When the going gets tough....

...the tough, um, adopt a new puppy?

Sorry I've been away so long everyone. I have no good excuse. Just general busyness. Also, not much new to report here on Maggie's Farm. We are in a sort of holding pattern, waiting until spring to make the possibly hard decisions about our sheep and farm.

I must admit, it's been much, much harder to get myself out the door and down to the barn each morning now that the whole operation is in doubt. Sometimes, the hay I toss over the fence feels like the worst sort of pointless waste, especially when the sheep leave a carpet of it behind for the barn chickens stomp it into inedibility. At times like this, the cost-- $10-15 a day-- is hard to accept. At other times, it seems hard to imagine doing anything else.

So yes, I am trying to look at the flock with clear eyes, but they are sort of like family now. And family is not about practicality or expense.

We do have one big change-- a new puppy named Milo. He isn't a sheepdog, or even an actual breed. But he is to be the kids' dog, and is people oriented in a way that our more driven, task-oriented canines just can't manage. This means he is easy to re-direct... and loathe to be left alone. Sort of the exact opposite of our other two.

Milo is the result on an unplanned litter. He is an "Aussie Golden Doodle". He is keeping us busy this winter, near constant potty trips and lots of extra clean up and chewed kids' toys. The puppy usual.

So, why, you ask. Why the heck did we add a new element to an already overstretched situation? Um, crazy? That's one explanation. In short, it was the Micah's idea. He is "her" puppy and she is doing a decent job of being responsible for him.

Also, he is Luka's puppy. We worried that our little Icie character would put on the green eyed monster when Milo arrived, but hoped it would be good for her to share her family, toys, treats and sheep. We expected months of refereeing ahead, as Luka really knows how to put on that green-eyed monster. But, after an anxious "what do I do with THAT thing?" day of yipping anxiety, Luka decided little Milo was HERS and she has been so fabulous with him; she even plays tug and lets him win sometimes. Which is a something of a positive development.

So a lot of trouble in the short run-- but perhaps good for us all in the long run. (Though if you ask me about this in the wee hours of walking or when I am cleaning up puddles, I might have a different opinion.)

Cold Feet?

"Why farm?" We get that all the time.

We have full time plus jobs, three young children, long commutes, crazy expenses, a house that requires the chopping of wood for heat and a hundred other chores, all sorts of creative, political and social obligations etc, etc and I can't tell you the number of times folks, hearing about our jam-packed lifestyle shake their heads and call us crazy.

We used to laugh it off. Sure, well. Yeah...

But lately, we are wondering if perhaps we ARE a little crazy. Too crazy.

It all started with the hay. We don't have any. Our farm is small, and so, like many other unfortunate farmers we are forced to buy our hay from those with the land and equipment to produce it. $4.75 a smallish bale-- if we take the seats out of the minivan, load it ourselves and drive it home-- untold extra dollars if we have it delivered. This year, due to other obligations-- kids' birthdays, family, etc etc-- it snowed before we got the hay in. Now the driveway down to the barn is an ice slope with little hope of thaw, and we are stuck with 70 bales of hay (about a month's worth) in our garage. And many trips to pick up hay ahead.

In addition, Dan spent precious time he should have devoted to grading finals on fixing the fence Charlie bashed in trying to get a few more ewes "under his belt". And the water hydrant in the barn broke so we have to tote buckets a little farther over the treacherous ice. And it is cold, in the single digits in the mornings.

All just everyday stuff. But it's stuff that might seem more worth the trouble if we could eke a little profit out of the livestock. We can't. Haven't. And won't in the forseeable future.

You see, the jobs and kids and other obligations keep us from focusing on the selling part. We should be out there pushing yarn and pelts and meat and every other scrap of "by" and "value added" product". The selling needs to happen in order for "farm" to be more than the landed equivalent of "boat" (as in: a hole in the ground you pour your money into.) As it stands, the money we pour into the livestock could be our childrens' security or education or maybe just a breather in our constant financial juggle.

Part time farming really is a losing proposition.

I don't mean to sound grouchy. Or whiny. Or even glum. I don't feel any of these things. I am just coming to the realization that maybe... just maybe... I will regret that I haven't had time to teach that felting class with my kids after school or concentrate more fully on the half written novel or just play a few more rounds of "Fundomino" without having to truck on out to take care of the animals. Also, there is all the money to be saved.

On the other hand. Our sheep are family. I would miss the expensive little beasties, and mucking around out there in the cold, too. And watching newborn lambs. And figuring out breeding groups. And all the shearing days and unintentional "sheep rodeos". I would also miss feeling that deeper connection to the seasons and cycles and the inimacy with birth and death, joy and sorrow, that farming sort of is.

It's winter on Maggie's Farm, and I guess you could say, I've got cold feet.

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Belated Thanks

While Thanksgiving has come and gone, I am still very much in "thankful mode".

Our group (16 strong, this holiday!) sat around the table and created "Thankfulness Pictures" to share before dinner. (This is a tradition that took on a life of its own a few years back.) And aside from appreciating the family connections, the aspects of place and plenty that are a consistent theme, we thanked the animals that made our meal possible.

We had a very real sense of gratitude to the critters in our lives, owing to the bounty before us: The 30 pound turkey that had been free ranging about the orchard just a week before, the ham from our very own pigs, the sausage apple stuffing, homemade cider, blueberry pie, & apple pie-- all harvested with our own hands. These things felt different somehow, owing to our relationship with them.

Honestly, I am still wrestling with that relationship. Thoughts of the pigs (our three affable "Daves") continue to give me pause and-- although the ham was absolutely deliscious and I was very proud to provide it to our friends and family-- I ate it with reservations, with each bite totally mindful of the sacrifice it entailed.

The kids don't have the same reservations. At the holiday table, they thanked "The animals that feed us" and meant it, but to them, it seemed the natural way of things. Is this better than my agonizing and introspection? I just don't know. But I do know that time will give me more perspective on this, and time (relentlessly) marches forward.

We've had the year's first "snow day" and are moving headlong into the holiday season.

We were unable to harvest the TONs of apples out in the orchard this year and although we invited every friend, neighbor and acquaintance to load up, peeled and froze bushels full, made cider, brought apple crates to work and school, fed the sheep daily snacks, and donated a bunch to the food pantry, our orchard is still a mess of unpicked fruit. The deer will enjoy them at least... And Luka will enjoy barking at the deer and running them off with gusto.... And we will enjoy (not!) rushing out into the snowy night to call our bravehearted little dog back home. And so it goes...

The farm seems so quiet without the pigs and turkeys. The sheep are in their breeding groups and the chickens snowbound in their coop. Maggie-- although she'd sit hip-deep in the snow all day for the chance to watch over her flock-- is in the house much of the time.

The kids are building snow forts and perpetually losing gloves. Dan is plowing snow and chopping wood and worrying over hay bales.

Winter has happened.

Considerable Pathos

Last week our three pigs were slaughtered for food. This was the plan and we did indeed see it through. Though I feel like a bit of a cheat as I happened to be at work when the local guy came to shoot, skin and butcher them. I didn't mean to be away. In fact, I’d been steeling myself for the hard reality of slaughter as I stood by the pig pen through the increasingly cold days of autumn, trying to fathom how these three affable “Daves” would become bacon and pork chops and ham. I felt I owed it to the choice I had made, the choice to get to know my food on a personal level, to be there to see the thing out. But John, the “pig processor”, could only make it on my working days and so Dan helped out instead. I returned home that day to a pile of pig skins, a few puddles of blood and a heavy heart.

We tried to raise and slaughter these pigs as humanely as we could, arranging for them to stay home rather than be stressed in a slaughterhouse somewhere. We gave them plenty of room and pig goodies, gave them no reason to stress or fear up until this day. The night before the slaughter, I even went down to town and bought the largest cheapest bottles of vodka in the liquor store (The clerk had a good laugh when I explained they were for my livestock) and Dan made the pigboys “White Russians” with the last few cartons of milk. Even so, when I returned home the day of, Dan was pretty tight-lipped. So I am left to imagine that even with the pigs drunk as skunks, it was not a thoroughly an easy passing.

These days, I've been avoiding the pig pen, and I do not quite look at the drying hides in the barn. BUT, I must also admit that when the meat arrived a week later, wrapped neatly and in such amazingly plenty—enough to feed us and several other families for a good long time-- I felt a sense of pride. We had done what we set out to do: Provide for our family in a sustainable way, provide for our pigs a healthy, free ranging environment where they could root and graze and eat healthy whole foods, work hard from May to November, recycle loads of organic groceries that would have filled landfills rather than swine bellies. (Pigs are the ultimate in recycling…) And be part of the food chain again.

But How does it feel? You ask.

Hmmmm…… so, so.

On one hand, pigs are curious, trusting creatures (At least compared to sheep, who fully expect that you will eat them every time you so much as glance in their direction) and this makes the idea that we would violate the “trust” and actually eat them all the more awful.

On the other hand, the Daves were gobbling close to 20 gallons of food a day, an untenable situation. I could not imagine standing out in the lower barn an hour a day plunking frozen yogurt out of frozen 8 ounce tubs with frozen hands to keep the boys plump and happy. The cost of their feed skyrocketed towards the end there. And they were eating vanloads of donated food a week. Not easy to fit in between ferrying kids and playdates and work responsibilities and hay for the sheep. Owing to the confluence of weather, school and size, three, 300 pound pigs began to feel like one thing too many.

On the other hand, the pigs were pleasant and sweet and so easygoing compared to the nervous flock of sheep. They were fun—if stinky—to have around. My oldest had taken to riding them! And they could be counted on to eat every kind of table scrap—much more efficiently than the chickens. I didn't mind the half sandwiches left in the kids' lunchboxes when I plopped them into the "pig food" bucket on the counter.

On the other hand, I truly believe that death is a natural part of life and that by removing ourselves so thoroughly from the food chain (Many folks get squeamish just thinking about the “cow” in their burger) we have created a sort of strange new taboo. Yes it is scary and awful and I have experienced death on many very personal levels, but it is real.

On the other hand, it is much harder to look at a pork chop when you remember the pig it came from happily slurping up gallons of milk and grain, its stubby tail waggling.

On the other hand, as barrons (Castrated Males), the Daves had no other “purpose” other than to feed us.

On the other hand, do ANY of us have a "purpose"?

Will we do it again? I’m not sure yet.

I believe that it is natural and right to have a personal relationship with your food. But it is also a whole lot harder.

To Dye For

Ta Dah!!!!

This yarn makes me wish I knew how to KNIT!

Fall Farm Update

It was in the 30's last night. Definitely cold enough to talk fall, a busy time around here. (Actually, every time is pretty much busy on Maggie's Farm.)

Here's what's happening:

The little turkey poults of late June are now full-fledged adolescents, wandering about eating windfall apples and clover and whatever else they can get their beaks on. We have two narragansetts and a chocolate turkey in with the more common white and bronze varieties. Maybe we'll keep a breeding trio this year. We'll see.I love how turkeys take the idea of "flock" seriously. They stick together. Chickens, by contrast, are much more individualistic.

Speaking of chickens, Mighty Hera's batch of "sink chicks" are all grown up: Two roosters and two hens. They continue to live in the barn and may attempt to overwinter there. We'll see how that goes. Our second set of chicks (The kids have named them "Basketball", "Soccerball" and "Pearl") have moved from the temporary "broody coop" into the main coop and are now part of the flock. We've been waiting for the rooster on rooster on rooster violence to start up, but so far, it's been relatively peaceful.

The ducks have gone on to new homes. They were too panic-stricken for us. And messy. I've heard it said that there is a reason that ducks are called "fowl" :) That is definitely the case. So, no more ducks.

Speaking of messy, the Daves (Our trio of GOS X Tamworth pigs) are really big now, and so friendly and easy-going. I am having a hard time imagining eating them. Every day, during feeding, I stare at those "6 nice-sized hams" and tell myself that I will be able to do this thing. And I will. I have to. There is no way we can keep up with the feeding and care of these guys as they grow to top 500 pounds. But for now, they are settled into a more weather-tight pighouse (Dan made it by modifying the duck house) and enjoying lots of windfall apples and school cafeteria leftovers.

All of this year's ewe lambs are sold, but we still have 4 ram lambs available for sale: Dodge, Drac, Data and Duncan

Dodge and Drac are really magnificent rams-- already big and broad. Dodge has a great, square build and color. Drac has a truly amazing fleece and horns that will someday rival his sire, Charlie. We'd love to make you a deal on these guys, if you are interested. It will be a shame to eat them. A serious shame, but this farm ain't big enough for the both of them (+ Charlie + Rahm)

A twin born in Mid-May, Data is still smaller than the other boys, but he has great parasite resistance and is from those wonderful Jager Farm, Bambi and Rektor lines. He will look just like our herdsire Charlie one day. ...And he is available at a substantial discount. I don't have a current picture, but this is his sire, Charlie, and likely what he'll look like as an adult:

Duncan has quite a lot in the way of build and genetics. He has a very white-white fleece and the potential to throw moorit color or even spots.

And the apples are just getting ripe. They are magnificent this year, due to a preponderance of rainy days. It has been fun to share them with neighbors and friends. But somehow, we have yet to bake a single apple pie.

The Franklin County Fiber Twist is happening next weekend. Our yarn will be available at the "Metaphor Yarns" booth. Check it out!

Breed 'em or Eat

As summer draws to a chilly close, we find that our thoughts must also turn a bit chilly. Dan and I look at this year's lambs-- 5 rams remaining!-- and make some very real life-or-death choices. Who will we retain for breeding? Who will we eat?

Who will we eat????

Yup.

It may seem a callous, brutal question, but reality is: We have no room for 7 grown rams. Come cold weather, they will pummel each other. And they will cost an arm and a leg in hay... and arm and a leg and the rest of the farm perhaps as well. So it has come to this: a difficult choice. A lot of hemming and hawing and second guessing. But it's early in the season yet, and there is time for all that.

I don't think I appreciated the cyclical nature of the farmer's world before we began living it. Sure, every children's book makes mention of the seasons, Halloween and Thanksgiving, leaf piles and sledding. But as farmers, our tasks, even our preoccupations and worries are so specific, so predictable and seasonal, that season itself takes on a different sort of resonance. Nearly five years of farming and I could tell you month by month what my worries will be, what the little annoyances (^%*&&#$# wandering, wrong roosting turkeys!) or joys will be. I could tell you when I am going to be banging ice out of water buckets or clipping maple branches to sustain the sheep through the sparse late fall pasture, shooing a forever broody hen off her nest or checking on heavily pregnant ewes through the long night hours, skirting fleeces or dyeing yarn.

And so I can tell you that before the celebratory and Thanksgiving-y time of "harvest", comes the time of year when I look at the lambs-- the lambs that were once so cute and big-eyed twiggy who now look like everybody else out there more or less-- and make life or death decisions.

Once it's decided and done, I will not be able to look at pictures of these lambs for a while. It will be like any other loss... only one we've engineered ourselves. But there will be food in our freezer and enough hay for winter. And in the spring, I will run twenty times a day out to the barn to check on ewes with bulging bellies. And the cycle will begin again.

Death shadows the seasons on a farm. Fear of it (or of hurt, illness or injury) to your livestock informs much of what you do throughout the seasons of winter and spring and summer.

Then, in autumn, you cause it.

I like to think that farming has taught me to hold death a little closer. Itwas easy for me to forget how much a part of life-- how very normal-- death is when I was shielded from it in the suburbs, buying my meat from Stop and Shop. I chose not to think about the many deaths that enabled my lifestyle. Quite a far cry from my ancestors, who probably had an intimacy with death that I cannot even fathom.

And so, like the seasons, I guess I have come full circle as well.

At any rate, we still have some wonderful ram lambs for sale....