from much of this poo if you live in cleaner, less animal prone places--especially if you don't have pets or young children. But perhaps moving to the country helped us come to terms with poo as much as it did with meat-eating and winter. We simply had no choice.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; ">Whatever the case, my kids have been quoting Nanny McPhee with glee:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; ">One will say: "Greetings, O covered-in-poo people. <b> </b>Do you speak English<b>? " </b><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "> </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; ">And another will add "Yes, poo-man, we have come from</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "> far away, from the land of soap and indoor toilets!" </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; ">And then, stepping out into the poo-strewn snow of Maggie's farm, they will laugh and laugh and laugh. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; "> </span></span><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div></div></div>Perrihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08485133856416996635noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146047868357728012.post-87632013175277657552011-02-08T12:48:00.004-05:002011-02-08T13:19:10.488-05:00Impending Doom in the Orchard?<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>This is our orchard in deep winter snow:<div><br /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3axS5KhREXBB9iYZfcHkMJrhuQn0KzhWyBRTpzGVZ5Eqshtam3kd2kEannXWiDpA5l1sx-Y71umLGiNZ0iS8rbJrnzX4UQs0H_MC1x0gYX4u9aVf66dl_uo1SpCA8U66ulFXtNQ7AppoX/s320/orchard.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571377633721879090" /><div><br /></div><div>It breaks my heart, this orchard. It's beautiful and needy and slightly rundown. We can't take care of it the way we should. Blame a lack of equipment, know-how, and will. Yet it hasn't quit on us. Every year, the apples are a little less lovely, but they come.</div><div><br /></div><div>It used to be that we had a bargain with a large, local orchard. They'd care for the trees and take all the apples we didn't use. But their methods were highly conventional. We here at Maggie's farm are flexible, pragmatic even, but we could not abide by herbicide. Or, frequent drenchings of pesticides. We grit our teeth and allowed the fungicide in the spring and that seemed a fair trade off. </div><div><br /></div><div>But as our flock of Icelandic Sheep grew, we began to use the orchard as pasture. The sheep nibbled the lower branches. But they kept the grass low without herbicides. We were fine with that, but the fencing made it hard for the orchard folks to work and they got sick of all the limitations and just stopped coming.</div><div><br /></div><div>That was two years ago. Our noble little orchard continues on, apples scabby and small, but still good.</div><div><br /></div><div>This year, though, feels like a last gasp. How long before the trees give out altogether?</div><div><br /></div><div>We've tried to find someone to care for the orchard. But we are just a little too remote, and the care is just a little too intensive, I guess. </div><div><br /></div><div>Spring is coming (Hard to believe in a snowy month like this one).</div><div><br /></div><div>Any ideas? What would you do? <div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div>Perrihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08485133856416996635noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146047868357728012.post-74948863162283434222011-01-25T20:33:00.003-05:002011-01-25T21:01:10.700-05:00Felted Penguin<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLXnubRD5trBZnzqa6Y3-KzpDSbBZAx-i7LRC5a8YjDkXM9wM9CamxMqH7sT3q0qkrLy4hOXPGhnts6fYc2Y7u5iQTBaB5riCZWWaJO5Rgy_VNCozrytuzNmVhY9EH-z071JIqi3jDQ54l/s1600/penguin4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLXnubRD5trBZnzqa6Y3-KzpDSbBZAx-i7LRC5a8YjDkXM9wM9CamxMqH7sT3q0qkrLy4hOXPGhnts6fYc2Y7u5iQTBaB5riCZWWaJO5Rgy_VNCozrytuzNmVhY9EH-z071JIqi3jDQ54l/s320/penguin4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566302936860210354" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUZaH_0lQMLQK1samWnmkVzVhy4X6Ou4KJYLFoT8_KvwKxA4xku7EGuy-FI2AUQJpOTG3KNt2ddtqLWeO_BMHTzJ7eukewyXPaCnbNKXhpJjIpkYtvj5lCQPgFfWvbu1FbCKMwZ26-PXGK/s1600/penguin3.jpg"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicPKmtiNWKvBVoU0O07tenLkjkMZtL7fv03LW4K7OAf8h4-5xsPj4P3OPU5JPTjz2lAwRd8cdJETaCC-zuiHu1My9b0vv_YgEPL0C4SMfJ6rqwtnm5ay5tJGbCEd3ryKsfBAy-VD6GWrve/s1600/penguin2.jpg"></a><div style="text-align: left;">I made this needle-felted penguin with our own Maggie's Farm wool. And here's the crazy thing: it was easy. Relaxing even. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Basically, you mat dyed fleece by poking it over and over with a small barbed needle until you get the shape and consistency you desire.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Here's a great little how-to video:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><iframe title="YouTube video player" class="youtube-player" type="text/html" width="480" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/S0ycwVZ4GOE" frameborder="0"></iframe></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUZaH_0lQMLQK1samWnmkVzVhy4X6Ou4KJYLFoT8_KvwKxA4xku7EGuy-FI2AUQJpOTG3KNt2ddtqLWeO_BMHTzJ7eukewyXPaCnbNKXhpJjIpkYtvj5lCQPgFfWvbu1FbCKMwZ26-PXGK/s320/penguin3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566302931627514898" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 320px; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; " /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicPKmtiNWKvBVoU0O07tenLkjkMZtL7fv03LW4K7OAf8h4-5xsPj4P3OPU5JPTjz2lAwRd8cdJETaCC-zuiHu1My9b0vv_YgEPL0C4SMfJ6rqwtnm5ay5tJGbCEd3ryKsfBAy-VD6GWrve/s1600/penguin2.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicPKmtiNWKvBVoU0O07tenLkjkMZtL7fv03LW4K7OAf8h4-5xsPj4P3OPU5JPTjz2lAwRd8cdJETaCC-zuiHu1My9b0vv_YgEPL0C4SMfJ6rqwtnm5ay5tJGbCEd3ryKsfBAy-VD6GWrve/s320/penguin2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566302932104808466" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div>Perrihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08485133856416996635noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146047868357728012.post-70172880703935990082011-01-23T09:48:00.003-05:002011-01-23T15:42:08.171-05:00Maggie of Maggie's Farm<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBIM1ayGKq7zQ39fbZjLNBrFSCYjujG18sYHbCJAhKUQmm77E5_TN7BfUuBkPze6eJhAWEkP681iws_IlVOQ3Ss6Cm24x53hN0S_Yrxj-tAfbt84Yz-LrEU13FQl1QaIT8Of0VjDbRrI3r/s1600/Winter+blog+pics.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBIM1ayGKq7zQ39fbZjLNBrFSCYjujG18sYHbCJAhKUQmm77E5_TN7BfUuBkPze6eJhAWEkP681iws_IlVOQ3Ss6Cm24x53hN0S_Yrxj-tAfbt84Yz-LrEU13FQl1QaIT8Of0VjDbRrI3r/s320/Winter+blog+pics.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565483323329144322" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Maggie and her Sheep</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="http://maggiesfarmicelandics.com/maggie.html">Maggie</a> is 14 now, a little tottery and hard of hearing. Her hips ache and she has trouble swallowing sometimes (due to an old stick-fetching incident) but when she is outside with her sheep, you'd never know. She bounds along before us, pacing the fence line with that infamous border collie "eye", all business as ever. Later, of course, she collapses under the coffee table, barely able to walk. But she wouldn't have it any other way.<div><br /></div><div>She gets confused sometimes. Once, she wandered across the road and forgot where she was. She had such a look of relief when I came to fetch her, gave a sort of "Oh, I'm with <i>you!</i>" jump and ran home.</div><div><br /></div><div>Old age, as they say,is not for sissies. But we can all learn a bit from the stoic way our Maggie faces her new challenges. <div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifeuUANt0L_yTvg-V9BO78-ACRR3MmZecDeA8utfhtn3aTNtTDUe1isv8Tn9gHMpSuzdxp8EOJRPKtpek3-CzXEyxH_GRN7RKIsPG-uAIB-DSfplg6qhLplNdhZgRn1iie_pAoQSoW3RAc/s320/Winter+blog+3.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565483322014515858" /></div></div></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Maggie and Luka</span></div>Perrihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08485133856416996635noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146047868357728012.post-39211704187256946902010-12-21T21:20:00.004-05:002010-12-21T22:01:26.572-05:00Taking the Yellow Crocs on the Road<div style="text-align: left; ">Pretty soon, we'll be packing up for our annual Pilgrimage to Pinellas County (Florida, that is).</div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzSNIKnU9PGFIOar3vw0xN9_-5HVSCQcuLOkaRJH4lt6H5IB-uY_XELBw26jHnnDb4HmBdKufX56hS2SVvz1yhZl8l-JuPj0679-5mxkHW6AbjHxrChA-VxTH9K6wH5QPc7z083x_C1zau/s320/Flowers+Cove.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553321015716090818" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></div><div>The first time we did this particular drive, our adolescent was less than two months old. THAT trip involved several nights' walking the colicky babe around roadside motels hoping we weren't keeping the whole place up. </div><div><br /></div><div>Those first few trips involved dog-friendly hotels (For Maggie of course) and many of them. Some years it felt like it took FOR-EV-ER to make it down south.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:tz-hoNsKrSthvM:http://www.ajfroggie.com/roadpics/fl/i95s-i295-fl9a-bgs.jpg&t=1" /></div><div><br /></div><div>There were two-baby trips (imagine a toddle with a stomach flu and a looooong fruitless Christmas morning search for a tube of Balmex), three-baby trips with endless <a href="http://www.raffinews.com/">Raffi</a> sing-alongs, blizzards in New Jersey, and buckets of plastic toys. </div><div><br /></div><div>Once we wised up to the beauty of a car-full of sleeping kids, the trips evolved into all night affairs, late afternoon starts and logy 2 AM passes through Washington DC. </div><div><br /></div><div>I guess you could say miserable-yet-oddly wonderful road trips are now a holiday tradition with us. </div><div><br /></div><div>It just wouldn't be Christmas if I wasn't waking up in a Cracker Barrel parking lot after an all-night drive, shuttling the kids through the chachkas and into the bathroom to pee and brush their teeth and arguing over how many hot chocolate refills might make up for their hellish night in the car.<div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center; "><img src="http://img.groundspeak.com/waymarking/display/67f62e24-e3b5-4861-8408-be99602dc187.JPG" /></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>If you are traveling with kids this holiday, here are a few things we at Maggie's farm found tremendously helpful:</div><div><br /></div><div>1. Books on tape. We are finally all old enough to enjoy the same books! Our family currently loves the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Septimus_Heap">Septimus Heap</a> series!</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRxKDj1SIW5Yc_78VT9aW2o773tNpMmlP0bA5acncqnmj0XMQplcg" /></div><div><br /></div><div>2. Books on paper! I visit the library and take out several new books per kid and hide them away until we're on the road. Variety is key here: Guiness Book of World Records, Graphic Novels, Calvin and Hobbes, Science Encyclopedias and many, many new novels keep all three busy.</div><div><br /></div><div>3. Whiteboards and markers. For some reason, even kids that don't get much into drawing love to doodle and play hangman on these things.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://t0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:XppgGFoZ2ca8XM:http://new.techdis.ac.uk/resources/images/Whiteboard.jpg&t=1" /></div><div><br /></div><div>4. Flashlights, blankets and comfy clothes-- make an all-nighter a sort of slumber party.</div><div><br /></div><div>5. Taking turns. There are five of us and each person gets to choose an auditory option (book or music or-- in case of grown-ups-- the dreaded NPR.</div><div><br /></div><div>6. Rest areas. Take advantage of these! We play tag or catch or just run around like nutcases, anything to expend a little energy.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:M9GdcvJnHqhDbM:http://www.aaroads.com/northeast/maine050/i-095_mp_005_rest_area_01.jpg&t=1" /></div><div><br /></div><div>7. Snacks. I make gorp and other protein-rich snacks like cheese and crackers, peanut butter and carrot sticks, and also junk the kids don't often see (Bubblicious gum and Tic Tacs are favorites)</div><div><br /></div><div>8. Board Games. these aren't for the road. But they are mighty handy to have when the kids are jumping bed-to-bed in your motel room with nothing to do. Some of our current favorites are <a href="http://www.bananagrams-intl.com/index-us.asp">Bananagrams</a>, <a href="http://www.catan.com/">Settlers of Catan</a>, <a href="http://blokus.com/">Blokus</a>, and Poker!</div><div><br /></div><div>9. A plan for the day after the all-nighter. We make sure to do at least one fun, kid friendly thing on that weary second day. (Did I say we? Um, I am the all-night designated driver, so often I rest up while Dan-- who can and does sleep through anything-- takes the kids to a hotel pool or local playground.) </div><div><br /></div><div>10. Sense of humor. If you have kids, you know this is no small thing. Dan and usually balance each other out-- we are never in a bad mood at the same time. </div><div><br /></div><div>11. <b>Oh, just go for it!</b> As frequent readers may know, we at Maggie's Farm are not the look before you leap sort. We are all about jumping in with both feet ... and at the drop of a hat, too. (There-- three cliches in one paragraph. My work here is done.) But, you know, we always get a good story out of the deal, and we never-- as my Grandmother used to say-- think we "woulda shoulda coulda!"</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://www.johnnyjet.com/image/PicForWebsiteNov92006DelrayBeachFL.JPG" /></div><div><br /></div>Perrihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08485133856416996635noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146047868357728012.post-81547753610622109122010-11-30T13:43:00.001-05:002010-11-30T13:43:32.510-05:00ThankfulIts been a sort of funny year, 2010. Lots of stark raving good and some pretty serious lousy too. Our family tradition is to make "Thankfulness pictures" to share before dinner, but this year they seemed too... much. We needed a new tradition, one that would sum it all up without the obligation to gush. (Gushing, by the way, is fully appropriate at Thanksgiving. I can do it. I love doing it. But for extended family, gushing just didn't cut it this year)<br /><br />And so, the Thankfulness Pinata was born. We stuffed it with anonymous notes of thanks. And then bashed it with a baseball bat.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAxo6so3oI6eVv4pYDHDu-nz1n_fPiYXpQk8ktuYm-wby6IV2Q6b7a2xPpShcKSNbe33nOvf9w4Emy-YU1R6Ta8y6ep5f3otCdVeUUsfgDBTkr9GoRr8CczTMpkMPh-3_Vf1qKzmNHQRjN/s1600/Thanksgiving+ish+anna+swings.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAxo6so3oI6eVv4pYDHDu-nz1n_fPiYXpQk8ktuYm-wby6IV2Q6b7a2xPpShcKSNbe33nOvf9w4Emy-YU1R6Ta8y6ep5f3otCdVeUUsfgDBTkr9GoRr8CczTMpkMPh-3_Vf1qKzmNHQRjN/s320/Thanksgiving+ish+anna+swings.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545413623555726242" border="0" /></a><br />The kids thought this was a lot more fun than obligatory art. And the grown-ups too. And when the bag finally cracked open, all our THANKS spilled out onto the damp fall dirt and the kids rushed them as if they were candy.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgU4QgjEWYC8rAVBFhoZUZR3D9lMVCZyhCTb18EE0ESoEpbzqacuJ-IO4nvkuPzulzfmpbUFJLKCxCyP1tl8HILOp-N8-Pmnuy9N-yS_2HW5zQMZ98Mp-japTFrZZCe6mBqUA30ZFjdV4a/s1600/notes+2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgU4QgjEWYC8rAVBFhoZUZR3D9lMVCZyhCTb18EE0ESoEpbzqacuJ-IO4nvkuPzulzfmpbUFJLKCxCyP1tl8HILOp-N8-Pmnuy9N-yS_2HW5zQMZ98Mp-japTFrZZCe6mBqUA30ZFjdV4a/s320/notes+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545414059831240242" border="0" /></a></div> All fun aside, here are some things I am truly thankful for:<br /><br />My husband, the calm in my storm and the true heart of this crazy lifelong enterprise.<br />The kids, each so much who he/she is it makes me cry sometimes<br />The extended family and friends that bless our days<br />Work. Hard, meaningful, often joyous work.<br />My other work, writing. I am thankful I've been able to carve out the space for my inner space.<br />The everyday comfort of our hilltown home<br />Dogs, sheep, chickens etc etc<br />The luck and hardships that led me here to all of this<br /><br />Happy (slightly belated) Thanksgiving!Perrihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08485133856416996635noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146047868357728012.post-54721247476595046882010-11-21T10:07:00.002-05:002010-11-21T10:39:01.556-05:00Eggless<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipQJ0R89RbI8LoLCyoCx-lC4zyvTxeRk2O14A7l_Sjx1E8Ih1UJqwy2F6NGUHHDXAlhcUDB2TFvCr_w-THdaZEWIuxoj6LajE5wjVah9MJL3OfAQuOxUV2jWkB_c9oL63jLk9T_gpxvMa6/s1600/dionysis.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipQJ0R89RbI8LoLCyoCx-lC4zyvTxeRk2O14A7l_Sjx1E8Ih1UJqwy2F6NGUHHDXAlhcUDB2TFvCr_w-THdaZEWIuxoj6LajE5wjVah9MJL3OfAQuOxUV2jWkB_c9oL63jLk9T_gpxvMa6/s320/dionysis.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542027860384686578" /></a></div><div>Maggie's Farm takes this free-ranging thing seriously. Our 30-some chickens hang out under the porch and on the porch, in the barn and pasture, under the apple trees and, if the kids leave the van door open, IN the vehicles (yes, it's happened. Really). They are happy birds, lucky to be engaging in full-time poultry politics. (Chickens are born politicians. Anyone who's spent any time around the coop can imagine them in little powersuits nodding and "yes-ing", and jockeying for position.) </div><div><br /></div><div>But they've quit laying eggs. </div><div><br /></div><div>There was a period of diminishing returns-- 3 or 4 eggs a day in September and now, zero, zilch, bubkus. (I have no idea how to spell bubkus) They have a light in their coop to stave off the afternoon darkness. They have food and fresh air and water. They have lovely nest boxes full of comfy shavings.</div><div><br /></div><div>But.... Nothing.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, many of our hens are elderly. "Fancy Feather" and "Chicklee", "Sandy" and "Rangey" are over 7 years old now. But there are also many younger hens who have no good excuse.</div><div><br /></div><div>I wonder if the non-egg laying is a silent protest. Our male-to-female poultry ratio is terribly skewed at present. We have about 8 young and cocky roosters, survivors of this summer's fox attacks. As roos are wont to do, they sneak around waiting to catch the biddies away from the flock. Jaguar, our dominant rooster has his hands (wings) full fighting them off. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now, I'm all for converting these young roos into chicken soup. But my better half has a bit less enthusiasm for this project. He started it a few weeks ago when I was out of town, managed one rooster before he lost his resolve and called it a day....Yes, he's a softy :) </div><div><br /></div><div>And so, while we lurch through endless "what to do with the roosters" debates, the hens continue their protest </div><div><br /></div><div>And we go eggless.</div><div><br /></div>Perrihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08485133856416996635noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146047868357728012.post-49942146574931019992010-11-11T09:26:00.012-05:002010-11-11T12:10:16.432-05:00This is the Farm... a poem<div style="text-align: left;">This is the farm, cozy and still, all hunkered down at the top of the hill.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is the dog who looks after the farm. She crouches and tends and keeps it from harm. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYqUkSamwlpZnypRGeCM833hc-JtKmcUHrTHWqHxMtZWvTOX17M7CpS_txfxPpsQgjArEnbe-WSklWZRJIBRxYhWYImfooGI-BC3OO-LAYXvfwv-mjKFt1z1RfyetyeLY84xLWOf6O4AvJ/s320/Maggie.jpg" style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538318724103010562" /></div><div style="text-align: left;">This is the yard the chickens destroy as they scratch and they bask and flutter with joy,</div><div>watched by the dog who looks after the farm. She crouches and tends and keeps it from harm</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisk-vrvcgDdmojlxc-XSZGVxwvZ8Rhj6xr6c1vSfZGUteHQQbMvnTswi9xWmc15nKClZ-hBdB5lvnprAgQAndPnXF7NXx5yk_9AGsiJMOhh-ygDjGDtIGqDrdaNu-MJZqTJsLqQOXJa9Pv/s1600/Jaguar+and+his+flock.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisk-vrvcgDdmojlxc-XSZGVxwvZ8Rhj6xr6c1vSfZGUteHQQbMvnTswi9xWmc15nKClZ-hBdB5lvnprAgQAndPnXF7NXx5yk_9AGsiJMOhh-ygDjGDtIGqDrdaNu-MJZqTJsLqQOXJa9Pv/s320/Jaguar+and+his+flock.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538316698488152002" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></a></div><div>This is the coop where seven roosters crow. They scuffle and tussle, step on each other's toes, </div><div>beside the yard the chickens destroy as they scratch and they bask and flutter with joy</div><div>watched by the dog who looks after the farm. She crouches and tends and keeps it from harm</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwFhVQpjawdOrPbx9wam9-9FQRx6CQ7GfLKOYvoc03esKuzgW2WD8s39KIPmifnGpKvWC4lXBQTmMQ5f96hi712mUiOnyBRSL0j5UMDxLmnHUIPBND_bghxN5cLaM8Rdu6m-iasyf8O3pM/s1600/roos.png"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwFhVQpjawdOrPbx9wam9-9FQRx6CQ7GfLKOYvoc03esKuzgW2WD8s39KIPmifnGpKvWC4lXBQTmMQ5f96hi712mUiOnyBRSL0j5UMDxLmnHUIPBND_bghxN5cLaM8Rdu6m-iasyf8O3pM/s320/roos.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538316489737710434" style="cursor: pointer; width: 278px; height: 320px; " /></a></div><div>These are the sheep that graze in the sun. Growing fine wool is about all they've done, </div><div>under the coop where seven roosters crow. They scuffle and tussle, step on each other's toes,</div><div>beside the yard the chickens destroy when they scratch and they bask and flutter with joy, watched by the dog who looks after the farm. She crouches and tends and keeps it from harm</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgro-F8UdTIkaVhrvfP0GCRwGBP-dCzIwWKDcEpxNwhgzfTWV7cmLmqqixQgioVKE3uUJEttfMG-w6Qykhk_DgJMfzkyvSdWw4z5jQHe4JR8LZaLsuEfelS9HEYEOeSvCRDOsTzVQD-tmf_/s1600/sheep.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgro-F8UdTIkaVhrvfP0GCRwGBP-dCzIwWKDcEpxNwhgzfTWV7cmLmqqixQgioVKE3uUJEttfMG-w6Qykhk_DgJMfzkyvSdWw4z5jQHe4JR8LZaLsuEfelS9HEYEOeSvCRDOsTzVQD-tmf_/s320/sheep.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538316297598052354" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></a></div><div>These are the fences all broken and crashed, when trees topple over, the best ones are dashed freeing the sheep that graze in the sun, growing fine wool is about all they've done, </div><div>under the coop where seven roosters crow. They scuffle and tussle, step on each other's toes, beside the yard the chickens destroy when they scratch and they bask and flutter with joy, watched by the dog who looks after the farm. She crouches and tend and keeps it from harm</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGKQTiJp_MeL2uPwOWDgo8H5kCEmXLKw_9kwuwh5yk_Jz-HmYUQWDFy6vGHV5H71QKrthfWk_ww2EuDmPLlBF1EvQwjlpnQC96q4mNcG-uAUBVKq9cxZlX75D1MB-xuJrcB1fdxQQIr0jn/s1600/fences.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGKQTiJp_MeL2uPwOWDgo8H5kCEmXLKw_9kwuwh5yk_Jz-HmYUQWDFy6vGHV5H71QKrthfWk_ww2EuDmPLlBF1EvQwjlpnQC96q4mNcG-uAUBVKq9cxZlX75D1MB-xuJrcB1fdxQQIr0jn/s320/fences.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538316865565170498" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></a></div><div>And this is the barn where stray poultry roost, strutting and preening and leaving their poo, beside the fences all broken and crashed, when trees topple over, the best ones are dashed freeing the sheep that graze in the sun, growing fine wool is about all they've done, </div><div>under the coop where seven roosters crow. They scuffle and tussle and step on each other's toes, beside the yard the chickens destroy when they scratch and they bask and flutter with joy, watched by the dog who looks after the farm. She crouches and tends and keeps it from harm</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi836D-9hyphenhyphen55JO0V5-iWVavw1LH5ASfYBLd1e_0rlNzSWO4FUmL57ff4AuWUlRnM1NJy5bRYxHImLMZYzzwuq3ZQIEoToZtwsZOL9W7Losqw-a5L5S23g2IXGQWAerQwC8S1KBGIpX7kcpI/s320/barn+chickens.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538316014727925522" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div>These are the apples before the first snow, all spotted and ripe and ready to go</div><div>stored in the barn where stray poultry roost, strutting and preening and leaving their poo. beside the fences all broken and crashed, when trees topple over, the best ones are dashed freeing the sheep that graze in the sun, growing fine wool is about all they've done</div><div>Under the coop where seven roosters crow. They scuffle and tussle and step on each other's toes, beside the yard the chickens destroy when they scratch and they bask and flutter with joy, watched by the dog who looks after the farm. She crouches and tends and keeps it from harm</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZh6-9USYAuTShGFIDbY6B2KfU8Hu0Etge512Dy0R6Rt-vParTNrgzFmzDSekrYnLsSAZ2dOZ9NF82WewlSohiOFyzSOJOJbbugjJT8I2wC1c_JuuL-3Bc5K6zPuK9PvJQ1ZRijzfpay2d/s1600/Fall+2009+032.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZh6-9USYAuTShGFIDbY6B2KfU8Hu0Etge512Dy0R6Rt-vParTNrgzFmzDSekrYnLsSAZ2dOZ9NF82WewlSohiOFyzSOJOJbbugjJT8I2wC1c_JuuL-3Bc5K6zPuK9PvJQ1ZRijzfpay2d/s320/Fall+2009+032.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538317579521729826" style="cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 320px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>These are the shepherds all weary and maxed, doing their chores as the new moon waxed </div><div>heading out to the barn where stray poultry roost, strutting and preening and leaving their poo. beside the fences all broken and crashed, when trees topple over, the best ones are dashed freeing the sheep that graze in the sun, growing fine wool is about all they've done</div><div>Under the coop where seven roosters crow. They scuffle and tussle and step on each other's toes, beside the yard the chickens destroy when they scratch and they bask and flutter with joy, watched by the dog who looks after the farm. She crouches and tends and keeps it from harm</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbeYcvC1DUgF84VyIvhFxmb0O3XMNnjJ39rgIIAMCosK-ukmrv7B9ZE63C3iPTn83WHRUOZJcbv6S8NscLxGiHF_46I5feXq12AdFPQO_5ekgKDI9_P9lmsbL-tHumOHa3FeLbAMPbIEXK/s1600/maggie2.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbeYcvC1DUgF84VyIvhFxmb0O3XMNnjJ39rgIIAMCosK-ukmrv7B9ZE63C3iPTn83WHRUOZJcbv6S8NscLxGiHF_46I5feXq12AdFPQO_5ekgKDI9_P9lmsbL-tHumOHa3FeLbAMPbIEXK/s320/maggie2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538319781633396130" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></a></div>Perrihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08485133856416996635noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146047868357728012.post-8177268909030155902010-10-16T17:38:00.011-04:002010-10-16T18:48:39.330-04:00Fall Harvest<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuIt1o7JGJ7oddU9oDSTqG-FS4xsAbur2I-d4ipKp8Cvoy_7Q4s6oYyYQ3CvTrJvxEcvpy60cCXhsiTBkXvlYZtSXtRgp5DD6wVtIG5BJY3e7L5el7uz1OAntF3ONFzVbkL6M3mpLSu_2B/s1600/corn+maze+065.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuIt1o7JGJ7oddU9oDSTqG-FS4xsAbur2I-d4ipKp8Cvoy_7Q4s6oYyYQ3CvTrJvxEcvpy60cCXhsiTBkXvlYZtSXtRgp5DD6wVtIG5BJY3e7L5el7uz1OAntF3ONFzVbkL6M3mpLSu_2B/s320/corn+maze+065.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528776617899950898" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXZ9S76w6vOezdtiVzITanPrVp8MrIdTMzFo1_jzYzvlws6EOQM4iqF9wNPQiTp7aHE0HKs52INTgUNRzD1kSspPM3pIU6ICgRTxsVqKZe5OewSXc4HyglRhAxFj-LE5IxvOHQWYtiNeCs/s1600/ewok+003.JPG"></a><div style="text-align: left;">Autumn is a beautiful time of year, but for us at Maggie's Farm, it can be a little sad. Autumn means the rattle of leaves and slick roads, snow grown thick over the pastures, the coop with a cold white hat of ice. It means water will freeze in the buckets and need to be kicked out and refilled eternally. Kids' mittens go missing (one from each pair) and the snow (avert your eyes if you are squeamish) encases layers of dog turd and toys.</div><div><br /></div><div>Autumn is also the time of harvest.<div><br /></div><div>We had a pretty good crop of pumpkins this year-- a first! And too many cucumbers (have to learn to pickle them one of these years) and many, many pig-planted tomatoes. </div><div><br /></div><div>Our apples, unsprayed for two years now, are sorry looking things. But they do provide for a bounty of pies and crumbles.</div><div><br /></div><div>We also have lamb, or ram anyway. A few weekends ago, we "harvested" Rahm, our Icelandic ram. Rahm was two years old, but with a strange ancientness in his bearing, his slow and careful gait, his propensity to plop himself down under the coop or against the barn and just sit all day like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Story_of_Ferdinand">Ferdinand</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVjTYDx_SvxGM5sWpHCifjpffZEpxax1dMGnFCfcGsHiXfLBJt5mTrTc9HhyphenhyphenUBMltZZXeqniBaks-F4yLM2__En6fdfVG-rouaWzhXgNVrSpyak6NJvSE4-3lmYq_hUuvYlT2owNUHhkkH/s320/raHM+freeranging.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528774201002238658" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>Rahm had scurs, the kind that curved straight back towards his skull and needed frequent trimming. Dan and I spent many a Saturday afternoon wrestling poor Rahm to a sitting position (Not easy as he was a complete chub) and going at those thick scurs with a branch trimmer or, when this failed, a hacksaw. Yes, there was blood, lots of it. Also Rahm's hooves grew freakishly fast, requiring even more ram wrangling. Every time we'd do the trimming thing, I'd say something like "Poor Rahm, I feel so bad for him. </div><div><br /></div><div>We ought to just put him out of his misery and eat him." But, gutless farmers that we are, we left the big guy be.</div><div><br /></div><div>This year, though, we'd sold all the lambs and most of the sheep, and our freezer was growing kind of light on lamb. We had one ram lamb, Ewok, a beautiful solid black with (so far.... knock on wood) no offending scurs. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqa8bxyEu9J27yD51wI8Bz6i60n39-3682BPiZqk7iyqHsd263U8vnMKlrhWZPyrZQDIE8VydurH5iWVVosC2ZsHnWu9b1SORAfBJECKOWw4ZDXf_iHntQkTzjsWbaJoVmufA687xan0iT/s320/ewok+002.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528775184051235938" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>We knew that with the turn of the seasons Rahm and Ewok would start up with the ramly-ram posturing and butting and that the three remaining ewes (Copper, Acorn and Penny) just needed one boy around. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXZ9S76w6vOezdtiVzITanPrVp8MrIdTMzFo1_jzYzvlws6EOQM4iqF9wNPQiTp7aHE0HKs52INTgUNRzD1kSspPM3pIU6ICgRTxsVqKZe5OewSXc4HyglRhAxFj-LE5IxvOHQWYtiNeCs/s320/ewok+003.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528775193025703858" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>We decided that we might as well eat the big, hard-to-care-for, scurs-growing-into-his-head one. </div><div><br /></div><div>As you might recall, we've tried a few different slaughter methods. Our first ram, <a href="http://maggiesfarmicelandics.blogspot.com/2007/11/big-step-in-certain-direction.html">Gus, a nasty bugger, was slaughtered and butchered by our barber Dwayne</a> (Yes, it IS that small a town). And the year after that I had<a href="http://maggiesfarmicelandics.blogspot.com/2008/10/hard-harvest.html"> a horrible experience with driving a vanful of sheep to a slaughterhouse</a>. Last year, we had a <a href="http://maggiesfarmicelandics.blogspot.com/2009/11/considerable-pathos.html">mobile butcher come out to "do" our pigs and sheep more humanely</a>. But the butcher wouldn't come out for one sheep, and Dwayne retired a few years back. What to do? Perhaps it was time to "man up" (Hate that expression) and do the thing ourselves.....</div><div><br /></div><div>Um, no.</div><div><br /></div><div>Lucky for us, we have some very kind friends (Thanks you guys!) who are also small farmers with more expertise in butchering and all the tools too. Dan and Adam went down to the barn with the rifle and meat saw and ropes and hooks and all sorts of terrible implements, while I hung out with the kids (Yes, this is pretty much my role when it comes to slaughter). A short while later, I ventured down to watch a bit. A short bit. As the caul fat was pulled from Rahm's gut cavity. (Never thought I'd be doing THAT back in my vegetarian days). Then Adam's wife, Emily, and I took the all kids (6 in all) to a local fundraising event for the high school athletic teams. </div><div><br /></div><div>Later we had a barbecue (Not sheep,mind you. Definitely too soon for that.) It was, for me anyway, the easiest most pleasant slaughter day yet.</div><div><br /></div><div>But still, the feel of fall-- endings and lapsings, chill winds and more to come-- lingers.</div><div><br /></div></div>Perrihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08485133856416996635noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146047868357728012.post-34319694093416512422010-09-14T14:33:00.003-04:002010-09-14T14:47:54.893-04:00Magical Chicken<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEOouMY4Bw0APbNXUcavtmr89wFk-xvx3QWena-DCyKMHgxCN9rfV4N7yBKScjv1E2lSOL16YK6568mgY7gsML8zRV3PR3RpvJ3R-HUQ_YYoiAFh_p5tjgrA_5Hw2dNfg_vt_Bj-e2bI2v/s1600/Magical+chicken.jpg"></a>I've mentioned the fox that's been lunching on our chickens, yes?<div><br /></div><div>Well, it's been pretty quiet lately, owing to our keeping all of the chickens cooped for a long stretch of the summer. All of the chickens, that is, except for this small white hen who we've named "The Magical Chicken". Here she is:</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEOouMY4Bw0APbNXUcavtmr89wFk-xvx3QWena-DCyKMHgxCN9rfV4N7yBKScjv1E2lSOL16YK6568mgY7gsML8zRV3PR3RpvJ3R-HUQ_YYoiAFh_p5tjgrA_5Hw2dNfg_vt_Bj-e2bI2v/s320/Magical+chicken.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516841970060224498" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 286px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>She doesn't like the coop.. or the barn. She disappears at night, re-appears walking the fence line like a sitting duck (bad poultry metaphor, I know). And-- here's the really remarkable thing-- she hasn't been eaten!</div><div><br /></div><div>Where does she go? How does she avoid the jaws of our resident predator? I have no idea. Once, I found her high in the rafters on the outside of the barn, once in an open shed that had been home to our trio of pigs, "The Daves". She is a cagey little thing, zig-zagging across open spaces, never drifting to close to the woods. </div><div><br /></div><div>Our older hens (These girls are six now!) are more sedate and trusting. I've seen them gather into a ruffled little knot and gawk as the fox mows one of their sisters down. Not so with "The Magical Chicken". Long before the fox shows, she is up and out of there!</div><div><br /></div><div>Perhaps, we have some natural selection going on in the barnyard and before long we'll have a flock of super-smart fox-detecting rafters-roosting chickens. </div>Perrihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08485133856416996635noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146047868357728012.post-90986113334524381482010-08-29T11:41:00.006-04:002010-08-29T13:11:00.930-04:00Disrepair<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTFyNO1nwH-5hz4LCNVYTnyB-ZswQqXTOZ-3lupijyqs7kINpiAX8-OJsJbH4q9Xd1KqradmoU8m8AGCrR5OPPU8FnKLtJu3-i1j-qjTrAOPKpb_ptkAQdUdznfUJBRZ237AlXqUk9utqX/s1600/tomato+plant.jpg"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Z6ceWd4NhBETAW9CTGitBC0NdUltG0ynXZk6hnJA777hHnSMTMztmhKqG8PVGUKnabuWUVwSSFQ6rSa7-0de-OYJiEXIfjMQ04d6JVcuhQe1iuXbVeTpgjjKZpN3yA9sDoa7jDaX6Ris/s1600/boots.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Z6ceWd4NhBETAW9CTGitBC0NdUltG0ynXZk6hnJA777hHnSMTMztmhKqG8PVGUKnabuWUVwSSFQ6rSa7-0de-OYJiEXIfjMQ04d6JVcuhQe1iuXbVeTpgjjKZpN3yA9sDoa7jDaX6Ris/s320/boots.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510878181887516930" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>If you are a regular reader of this blog, you've probably noticed that things have been a little.... scattered lately. The problem extends beyond blog inattention, I'm afraid. Fences need fixing, nest boxes lapse into poultry trainwrecks, broken eggs and displaced bedding, general ugliness. Sheep have taken to free-ranging</div><div><br /></div><div>(Here's Rahm on the wrong side of the barn wall...)</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSlp9aHgDkWUcwzSrTWEDO572alX7YN9bmhmEZGkgYL8JiFhECuDNX097VK6or6E9z0lAJFA0zj8Oq5h7vRe1_jFxN2BOa0_N1qrWi3RmzzH6FS1Wz9nf8YIK-RUnZjsjOBzjelG-HSys8/s320/raHM+freeranging.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510878201487693458" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>And this very barn has been befouled by foul. Not pretty around here these days.</div><div><br /></div><div>Why?</div><div><br /></div><div>Well, one explanation is busyness. We are working (quite a lot) and have been away. There are, all of a sudden, three elementary school aged kids around the farm with their own social commitments, camps, activities, etc. When do we keep up with chores, exactly?</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTmk1ZKj2GAFM85LqxyVH43P0fpKvVkkNtbIDA7XnAnBLx1n-sc4SSwjXOj5DsaapIGnVw1ukz4yZrpnvVHKwCXXIGlzq9scz4Otr_txnZzoTMWB15aXt2equIg9Mg0hw_8YQ6Xz8qB0hn/s320/fence.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510879046869809122" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div>Another explanation is flagging interest. It's been about 5 years since we started farming and while we love the animals, the somewhat self-sufficiency, the lifestyle aspect, it's not the adventure it once was. The first or second or 15th time we had to trim Rahm's horns or treat a sick ewe or scrounge food for pigs, was exciting. But now we know what to expect. </div><div><br /></div><div>It might be a sort of general failure. We have not figured out how to make the sheep affordable or how to provide more than our own meat and a few vegetables. (We regularly buy everything from cereal to snack bars to milk, ice cream and bread from the supermarket). The pigs were a success, but Dan (having been part of the slaughter process) is not ready to do another round, and they were a serious time suck. Ditto for the turkeys, minus some of the slaughter issues plus a whole lot more of a mess(!) </div><div><br /></div><div>Lastly, there's the "itchy feet" factor. Every 5-7 years or so, I get a bad case of "let's pick up and try something totally different". Often, this "different" involves a shiny airstream trailer and a great swath of Wyoming badland, but it can take other forms as well-- 6 month canoe trips, desert islands, etc etc. To compound this state of "itchy-feetness", Dan's work is largely mobile these days... The dream seems within actual reach! (Of course the kids-- as they have often told me-- are TOTALLY NOT INTO this idea, and neither is my charmingly home-happy husband. But still.....</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>So here we are on Maggie's Farm, the rich summer of 2010 starting to slip from our grasp, the apples (and peaches!) ripening on the trees, our reduced flock happily free ranging, chickens glorying in their dust baths, white faced hornets building a fortress under the eaves, tent caterpillars amassing their downy nests in out front yard trees, the dirt road alternately a dusty mess and a swamp, mint grown out of control in the herb garden</div><div><br /></div><div>...and a hundred unplanned tomatoes plants offering their hard green fruit in the former pig pasture.</div><div><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRLlKSNXczv1LkhINVj8U2-Wd1VZZ3ZkCVMmHmdgn3J7SYkxaVxk94KLvL3Xl-AQacS4aF1arL51y-bBwNsqhAmtladuKbFANqIZjkt_BtL8tOYgDIR465d-3dKLFLw1XrTFfLw-DrDqnU/s320/pig+pen2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510878190168574306" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTFyNO1nwH-5hz4LCNVYTnyB-ZswQqXTOZ-3lupijyqs7kINpiAX8-OJsJbH4q9Xd1KqradmoU8m8AGCrR5OPPU8FnKLtJu3-i1j-qjTrAOPKpb_ptkAQdUdznfUJBRZ237AlXqUk9utqX/s320/tomato+plant.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510878185430057842" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><br /></span></div><div>Pumpkins have also sprouted in the fertile land of former pigs...</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5KYuqVGULDerGBGAeixng5b11OjEO-Phcjer0k8lrdGXrrW7KsEDTzUY8hvDPq8Wj-gtV7Houl_nmZ3U4QBfqmm0OSEq4UFefv8zHpl5nZNe5ZCyb4FTOTt-so5esHVPp4J85BXbYEKmC/s320/pig+pen+pumpkin.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510879036207543506" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div>Everything more or less in a state of wild disrepair.</div><div><br /></div><div>Not sure what'll be happening around here next, but I'll certainly let you know.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUguF9cUx5ca5dhG4W_aCrwzd5h2TwnjJWvVVClr5ydWDj0T0Azjhzme8PoYCdgBvh3ThFDHzVr4eLND_LxbOQKY4sp2BZbsHQ5KM0CfNjRwIvqvcQdCimYbe8_sj8TguWaQlPsLVtoF-a/s320/apollo.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510879061810346898" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div>Perrihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08485133856416996635noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146047868357728012.post-87482865753474500472010-08-16T14:10:00.004-04:002010-08-16T14:23:51.206-04:00Been away...<div style="text-align: left;">I'm sorry I'v neglected this blog so badly the last little bit. We went on a three week long trip (!) to Newfoundland to celebrate my better half's half century birthday.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was the longest we've been away, well, <i>ever</i>. But we have the most wonderful farm-sitters and so returned to the same number of chickens and sheep and dogs, all healthy and relatively happy. No news on the fox, maybe he also went on vacation!</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, here's the trip-- from the perspective of my footwear:</div><div><br /></div><div>Western Brook Pond</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhahATJhgib4KVd_GBsljGJ9YCnoALK_YyOa96xHtj3nY5f9ZcRKs_tt3Zsl16Sn00W4dhdiVIhFY-5uj8onuw51pxZQpiR1rsKlnyRucLelM2TzTx7x3TXUVGt68Zml1Zco8vh_Fgk-aUY/s320/Western+Brook+Pond.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506073158814552466" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; ">Sunset at River of Ponds</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLIK6W5ym2YWHBbOppYS9PVqUFDrqGzJdo19uVVg4cjdton9oA_rh9fcY3hJ3XroL5r-5ypwszbeB5so1vQi5LYGYc9nntB6jdWB7Rczx2P1B3M-bmJZg66eIDzfkBQoccmnLLYDjrc_0c/s320/Sunset+at+River+of+Ponds.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506073158083541778" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; ">Rockhounding at Port au Port</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOWJlYghkI84et7OxkWDqnsXlna3PemjDOAZhZ25HKoq0fPmyPlvM4jje4TZyOn_gDmX_dCXVKUkQcCmD3zwKOOhjX91ibfUIXua3LoPMLc10YrhW9PBuxCmWgGiyz22lk225SkhjsM6u4/s320/Port+Au+Port.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506073149370458290" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; ">Chillin' with the kids</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKHXSYzzE9MeV-Ezjue1TIpPB2vDXiZfqevQph9B1j0vNR_U763YyTjMiic7-rR1eaTu9xKmd9avk9XFFA2G1Ie9xCPolfMFRo2Qws9Ge2CRGs29dKDpyVHwPZUCHZrompq-Z0I-bobjQB/s320/Hangin'+with+the+kids.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506073148652795682" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 269px; height: 320px; " /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; ">Wading in Flowers Cove</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5QlIDfhxzrNRQLtXBWjpfezu63H55V4XC10GXA496wvgGP8Z0NjXYhU1dPc8jnFAZ3YuhKZzRpOY3Wfqz5x4fAfjMjiat1BwDGRc22CRFFFUoB2sPv9jJCx_YcNHqVeqeqFsNpaNNm_tQ/s320/Flowers+Cove.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506073143997437282" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "><br /></span></span></span></div>Perrihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08485133856416996635noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146047868357728012.post-86137831587240727352010-07-14T09:27:00.005-04:002010-07-14T17:59:36.940-04:00Out of the LoopThat's me. I didn't realize that blogging custom requires me to post 7 (7?) things about myself that you might not know and also pass the award along to a few other bloggers. <div><br /></div><div>I feel sort of silly, missing that info somewhere along the way.<div><br /></div><div>Anyway, here goes...</div><div><br /></div><div>7 Unexpected Things About Me:</div><div><br /></div><div>1. I have another <a href="http://lesserapricots.blogspot.com/">blog</a>. Its a writing blog, totally unrelated to farming (<a href="http://lesserapricots.blogspot.com/">www.lesserapricots.com</a>)</div><div><br /></div><div>2. I've written two as-yet-unpublished novels (also totally unrelated to farming)</div><div><br /></div><div>3. I am one course short of a bachelor's degree in Anthropology</div><div><br /></div><div>4. I spent one awesome summer as a volunteer Archaeologist in Northern Nevada</div><div><br /></div><div>5. I have never been to Europe</div><div><br /></div><div>6. I grew up in Florida</div><div><br /></div><div>7. I once rode across the country on the back of a motorcycle.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Jeesh! That was sort of painful. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Now to the fun part: </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm passing this award on some other farmy bloggers:</div><div><br /></div><div>Lisa at Notes from Zone 4 (<a href="http://www.mackhillfarm.com/page/2/">http://www.mackhillfarm.com/page/2/</a>)</div><div><br /></div><div>Carol at Red Dirt in my soul</div><div><a href="http://blog.rimrockenglishshepherds.com/">http://blog.rimrockenglishshepherds.com/</a></div><div><br /></div><div>Skepweaver from The Shambles at Highland Butte</div><div><a href="http://skepweaver.wordpress.com/">http://skepweaver.wordpress.com/</a></div><div><br /></div><div>Well's Tavern Farm</div><div><a href="http://wellstavernfarm.wordpress.com/">http://wellstavernfarm.wordpress.com/</a></div><div><br /></div><div>Enjoy!</div><div><br /></div></div>Perrihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08485133856416996635noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146047868357728012.post-35445365361086237542010-07-12T10:06:00.003-04:002010-07-12T11:01:36.635-04:00An Award! (and update)<div style="text-align: center;">Look here:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgd7xg_D8bW9NUkR4kg05HZcdANJy1EakvBuPMm3O5OMkLTCdXKcZH1NqBKjfHfDy9QhflkQ2IqIP5o2HpTHLSIdjSIgB4yTLY4aRgPYUSbTd-x8S6d5YXl-GR8Ck_ZPveIt7xy9d0ryg/s1600/award.jpg" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>I got this cool award from my friend Ariel over at <a href="http://arielswan.blogspot.com/">http://arielswan.blogspot.com/</a> </div><div><br /></div><div>Ariel is part of my writing life rather than my farming life, but she DOES have some terrific chickens (all with literary names, mind you) and her blog is terrific. You all should check it out!</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, I feel sort of guilty about the award because I haven't had much to say lately....</div><div><br /></div><div>So, I guess I should use this as an opportunity for an update:</div><div><br /></div><div>We have moved ahead with our plans to "disperse the flock" sending off two rams (Dodge and Charlie to be herdsires) and four ewes (Leela, Daisy and their ewe lambs) Two more ewes (Elba-- Copper's ewe lamb-- and Diamond) are leaving this weekend.That should bring us down to three ewes, a ram, and a ram lamb.</div><div><br /></div><div>...And that looks about right for us. For now, anyway. </div><div><br /></div><div>We'd been planning on sending Acorn to a wonderful farm in central Mass but are having second thoughts. in fact, perhaps we've been a bit too hasty in the "let's get rid of everything!" thing.... In retrospect, the decision had a spring cleaning feel-- also there was the cost (less of an issue with 4 sheep) and the worry (also less of an issue with 4 sheep).</div><div><br /></div><div>And then there is the Copper factor.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHJEo75ivVOil3HKiKtj-rO3bR9qQiNE-b79S9WrxpdfZWfSc2G7EpCE1PQTHA874Fig6dwX5u-GUfbtTf4j-Ecwzn-A-BNO1rz3PUZcOEsvpSeYYrb1wnnzUW5Cr9a1N6WC9wpSkJMp8k/s320/CopperLambs2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493034641761513154" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; ">(Sorry about the repeat Pic)</span></div><div><br /></div><div>I didn't realize quite how attached I was to our flock until I received an offer for Copper... well for for Copper's lambs with Copper along for the ride. The offer was from a good and forthright farming fried who was clear from the get-go that he was interested in the lambs, not the 9 year old ewe still nursing them. Though it was exactly what I'd wanted, I found I was hemming and hawing about this deal. </div><div><br /></div><div>And that's when it hit me. Copper was our first ewe. She arrived when our farming dream was in its infancy, a four year old with a lamb at her side. She was the foundation, the sensible, matriarch, the "brains" of the flock as much as our dear lovable, accident prone Acorn was its "heart". </div><div><br /></div><div>And although it's TOTALLY ridiculous to turn down an offer for her, I did. </div><div><br /></div><div>And so Copper is staying, along with Penny and probably Acorn, and one ram-- either Rahm, who is so fat and mellow at this point he appears to be sleepwalking </div><div><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMm50swE36Hb3wbn6jrM04gaR3nT6aJKHDlZVvQELXLI54jfCUAn5wb-coJQiPK-aTf8JC0F5Oww911Vcvx7opt8PW_BIqYfJF3lwKeJLmRygxzD0yaomzYvO1-8yxeogGC_Ddx7i-h-tk/s320/RamRahm.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493034633972702818" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></span><div>or Ewok, Copper's beautiful black ram lamb, who's rise to herdsire will put the old dame into retirement. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>The odd ram out will be ramchops. (Yes, I know it's weird to bemoan someone else eating our ewe and then turn around and casually drop the M-bomb (M as in "Meat") but then, this is one of the great farming ironies.</div>Perrihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08485133856416996635noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146047868357728012.post-19457399288691228282010-07-02T17:49:00.003-04:002010-07-02T18:29:28.036-04:00Not so fantastic<div><br /></div><div>Yesterday, I awoke to the muddled screeching of chickens (If you've ever heard a panicked hen, you know exactly what I'm talking about) looked out my bedroom window to find a FOX-- long, lean, surprisingly tiny, angling after Dionysus, one of the non-cooped roosters. An inhuman warning issued from my throat, sort of a growl-bleat-scream, and the fox swiveled its beautiful head, fixed those yellow eyes on the house a moment, and melted into the tall weeds. Gone.</div><div><br /></div><div>So now-- 30 some chickens later-- we know for sure. Our predator is a fox.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>We've considered trapping it but have been told it's likely feeding pups and, being incurable softies, we can't quite fathom displacing a mama. (Yep, I know this says something unfortunate about our farmer-ness as does the fact that we can't slaughter or even sell off our old ewe, Copper, because we've had her so long.) </div><div><br /></div><div>The other option is keeping the chickens cooped. We've done this for a few days-- the Maggie's Farm version of "Move along folks, nothing to see here." but felt so sorry for the free-ranging flock that we let them out again today.</div><div><br /></div><div>And guess what? There she was, the not-so-fantastic Mrs. Fox, creeping along beside the back fence. The guinea fowl saw her first, started up a racket as only they can. (Up until now, we hated those %$$#$@ guinea hens, but they've been worth their weight in eggs now that there's something beyond crows and dogwalkers for them to screech about) Dan went to check on the situation and the fox melted away into the weeds again.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I think," said our 8 year old, "Our chickens are going to go extinct."</div><div><br /></div><div>Any suggestions?</div><div> </div>Perrihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08485133856416996635noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146047868357728012.post-15624346628132755842010-06-25T13:08:00.003-04:002010-06-25T14:14:04.256-04:00Massacre!<div style="text-align: left;">Ah, Summer. Lazy, sun-dappled days, marble-sized apples waving on deep green, breeze-tossed branches. Summer is finding shapes in high cumulus clouds, cookouts and creamie stands. It's watching those spring babies come into their own.</div><div><br /></div><div>At least that's what you hope for. </div><div><br /></div><div>But on Maggie's Farm, summer 2010 is more like a horror movie... a chicken horror movie. Something has been picking off those aforementioned spring babies left and right. </div><div><br /></div><div>It started with the youngest chicks-- barely past fuzzy stage. We noticed a few of the brood were missing. Okay, we thought, chicks are fragile. Anything could have happened. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then came a morning when we found the bodies of six young chickens scattered about the barnyard like windblown socks off the line.</div><div><br /></div><div>We eyed adolescent pup Milo with suspicion. After all, he showed some interest in the fuzzies.... Milo spent a few days on a long leash, the words "NO! LEAVE IT!" raining down when he so much as looked at the birds.</div><div><br /></div><div> But then the Mama hen, Pearl, disappeared. And, having fled, tail between his legs, from Pearl's defensive onslaughts, Milo wasn't a likely suspect in that particular murder. </div><div><br /></div><div>Luka, for all her difficult traits, is gentle with the livestock, keeping a protective eye on her flock as any self-respecting sheepdog must. </div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA0xxdB4ra4qfsBuCHETqUlb4JseaflY8CSOT_EyPFv_dhyphenhyphen07rNmhxaBDLaCTznHzBmFC6svMFpZplYfKZnw8JXbiIQLdZWciApbIv7I-JcR40qXwiklu0LVyFlArUlUWOg45wTD1sypDH/s400/luka+in+the+coop.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486773349360862322" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span><div>So she's not a likely candidate. And Maggie-- after the <a href="http://maggiesfarmicelandics.blogspot.com/2007/09/coming-in-out-of-rain.html">infamous guinea massacre</a>-- has figured out that herding does not generally involve teeth. (You can teach an old dog new tricks after all.)</div><div>So the terror was not homegrown.</div><div><br /></div><div>Once the fuzzies (and mama) were out of the way, the adolescents started disappearing. Nearly full grown, this crowd hung out at the edge of the woods, far from the coop and the mature flock. We'd been offering them up to friends and neighbors there were so many of them! </div><div><br /></div><div>... and then there weren't.</div><div><br /></div><div>And now it appears ALL but two or three of them have disappeared. Whatever is taking them it's quick, bold. And super hungry.</div><div><br /></div><div>We think it might be a hawk-- Dan found a hawk over a few chicken bodies in the woods-- but then today, I made a gristly discovery: a half eaten chicken up against the fence right beside the barn. I'll spare you the gristly details, but I don't think a hawk would hang around long enough to eat THAT much. </div><div><br /></div><div>Most of the usual suspects-- foxes, racoons, fishers-- are nocturnal. But the massacres seem to occur in daylight, broad daylight. When the guinea hens start up their ear-shattering warning calls, I run out to check but its always too late. Another chick has bitten the dust.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>So what the heck is it? And how do we remove it? </div><div><br /></div><div>I suppose we're lucky it's taken the predators six blissful, free-ranging summers to figure out we had fresh meat on the wing, but this is little consolation.</div><div><br /></div><div>We have two new hatches today-- brand new fuzzies still in the nest-- and it'd be nice if they could make it through this brutal, blood-drenched chicken-graveyard of a summer.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK74xtCv143l6l_UIgyxT6aWkHimKN6wQ28zCLRTLIh9-DHHjyI5ZifVOqxiHw1CdkRFBmYI7NWpGQv4Bkug3NMeYikeegu6mqafABcvJoG_4_luF_y_wgWyzGYoOkAEjPYFdFc6DJhiSw/s400/3+chickens.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486773342040972130" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><br /></div>Perrihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08485133856416996635noreply@blogger.com4