As The Butter Churns

September 7th Yes Sir, 4 Bags Full

(Spider web amongst the fall leaves)

   

At the last minute we decided to make our sheep shearing a family event. Lisa, Chris and the girls came out to the farm, as did Annie and Kim (Annie’s brother) and his wife Vivian. Kim and Vivian brought decadently ripe figs from their tree, which we devoured throughout the day.

    Our sheep shearing team arrived at 10:00AM. I don’t know what I expected, but I found the experience a bit traumatic. I’d seen sheep shearing before at fairs, but of course, those were just sheep they weren’t my babies. (Henry and Apache just before the big event)

    Apache went first. Not our best idea as Navajo Churro fleece is thick and tough to sheer. He was accidentally cut a few times. Henry and Quinn had to leave. Phoebe hung in there with Lisa and me. A few sheep and a cut or two later, we lost Lisa for a while. Everybody else was in and out. (Apache with a cut) (Phoebe & Lisa gathering wool)

(Apache with his new "do")

    The process was interesting. The shearers didn’t want any assistance. It seems the shearer must do the entire holding him or herself. They put the sheep on their bottoms, which puts them in this Zen-like trance. Immediately, they are rendered motionless – that is if they stay in that spot – which Mildred did not. She’s a kicker. (Angus in the position) (Apache, Cheryl and Angus)
(Mildred, Angus and Apache)

    I decided to keep a little on the top so they’d each have a bit of a hairdo. Nakedy, they all look like babies again. Now it’s easier to tell these little lambs apart. Angus has a small black spot on his neck and Mildred has a tiny ponytail down the back.

    Cheryl who is usually the shyest of the bunch has surprised everyone by suddenly eating out of my hand. Food seems to have overcome her fears.
(Cheryl looking pretty cute)

    The nice thing about a farm is you really don’t have to entertain anyone. While Phoebe and I tended to the sheering everyone else was busy with various things. Kim and Lisa took a walk and visited the cows. Vivian and Annie dove headfirst into the garden trying to free my iceberg rose from the clutches of some unidentified weed. Chris went for a bike ride and Wayne changed his oil, checking in on the Seahawks every little bit.

    With the sheering behind us we all ate a hearty lunch of lemonade, chili and hot cornbread with butter. Soon after with hugs and promises to see them at the farm festival we said good bye to Kim and Vivan. Then it was off to the river for one last summer tubing escapade. It was beautiful and warm for most of the time, but as the sun began to slip behind the mountains, you could feel autumn in the air.

August 5th An "Oink Oink" Here?

   

I woke up to a quiet house. Every one of the dogs, cats and kids were asleep so I stealthily brewed a pot of coffee and lounged around sipping my elixir in my green flannels on the porch watching the mist rise off the valley as the God rays streamed over the hills. The grass was laden with heavy dew; the cows lay in the pasture chewing their cud. The only movements were the robins hopping around looking for worms.

    I wasn’t alone long. Miss Phoebe came creeping out wearing her flannel nightgown backward. It looked familiar the pocket draped over her left shoulder, and then I realized it was my mother’s. My mother would be pleased to know she has created generations of women wearing flannels with tennis shoes or work boots well into the day.

    Phoebe and I began to discuss our latest acquisitions and mergers. How did we feel about the sheep now that they arrived? Was Bruno fitting in? Do the goats have enough space? What did she think of my new compound idea? We thoughtfully discussed these topics and my eventual plans for chickens and turkeys to really round out the barnyard.

    “Why don’t you get a pig?” Phoebe asked with her big blue eyes blinking at me. "Farms are supposed to have pigs."

    “Well, I really don’t want a pig. Maryruth has told me horror stories about pigs and how vicious they can be. And Phoebe, you know how big they get. Really I don’t think a pig is for me.”

    “Have you looked at Heritage pigs?” She ingeniously asked. “I mean didn’t farmers have lots of pigs back then? Maybe there’s a nice little piggy that doesn’t get too big. After all Tante (German for aunt) you have a pig pen in the barn all ready.” So much for the whole dumb blonde thing I’ve reflexively subscribed to being brunette. This little cherub is shrewd.

    The next thing you know we’re snuggled up in front of the computer on the American Breeds Livestock Conservancy website checking out rare, heritage, and colonial pigs. Sure enough we find one Thomas Jefferson documented as a breed  by 1804. They existed prior to that, but 1804 is when they were recognized as The American Guinea Hog. – I guess they couldn’t call them Guinea Pigs. They’re black, stand about 30” tall and get between 100 and 300 pounds. They’re known for their ability to forage and their gentle nature. It seems they ran wild in the forests and swamps until farmers would simply catch them and use them for bacon, ham, sausage and pork chops  of course, but every part of the pig would be used including the hair to make brushes etc.

    The next thing you know, she’s dialing the number to cascademeadowsfarm.com in Oregon. They have rare, heritage breeds, but not necessarily dating as far back as ours. They have Dexter cattle, Pilgrim Geese, Alpine goats, Icelandic sheep and Guinea Hogs. Clearly a gaping hole in our farm is the absence of swine.
(American Guinea Hog Piglet)
    I called Pea and informed him of my new pig discovery.

    “Well, don’t go get one today.”

    “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not getting a pig now, I’m simply researching animals for Fort Flashback in a responsible way.”

    'Did you say my thinking you might get a pig today was being ridiculous? Me thinking you might run out with the kids in your mobile Honda barn and come home with a piglet or two is ridiculous?”

    “OK, you’re right. It’s not ridiculous.” I conceded. “My sister thinks I need a Shick Program.”

    “A Shit program?”

    “Well, maybe that’s how it might work. No. She said Shick animal program.”

    “Oh.”

    

(Phoebe directs traffic)
(the kids "encourage" the goslings to try the pond)
(They don't want to stay in - at first)
(Mabel, Alfred, Clara, Lloyd, Ruthie, Matilda, Cleveland and Quackmire all start to like the pond)
(But only for a short time) (Then they need to go home and rinse off all that nature in the baby swimming pool)

    The rest of the day was filled with scooping donkey poop, picking flowers, mixing cement, plotting fences shooting arrows and vacuuming the house, ambushing the girls with water balloons, (The boys see payback- the water balloon war begins) (Henry has great aim Phoebe gets it) (Quinn gets it) (Sam pelts Kimona)
 teaching the geese to swim in the pond, snuggling Bruno, reassuring Luther he's still loved and making homemade pumpkin pie ice cream with hot caramel sauce.

August 3rd The Eyes Have It

(Wayne working in the attic)

    This morning I woke up and realized I was out of coffee. OUT OF COFFEE. How could something like this happen? I scrounged around and found half a cup left over in the thermos™ from yesterday. I zapped it and went and fed the animals. Everyone was still snug as a bug. Miracle was peering into the sheep pen and gave me a loud bray of good morning. I spent some time trying to get the sheep to eat out of my hand and fed Miracle some extra treats.

    Luckily, Wayne was arriving when I returned. He remembered I was low on coffee and showed up to work on the attic bearing coffee beans and a grinder – just in case. Bless his heart. While I brewed a fresh pot of coffee, I spoke to Phoebe who told me NO NAME PUPPY was now officially, Charlie Donaldson. Full cup of coffee in hand I went about the day.

(Abbey with Vivian's toy)

    The kids and I were going to work on the sheep pen today, but Andrea had shown me how to clip the lamb’s feet yesterday afternoon and I began to worry about my goats. So Kimona, Henry and Sam helped me get Rachel up on the milking station. Sam held her head and fed her treats while Henry and I tried to clip her feet. I was a nervous wreck. I worried about wear to clip and how much to clip. I didn’t want to hurt her, and I yet I knew it had to be done. Frantic, I called Marcia at St. Johns Creamery. I was embarrassed, but I was more concerned about the goat so I swallowed hard and asked if I should take them to a vet, but she just laughed. Marcia explained what to do and said if I wanted to come up for a lesson next week she'd show me on a few of her goats. I thanked her and went back to the barn to try again. One by one we went through the goats, but Henry and I both knew I’d done a poor job.

    I suggested to Henry we should just take the goats to Marcia. He didn’t want to because he was afraid she’d take them away because we were bad goat owners. I told her this when I spoke to her and she said “Throw them in the van and bring them here. We’ll get them fixed up.” She reminded me she killed two of her first four.

(St. John Creamery)

(Marcia has a heard of 125)

    An hour later, the four of us and the four goats were arriving in Everett in my mobile barn. I knew Marcia had heritage chickens, Dominiques- so in the back of my mind, I thought we might end up with another passenger on the way home.

     When we arrived, I remembered how much I envied Marcia’s compound. She has a gate and a fence that surround her property so goats and chickens simply wander about. There are pens as she has different groups of goats, but others roam at will. – Mental note mention to Pea we need a gate at the entrance. As we stood there waiting for Marcia we met a nasty billy goat named Hans that drank our goats urine. So gross. He walked around with his lewd tongue hanging out and curling his lips back. Kimona was traumatized.

(Hans- the billy goat- complete with full beard)
(Christina getting her medication)
(Irish's sister by another mister)

    (Rachel, Christina, Riley and Alexander waiting to go)

I sent Henry to look for Marcia. The moment she came in to view I felt better. She wormed them, gave them their minerals and finished their feet. I felt as though I’d done my taxes. All was well. And then, Henry came up holding one of Marcia’s dogs, a rat terrier. He was three months old. Henry cried and Henry begged and I stood there feeling nothing. I did not want another dog. There was no way in this world I was going to give in and get yet another animal. And then we started talking about our mouse problem in the barn and the constant problem Kristi is facing in the shop and my resolve started waning. (Henry and Bruno)
  (Kimona, Henry, Sam and Bruno pour on the pressure)

Tom had talked of barn cats, but I’m terrified of feral cats and I really don’t want any animal that isn’t socialized. I called Tom, he was indifferent – he said it was up to me, he’s not by any means a small dog person, but he agreed the mouse and rat problem needed a solution. I took a long deep look into Bruno's eyes and then into Henry's and thoughts of Wilma, the puppy my mom bought and returned came flooding back to me - moments later; the chicken with her head cut off was driving away with a Rat Terrier.
(The backseat boys)

August 2nd And Along Came Sheryl

    

(Apache, Angus, Mildred & Sheryl hiding in back)

   

    I got up early, fed the animals packed a lunch and the requisite thermos™ of coffee, woke the sleeping dead and threw them in the back of the van. Grabbed a tarp, programmed my “navi” for the Flying J truck stop in Ellensburg – three and a half hours away and we were off.

    The kids watched “Get Smart” episodes all the way there while I listened to Max and 99 declare their love for the first time before they realized they could escape certain death by trying the “old double door trick”. The time flew by until we were suddenly at the Flying J. Andrea; our sheep breeder was only minutes behind us. She pulled up and quickly transformed the back of my van into a mobile barn. Andrea meets us at the Flying J in Ellensburg)

(transform Honda to barn)
  (lambs about to move from truck to van)

     I pulled my sliding door up to the back of her truck and the two of us hoisted the lambs through the passageway. First we got one full Navajo-Churro, Apache – he’s latte colored. He was a bottle-fed baby and is easily handled. Second went the one full Leicester Longwool wether, Angus. Next hopped the full bred Leicester Longwool ewe, Mildred and a finally the scardy cat or timid one, Sheryl, a 3/4 Leicester/Churro cross. She’s a little nervous about traveling, but she made it. (Apache looking at Henry & Sam) (Apache & Angus watch the boys carefully)

    The ride home was full of discovery. We learned that for hundreds of years, children everywhere have been deceived by a certain nursery rhyme. Sheep do not say, “Baa baa”. Clearly whoever wrote that had a problem with their phonemic awareness. Sheep or in this case lambs say, “Maaa maaa” After three hours we are all completely sure. We talked about our collection of animals. I believe Fort Flashback now has one of the most unique collections of colonial animals this side of Williamsburg. We have the Milking Devon, Oberhasli goats, Cotton Patch geese, Leicester Logwools, a Churro and your basic drama queen donkey. Now all we need are some Silver Dorking chickens and a turkey. OK , Tom's daughter, Laura wants some ducks so we'll have to consider a couple. Twist my arm.

    "You mean they had donkeys in colonial times?" Henry asked.

    "Yes. Donkeys have been around a long time."

    "So I can say kiss my colonial ass?" Henry grinned as Sam howled. Proving once again, the ass jokes never get old.

    Upon arriving home, I backed the van up to the barn doors so the lambs couldn’t go anywhere but in the barn. The kids took unpainted fence boards and created a shoot so the lambs couldn’t go out into the goat/donkey area. Angus hopped out and one by one the others followed until even Sheryl decided she’d rather brave the barn than be alone. You’ve got to love the herd instinct. (Abbey checks out the lambs and lambs check out Abbey)

(Thinking about getting out)

(sheep going into their new digs)

    Just as the lambs were skittering into their part of the barn, Miracle came completely unglued. She started screaming and braying as if I brought four fuzzy coyotes into the barn. She screamed and danced around until I shut their door. I was shocked at her reaction, but I guess she thought this was just about the last straw. First she had to coexist with the pushy pellet-grabbing-goats, next, the noisy neighbors’ honk and carry on all night and now these unidentified fuzzy critters prance in. She turned her back and wouldn’t even look at them after that. Everyone else couldn’t get enough of them. Vivian was riveted, the goats were fascinated and even the geese came to take a gander.
 

(Vivian peeks through the bars)
(Rachel and Christina and Riley our peeping goats)
(Sam works at cleaning up the barn) (Miracle ignores the lambs)

    The kids worked at cleaning up the barn, while I made dinner and called TLC Sheep Shearing. I'd seen them on Craigslist and Andrea told me to not waste time making an appointment to have them sheared. She said spinners will be lining up for their wool. I did as I was told.

    I was called to the barn to check their work and although they did a good job there is certainly more to do tomorrow.

May 9th A Little Bit of This & That

(Luther taking a sunbath)

    I was drunk with sunshine from the moment I opened my eyes. On the radio they report a condition called "sun shock". I understand it's when you're driving along and you see sun. I guess there are increased accidents because people can't see the road.

     I’ve gotten a little behind this week, my friend, Kathy wouldn’t be surprised to know I’ve got laundry piling up. The floor needs mopping and I haven’t gotten much at the grocery store so we’re playing a little game my mother used to play called “What can we make for dinner out of what we have in the cupboard.” But I don't mind because I am trying hard this week to move things forward. You know, the bigger projects that need your full attention. Instead of the everyday things that will still be there on Monday morning. For me, it’s all about fences. Of course, there’s the fence for the dogs. Its design is becoming an engineering marvel and then I’m trying to get a flower garden fence in as well as a vegetable garden fence. After all we live on a farm; a vegetable garden is almost mandatory, isn’t it? Plus, we need really need a second pasture fence for the goats and Miracle. They just don’t have enough room where they are. That enclosure was always meant as temporary. Tom’s planning to build some sort of goat “tree”; it’s the same concept as a cat tree but for goats. I don’t know what it’s going to look like yet, but he thinks they don’t have enough playground equipment so he’s planning on using some old tree stumps and whatever else we have lying around.

It’s funny how fences work. They’re to keep some animals in as well as others out. And somehow they always make a space look bigger. I don’t know why that is, but it seems true. I marked out where I want my flower garden and somehow the amount of weeds seemed to double.

   

I wanted to go to get the materials I needed for the fence in the farm truck, but it wouldn't start. Dead Battery. We haven’t used it all winter because there really hasn’t been a need so it’s been sitting around with branches in it since November. The branches came from a cottonwood tree that was chopped down in September. September -  and this is May. My dad got the jumper cables I pulled up my trusty Odyssey and we got Daisy the Farm Truck humming again. When we went to the back of the truck to clear it out we were shocked to see that the branches were blooming. They had been absorbing so much water since they were cut down that they are still alive. And blooming.

    "Well there's so much of this crap it's no wonder," my glass-is-half-empty father said alluding to the constant drizzle.
(close up)

    Vicky Jackson, my wetlands consultant, and her assistant Clover came out this afternoon to do a wet season wetlands check while I was moving the goslings out to their new home in the garage. As I’ve mentioned before Washington State takes its wetlands buffers very seriously so everything is checked and double-checked. This means Vicky and Clover go down by the stream and check for signs of soggy ground and wetlands grass etc. Interestingly, dandelions don’t go to wetlands until much later in the season. Anyway, the good news is Vicky seems to think all is as it should be so we can proceed with the country permits as far as that goes. And we are due for the annual Cascade Toad migration that moves through our property. So stay tuned.

    The goslings spent a lovely afternoon eating weeds and sunning themselves in the grass and are now safely tucked into their new digs with a five-gallon water jug that should last them at least a couple of hours. Those geese drink a lot of water. I bought them a new heat lamp and replaced the one that burned out because the garage gets cold at night. We still get in the thirties in the evenings but with the lamps they should be fine. I put them on either side so no one will be left out in the cold like in that horribly depressing “March of the Penguins”.

(Alfred Sitting Down)

   

Alfred is doing better hobbling around. He went to the vet this week and had an x-ray of his leg. The doctor said he would probably do fine because he is a heritage breed. And when his feathers finish coming in his balance will improve. She said compared to so many modern geese that get too fat heritage breeds are proportioned better and, so, much better equipped to cope. She told me some of her clients have gotten regular turkeys as pets and these turkeys are bred just to gain weight and land on someone’s table so they have heart attacks and other problems that lead to early death. The birds are simply not designed to live. I guess this is becoming a common phenomenon today. Take the Kentucky Derby, for instance. They said many breeders are breeding horses with lighter bone structures which leads to more fractures and early death because they’re just being bred to run until they’re three or so. They’re not bred to live either. Sad.

   

April 29th On A Clear Day You Can See Forever

   (Alfred and the rest of the flock)

    Not completely confident in Alfred's last diagnosis, my sister put me in touch with another doctor friend of hers who has been checking into Alfred's condition. As doctor's do she asked many questions regarding Alfred's legs, his ability and of course his living conditions. The doctor asked me if Alfred has been getting enough sunlight.

    "No." I replied, "Alfred, lives in the Pacific Northwest, there is no sunlight. We've had rain and snow almost since he arrived. Even the tulips haven't had enough sunlight."

    Well, after that I went and got Alfred a full -spectrum light bulb which is what many people use here and in the mid-west to ward off  S.A.D. - Seasonal Affect Disorder-.

    (Henry covered in gosling poop with his flock)
    Today however, is a screaming sunny day. And so all of the goslings: Mabel, Ruthie, Clara, Matilda, Lloyd, Quackmire, Alfred and Cleveland are all venturing outside for a little sunshine therapy.

(Henry & Mabel - after  Henry changed his shirt- Wimp)

(Henry getting love from the girls)

(Ruthie loves Henry)

(Snuggled up)

"Hey, Hey, Hey Everybody!!"

April 24th If It's Not One Thing

   

   

    I woke up with a start this morning feeling as though I’d overslept. I checked the clock and I was up strangely early. Sore and creaky from all the hard labor, I dragged myself downstairs looking like a truck hit me. I’d taken a hot shower before going to bed and too exhausted to dry my hair I went to bed. The result is not pretty. I had a little extra time so I chatted a bit longer with Tom over coffee than usual and leisurely made Henry’s lunch. Just as I was inserting the Flavor Blasted Goldfish™ I remembered.

    “Don’t forget Mama my all my paperwork and permission slips are due tomorrow for Mountain School. It’s the last day to turn them in.” Henry said sleepily before he went to sleep last night. Drat. I had forgotten totally I hadn’t even taken them out of the pack. Now, we had to leave in thirty minutes and I wasn’t even dressed. My dad walked in. I’d forgotten, he needed a ride to his car before school – at least it was on the way.

    I set new land speed records getting out of the house. Henry fed the dogs while I did the barn. As I fed Pancho and Lefty hay showered on me and I momentarily thought of my sister the chimpanzee. I’d have to avoid her at all costs. I now truly looked like road kill, but I would stay in the car and with any luck no one would notice me.

    We dropped off my dad and his book at Mt. Baker Automotive and Henry hopped in the front seat.

    “Mama, don’t feel bad about forgetting about me. I forget about you all the time.”

    “Is that somehow supposed to make me feel better?” I gave him the eyebrow lift. “ Anyway, I feel like loser mother of the year, and I truly am sorry. You brought home the papers and you told me to do them and you even reminded me last night. I’m not angry at you, but I know how teachers get when parents don’t turning their slips on time especially since I’m a chaperone.”

    “How about you tell me what to write and I fill in the answers while you’re driving.”

    “That’s a great idea.” So he did all the paperwork including his insurance information and the requisite check. All I had to do when we arrived was sign my name where he’d marked.

    “The only thing missing Honey, are the dates we’re going. Do you remember?”

    “No. I’ll just ask my teacher and fill them in when I get to class.”

    I turned to head home, because after all where else could I go in my condition? And just in front of me was a dark gray Honda Odyssey. Lisa. The phone rang and sure enough she’d seen my car. Luckily, she was on her way to an appointment and didn’t have time to stop. Whew. I continued on my way so far so good. The phone rang again, this time it was my father it seems his car was not ready and he needed me to pick him up. Fifteen minutes later when I pulled into the parking lot I realized he might not see me and I wasn’t going in. I’d call if I had to, but my luck continued and he walked out. They’d have the part for his car a little later so he just wanted a ride to the Extreme Bean and they’d call him there.
No problem as long as I don’t have to get out of the car. The Extreme Bean is also a drive thru and for a moment I considered a hot cup of coffee for the ride home, but vanity got the best of me. I’d go without.

    When I pulled into the driveway I felt elated. I’d made it. I went directly upstairs used the Trader Joes™ Tangerine Sugar Scrub and did my hair. While I was getting ready I started thinking about those Silver Dorkings again. What could I do with twenty-two roosters? I supposed I could give one to each of the kids in Henry’s class. That would make me popular with the PTA.

    I called Dan Cramer and he found some round bales for me and promised to deliver them tomorrow. “Now Denise, are you sure you don’t need anything nothing else? My son’s doing a great workshop on how to harness a team and drive them. It’s all day clinic and people are coming from three states, he serves a beautiful lunch.”

    “Dan I need a lot of things, and I’d really love to go to the clinic but right now we’re not spending any extra money.”

    “OK then. I understand. Oh and I was going to help you get a job wasn’t I? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

    I went upstairs to check on the goslings and found their 100-gallon tub is no longer big enough. They are suffering from overcrowding. They can move around enough and it’s too cold to move them outside still, but I had to do something because they keep knocking over their water dish and food because of these urban conditions. I called Lisa about the pen and because Alfred is injured and I’m really worried about him. I think the others stepped on his leg accidentally when I was transporting them outside. And he won’t stand up for very long. At first, I thought maybe he should just rest, but it’s been a few days now and he isn’t any better. I asked Lisa what to look for and she told me to inspect his joints. She also suggested a tarp and Irish’s puppy pen for their new living quarters. I was just about to set them up in their new digs when Tom called. Sipping my coffee while talking I glanced down into the meadow. I gasped.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“It’s him again.”

“Who him?”

“Pancho.”

I couldn’t believe it. Pancho, or should I call him Houdini was out again and this time he was trying to break back into the pasture. I ignored him and tended to the geese. I knew he wasn’t going anywhere. He’d walk around and eat grass mooing at Anna. He’d used up his dime.

    After the goslings were taken care of I called Kulshan Veterinary as their ad says they do cats to cows. I asked if they did geese. The receptionist said yes they had a poultry doctor. And I could bring the gosling in at 3:45 tomorrow.

    (Alfred is the only one sitting down)

   

“How old is he?”
    “He’s three weeks. Is it ok if I bring another one with me, because I think he’ll flip out if he’s isolated.”

    “Sure that’s no problem. What color is he?”

    “That’s a hard question. He’s molting.”

    “He’s molting? What color is he? He’s molting? That’s a riot.” She laughed so hard I couldn’t believe it. “Well, we’ll see you tomorrow.”  I hadn’t really thought that was Saturday Night Live™ funny, but it’s always good to get a laugh.

With Alfred handled, I went to the barn got a scoop of grain, walked to where Pancho could see me and called his name. I shook the scoop. Pancho came trotting toward me and followed me in the gate. I studied the corral. It didn’t have any breaks and it took me a few minutes to figure out how he’d gotten out, because Lefty was still there. Good old Left.

Well, he’d didn’t go over it. He didn’t go around it. Noooooo. He went UNDER it. That’s correct, he lifted up poorly constructed the green pipe corral fence up with his horns and scooched himself under it. We’d hired some guy to put it together and he apparently had no pride in his work. I’d never really studied it before, but the fence on one side was only tied at the top with red twine.  I tied the bottom with a rope to a fence post. I’d have to have Tom do it right, but for now it should hold. I hope.

    When Mike and Henry arrived home, we set to picking up junk. It seems in rural communities that people section off parts of their properties and just use them as a dumpsite. Living on this land is like going on an Easter egg hunt for old broken down farm equipment. I’ve found all sorts of bizarre things including a car that I can’t for the life of me figure how it got where it is. I have refrigerators and dishwashers and freezers with gunshot holes. Manure spreaders, forgotten tractors from almost every era, tires, stoves, and tables with benches attached that look like belong in a fast-food restaurant. Anyway, I can’t stand the stuff. I have to get it out of here. Now I have already filled up more than five industrial sized roll-offs with sundry construction junk.  The very biggest bins they make, but the minute the bin is gone, things seem to sprout from the ground. Tomorrow we’re having a guy come and take everything away including the appliances because they’re almost impossible to get rid of.

    When we came in Henry handed me a paper with the dates for the chaperone meeting. I was impressed. He was becoming a bit more responsible. I glanced down at the date and marked it on my calendar. I looked for the dates of the actual trip so I could jot them down too. I couldn’t believe it. The dates were May 12-14th. And I had been planning for months and months and months to drive to Seattle on May 13th to go to Charlaine Harris’ book signing. I know it seems piddily, but I’ve read seven of her Sookie Stackhouse Southern Vampire novels and I love them. They make me happy. As my aunt, Lana used to say, “They’re good chewing gum for the eyeballs.” She’s only coming to Seattle for the day and won’t be back for the rest of the year. How perfect it would have been I thought I could have driven to Seattle and Henry would be gone so I wouldn’t have to worry about what to do with him at all and just to add salt in the wound I wouldn’t have had to take him to school the next morning either. The perfect alone time treat. I mourned my opportunity.

I wasn’t done yet, because I’m a terrible mother. I called Toby.

“Maybe you can just leave the field trip for the one night.”

“Are you kidding? Leave? They shoot chaperones at dawn for that. No. I have to either replace myself or go, but I can not leave.”

I cautiously started asking Henry “Maybe you would feel more grown-up if I didn’t go Henry. I know Zach’s mother would like to go. You know some kids don’t like having their parents there they feel more independent.”

    “Well, if you have something more important to do Mama, that’s OK.”

    Sister Sally, you can tell the boy is Catholic. My mother often said, “When it comes to guilt, the Jews may have invented it, but the Catholics perfected it.”

April 19th Yakitty Yak

   

   The phone rang yesterday morning and it was decided that the Mellotts, a lovely family in Wyoming - complete with a basset hound named Elvis - is going to give Pancho and Lefty a new home. It seems Pancho and Lefty are  going into show business and will be participating in a wild west show. I'm thrilled because when I asked Mrs. Mellott if they were sure, she replied. "Yes, I think they've been put in the will above the children." Maryruth should be pleased.

        Mr. Mellott will be fetching them week after spending a night in Idaho with his brother,  which means I need to provide appropriate health documentation when transporting livestock across state lines. I didn't want to do it before I knew when and where Pancho and Lefty were going because different states have different requirements and health certificates are valid for only two-weeks in come cases and a month at the outside. In order to get all the necessary paperwork I called the Wyoming Livestock governing board to inquire what might be needed. Remember Wyoming is a large state known for its cattle, at least that’s how I view it. So I would think especially the guy in charge of livestock would be extremely knowledgeable in this category. I was wrong.

    “Hello, I’m calling from Western Washington and I’ve just sold a pair of oxen to a gentleman in Wyoming and I need to know what if any vaccines you require for them to enter the state.”

    “Oxen? Is that a yak?” he asked perplexed.

    “A yak? They live in Tibet. No. They're oxen you know,cattle. I guess they look a little like a yak with a crew cut.” I replied a bit surprised. Wondering if I had the right number.

    “Are they bulls?” he asked.

    “Ah, no. they’re oxen. You know a steer but older and with an education.” I replied slowly completely off guard. I’m the city girl.

    “So what are they exactly?” he asked me again still confused.

    “They’re cattle, they’re Milking Shorthorns.”

    “What they’re from a dairy? That changes everything. How many cows are you talking about? These are milkers then.” He seemed somewhat authoritative now.

    “No. If you tried to milk these two you’d very sorry. Their breed is the Milking Shorthorn. The breed that settled the entire western United States. They are males. An ox is merely a four-year-old or older steer. A castrated male. They are usually trained to pull a cart or a plow a field.”

    “Really? I didn’t know that.”  Obviously. This guy is in charge?  “In that case they don’t need anything special only a health cert. and a permit number. The vet you have check them out can call us for that.”

    “Great, thank you.”

    So I called the large animal vet's office and made an appointment for Tuesday. They asked if I was sure of the health requirements for Wyoming, I told them I was and that I’d just gotten off the phone with the livestock board of health.

    Next, I cleaned out the gosling’s container and settled down to order some chickens. I’ve completely given up on Black Javas they’re great but at this point they are so rare I can’t even acquire any. So I went back to the Williamsburg breeds page on their website and decided on Silver Dorkings. I did a search and found they are available at the Murray McMurray Hatchery. Fabulous. I went to order them, but stopped short of check out and called my feathered friend, Toby. And told her I had to order 25 chicks in order to get an order and I really didn’t want or need twenty five of anything. She agreed to meet me in Horse Shoe Bay and take the extra chicks. She sells eggs at the farmer’s market and says she never has enough eggs. We did the math and calculated the shipping costs etc. She decided she’d like to get more Araucanas, commonly known as the Easter egg chicken because it lays colored eggs and everyone loves them. In fact, Henry took green eggs from Toby’s chickens to school on Dr. Seuss Day in kindergarten. They were a huge hit with the kids and the kindergarten teacher, Nell, was more than a little taken aback that there really were green eggs to go with ham.

    So I excitedly picked up the phone and called the Murray McMurray Hatchery to order my chickens. I didn’t want to leave it to the Internet because I had too many questions. I went through the discussion about taking chickens across an international boundary and was assured that with their health certificate and the appropriate vaccinations the hatchery provides I would have no problem. Sure it might sound easy from where she sat, but had she actually done it? Taking poultry to Canada seemed daunting to me, yet I wanted my chickens so I was up for the challenge. I’d make Henry go with me he’d distract them. Great mother I am. I'm willing to use my child as bait to distract international agents. Whatever works.

     I was ready to pull the trigger and give my debit card number. Then the woman’s tone changed.

    "Oh, I didn’t realize you wanted the Silver Dorkings. We don’t have any.”

    “Really?  You’re sure. I don’t need many. Ideally I’m only looking for five pullets and one cockerel.” I said dazzling her with my newly acquired insider chicken lingo.

    “Sorry, chicken season is almost over so we wouldn’t be able to get you your order until June and even then we don’t’ have any Dorkings.”

    “ There’s a chicken season? Don’t they lay eggs all the time?” I said revealing my novice knowledge of poultry.

    “There’s a short time when we have chicks so we’re almost over and you won’t be able to get any until next spring. You can put your pre-order in next January.”

    “I had no idea. You’re sure you don’t have any.”

       “Well, let me see” she said as the tapping of her computer clicked over the phone. “ We do have three from a canceled order available the week of May 12th.”

    “Great! I’ll take them.”

    “No you can’t. Because we don’t have anything else available that week. And we can’t ship less than twenty-five.”

    “There isn’t anything, nothing else?” I figured I could at least sell something else on Craigslist.

    “There are plenty of cockerels.”

    “Roosters? I would have to buy twenty-two roosters?” I thought of my neighbor, “stinky britches” wouldn’t he just love it if I got twenty-two roosters. My evil side began to emerge.

    “Exactly.”

    “What would I do with twenty-two roosters? Do you think I could sell them?” I knew I really couldn’t keep twenty-two roosters and stay on speaking terms with Mike.

    “Well, not a lot of people want them that’s why we have so many, but you could eat them.”

    “I don’t think so. We really couldn’t.”  Although Tom’s mother can twist the head off a chicken with one hand. But unless she intends to come up here and handle it while I take a cruise somewhere I don’t think that’s going to work out. “Can we buy wild turkeys?” Tom has this dream of having wild turkeys roaming the area. Unlike modern domestic turkeys that can barely move because they've been bred so top heavy, a wild turkey can run up to 25mph and fly up to 55 mph and are very adaptable to almost any environment in the U.S. “Or, the Standard Bronze? I just want a tom and a hen.”

    “Sorry. We can’t ship turkeys with chicks. We get them from two different locations.”

    “Hmm, then I guess I don’t really have any other options do I?”

    Well, then sorry.” Click.

        I wasn’t ready to accept defeat quite yet, but I needed to take the goslings out for a little waddle. Luther thoroughly enjoyed the outing racing back and for the with them in the twenty minutes of our allotted sunlight.

    While I stewed over the chicken dilemma, the phone rang again it was the veterinarian’s office. They had some questions about the health check on Tuesday. It seems they were unclear what exactly oxen were. and again I went through the exact same bovine discussion I’d had with the man from Wyoming all over again. Can we be a society so removed from the past that even people working with livestock don’t know an ox from a cow? To be clear. A heifer is a young bovine that has not had a calf. A cow is a female bovine. A steer is a castrated male. A bull is an intact male bovine of any age. An ox is a castrated male over the age of four. The age distinction is made because steers are usually covered in A1™ on your dinner table long before the age of four.

    Tom called and had a chicken idea. He suggested I call the co-op, Laurel Farm Supply or Dell's and see if they’d take roosters. Great idea. Although he apparently doesn’t know the term cockerel yet – complete nubie.

April 15th Kiss His Ass Good-Bye

    Today none of us wanted to get up and face the day but like or not, the sun rose. First thing this morning, Tom slipped out to the barn to have coffee with his best girl. He brushed her and fed her treats whispering in her ear he’d be back.

    With the geese, cattle, goats, dogs, cats and Henry fed we got in the car headed for school. It was quiet at first no one spoke. We drove knowing Tom would be leaving for quite a while maybe six weeks. Money’s tight and he’s got to earn a living - who knows I may be serving coffee at Starbucks™ or bagging groceries at Trader Joes™ if we can’t get anything else going. A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do.

    So with a heavy heart I drove to town armed with my coffee for comfort while Tom read a loud from James Herriot’s “All Creatures Great & Small”. Henry loves the stories and I have to admit, they’re very real to me now. I’ve had a lot of James Herriot moments over the last eight months or so. We dropped Henry at school first. Tom kissed him good-bye barely choking back the tears as Henry happily climbed the hill to his class with a child’s understanding of the upcoming separation. Tom on the other hand got back in the car with a somber silence.

Next we drove to meet Lisa for a farewell breakfast chatting about the run Lisa had just done bantering back and forth verbal darts flying. Many aimed at the hay still clinging to my hair. “How can you let her go out like this? She looks like she just rolled in the hay.”

    “You get used to it. She used to be so clean. I remember a yellow feather dress.. .”

    “Has she showered lately?”

    “The cows don’t mind.”

    Finally, I dropped Tom at Bellingham International Airport (I think they may have one puddle-jumper that goes to Canada) The good-bye was quick and almost emotionless as though we’d see each other later this evening. That’s the only way we could do it

    Now then, with Tom gone there was work to be done. The goats needed a new salt lick in their pen and more baking soda. And I’m a little worried, they didn’t eat their timothy hay from last night and if there’s one thing for certain, goats eat. I’ll have to call Marcia.

    Tom called, he’d arranged for someone from Scholten’s to make a tractor house call. He thought it should be serviced and he didn’t want me to have to find a way to take it in to the shop in Lynden.

    This was way better than flowers.

    One of the service guys at Scholtens’s lives on the 9 near the Everybody Store so they’d agreed to send Wayne out. He came out and got the tractor all taken care of. We had an interesting discussion on Bio-diesel. I told him I’d tried to be green and used it but it became sludge in the winter. I expected to be chided and brushed off as a girl from the city, but instead he laughed and told me that although he uses it in his little tractor, Kubota™ put out a warning because a lot of it smells like French fries, popcorn or peanuts and mice love those things. The hoses are just rubber and so sometimes they go to town on people’s tractors.

    Miracle, Christina, Rachel, Alexander and Riley were fascinated with Wayne as he worked. Pancho and Lefty had eating to do.

    As I passed the dozen spectacular roosters roaming around Ann Storm’s place on the way to pick up Henry from school I realized I just have to give up on the Java chickens if I ever want to get chickens. There just aren’t any Javas available. Williamsburg has Dorkings and if they’re good enough for Williamsburg, I guess I’ll go with the Silver Dorking they’re noted as a very hearty and gentle breed. Now how many should I get? I called Tom.

April 13th Wild & Wooly Weekend

   

Henry & "Tiny Tim"

    This has been a road warrior weekend full of activity. Tom, Henry and I left the baby goslings and six heads of lettuce in Mike’s capable hands while we drove down to Portland for the Region 2 gymnastics championships. Simultaneously, Chris, Quinn and Phoebe went to Whidbey Island to cheer Lisa on as she ran her first half marathon.

    Henry had a couple of small blunders during the meet, but was able to pull off three personal bests on floor, pommel and vault. Wonderfully, Henry took 10th place all around and will now be moving on to level 6. Whew. Another season in the sports bag.

    On the way back we took a six hundred mile detour to see some Leicester Longwool sheep, a rare heritage breed we’re considering adding to our farm. The breed was developed in the 1700s by Robert Bakewell, one of the first people to use modern breeding techniques in development of livestock. And whose work influenced Charles Darwin and Gregor Mendel. As a result, George Washington and Thomas Jefferson both acquired large flocks of Leicesters (pronounced “Lester”). Today they’re critically endangered.

    We’d been in contact with the breeder, Andrea and she invited us by to see the month-old little lambs. It was really important to me to see how they’re kept and really know if another species is something I’m capable of handling right now.

    From the moment we pulled up, Tom and Henry fell in love with the other breed Andrea keeps. The Navajo-Churro sheep. I hadn’t even considered this breed. I don’t know why. Maryruth has Churros and they are a very rare heritage breed, brought to America in the 1500s by the Spanish - feeding explorers and missionaries. That's a bit of a departure, but not out of our realm.

    There we stood as Henry and Tom both told me how adorable the Churros were. The last time that happened we went home with two kittens, Scarlett and Alvin. I braced myself. Feeling some relief knowing the lambs weren’t yet weaned and absolutely couldn’t leave even if Henry and Tom tried to stow one in the back of the van.

    And then we met him - the Tiny Tim of Navajo-Churro Sheep. He was born with a mineral deficiency because his mother simply avoided eating the supplements she was given. No one knows why. She had a mineral salt lick and as well as loose minerals while she was pregnant, but she just didn’t acquire enough. Andrea got her from a rescue flock and perhaps she wasn’t completely healthy, but whatever the reason Little Tiny Tim (that’s what we named him) needed to be bottle-fed and couldn’t walk like the others. He also had problems with his eye lids. Andrea didn’t think we shouldn’t take him because she didn’t know how he was going to develop. She didn’t want us, especially Henry and the girls, to be in for heartbreak. This seemed completely sensible. Naturally, Henry piped up and informed her that his Tante (aunt) Lisa was a vet and could take care of all Tiny Tim’s medical needs.

    Tom, Henry and I met both breeds of sheep, Henry was enthralled with the rams, Buckley, Baxter, Harley and Rambo. Apparently, according to Lisa, in the sheep world size does matter.

    Anyway, the lambs were adorable prancing about playing tag and "king of the hill". Andrea was able to easily herd the forty-five sheep with the promise of treats. Ahh, a technique I am very familiar with, Pancho can be led with a simple cow cookie, Henry can be controlled with less than chocolate bar and Tom can be easily had for a bottle of Becks™. While Andrea was herding her flock, we were amazed to see a ewe jump over five feet in the air. Five Feet! Boing! We stood open mouthed. And then with a lightning bolt I started seeing sheep jumping over a fence. In every dream sequence they jump in every cartoon they jump, in every Serta™ ad they jump, why hadn’t we thought they could jump? I guess we always see them calmly chewing on grass never running and leaping. Andrea said they only did it when they got really excited and not as an escape tactic. So she says.

     I interrogated Tom and Henry about the sheep, I wanted to make sure we weren't getting a breed only I liked. They both they said they looked like big teddy bears, but they also liked the markings of the Churros. Andrea explained that the dramatic lamb markings of the Churros would fade as they got older. Something to consider.

    On the way home, I kept thinking of Tiny Tim and mint jelly. I’m worried. Maybe Henry’s right. Maybe we should talk to Lisa - after she's rested up a bit.

   

April 12th American Idols

     Snuggled up on these dreary nights with fuzzy blankets and the fireplace blazing we’ve been glued to “John Adams” on HBO™ like everyone else. The show stirs up mixed emotions for me. Of course, the production values are outstanding and the story is timeless, but I can’t help but be reminded of how amazing it would be for kids of all ages to meet John Adams over a mug of cider. I can’t help but think they’d enjoy hearing Ben Franklin expound his wisdom by candlelight while they dined in his company. I fantasize about people laughing and learning the quadrille in our Independence Hall. We recall how much we enjoyed this at Riley’s Farm in California and want to bring that same merriment to life here at Fort Flashback.

    When people actually have the chance to experience the founding fathers as real people - warts and all they learn so much more. It’s so much more interesting than being taught the glorified one-dimensional versions of their characters. Ben Franklin was wise, but we don’t talk about women of forty years his younger throwing themselves at him. I guess women have always loved a man who can make them laugh. My favorite story of Ben Franklin was when he responded to a French woman who was romantic pursuit and even he thought it was outrageous. Dr. Franklin put her off by telling her he wanted to wait until winter when the nights were longer and they could have more time together. Smooth.

    Thomas Jefferson was learned, we don’t hear about him as a micro-manager, counting every nail produced on his plantation and keeping meticulous records of every dime spent. George Washington was a general. Period. No one talks about the George Washington who named his dog, Sugar Lips, loved to dance and adored soft strawberry ice cream. They don’t mention how he told Henry Knox to “move his fat ass to the middle of the boat” when crossing the Delaware on Christmas night. Sadly, in our educational system, we tend to learn battles and dates rather than who and why this country was founded. We learn a poem, albeit a nice poem, about Paul Revere but we never hear about young Billy Dawes who pretended to be drunk in order to get past the “Regulars” (they didn’t really say British) and succeeded.

    All this makes me feel somewhat ineffective at convincing people the colonial period is fascinating and what an educational as well as cultural benefit a Living American History camp would be to our region. I realize I don’t have the clout of HBO™ or Tom Hanks, but it’s amazing how popular this series is with viewers and yet I’ve failed so miserably. American History books are flying off bookshelves, yet I can’t get anyone to talk to me. I knew there would unexpected roadblocks along the way, but with over 57 school districts between here and Seattle I thought there would be more support in general.

     On the positive side however, we are hoping “John Adams” will spark a renewed interest in the period and people, bankers, corporations, investors, historians, kindhearted angels will be excited about what we are trying to make happen. Despite the frustration, we haven’t given up on our dream and think about it every time we research new farm animals. We want to create the complete ambiance from buildings and clothing to the farm animals that would be present in any town. It is for this reason we really won’t  consider any animals that are not heritage breeds. It’s become incredibly important to us to preserve these breeds so kids can see what the animals looked like. Cows with horns are extremely unusual now. Since colonial times, so many animals have been crossbred for certain specific traits to the point that very few of the original breeds exist and some pure bred strains are just about extinct. This has happened to turkeys, cattle, chickens and pigs. It’s silly to me that Americans who are so picky about so many things and always wanting a variety of choices, will settle for the socialist version of turkey. Almost all of us eat one type of turkey and it’s about the same for chickens. My friend Maryruth raises her own cattle and then eats them. This is a little extreme for me, but she says she knows she’s eating “happy beef”. “I feed them for two years and they feed me for two. It’s fair.” That’s Maryruth. 

    Our cattle, Abe, Andy and Anna are Milking Devons, a breed that came over to Plimoth Colony. This was an all-purpose hearty breed used for plowing fields, pulling carts, milking and eventually it would feed the family. Today, there are only 600 registered in the world.

    Java chickens known for the gentle  dispositions were one of the first breeds of chickens in the United States and once again a dual purpose breed, good layers, and tasty. They were hearty foragers requiring little care, yet today there are only about twenty flocks in existence and they’re not doing well. I know because I can’t seem to get any and I’ve called everywhere from Garfield Farm in Illinois to every member of the now defunct Java Breeders Association. As I’ve been looking into chickens, I was shocked to find most chickens do not reproduce on their own anymore. Farmers need to get them from hatcheries because chickens have been bred so specifically for meat production they don’t, in some cases, possess all their sex organs. One of the factors of a heritage breed is it can reproduce without assistance.

    Cotton Patch geese like Mabel, Alfred, Lloyd, Ruthie, Matilda, Clara, Quackmire and Cleveland according to Dr. Tom Walker “were brought over by the English in the 1600s. This was the bird of early America. People picked the feathers and down off live geese to make pillows, mattresses and comforters. The geese required no special food other than grass and no shelter, and they suffered from no known poultry disease. They also provided eggs, meat and grease. This became the all-American bird.” Today they’re one of the only domestic geese that still has any ability to fly and they too are almost non-existent.

    Watching this series also reminds us of when we were in Williamsburg last year doing research for our camp. They were filming some of the scenes there and we were lucky enough to be able to see the sets. It was great to see the tents with snow and frost. We scrutinized things quite closely to learn how to duplicate the effects for our own movies historical movies with the children. One day.