2023

“I’m proud of you, “ says DJ. “Supervising your granddaughter on a horse while talking on the

phone WHILE catching a big snake...you can multi task!”

Over a year ago I stopped in the middle of writing my last Rhythms of the Farm entry – “To be

continued”. The intro had mentioned The Great Snake Drama, but the entry never got that far. As I

remember back to the night in question, I recall only a kaleidoscope of jumbled memories...rescuing a

chick from our big dog (yes, it survived) and checking out what had happened to its siblings at the barn.

I found a big rat snake in the process of swallowing one of our half-grown chicks, as the mama fluttered

in distress nearby. I was so horrified and angry, I did what I had never imagined me doing—I grabbed

that snake behind the head. The snake, fixated on the chick it was devouring, paid no attention. I forced

it to drop the chick, but it was too late. It had already been asphyxiated.

We tied The Snake in a feed bag. I wanted DJ to drive it right away to an uninhabited-by-people

stretch of woods miles away, right then. However, it was late, we were tired, and my husband assured

me it would be fine to wait until morning, with the snake shut in the feed bag, which in turn was shut in

his work truck.

A statement he has yet to live down. In the morning, we found both the feed bag and the truck

empty. The snake had escaped.

All my heroics for nothing. I was heartsick. Especially when, a few months later, we found our

little black Mama Hen dead in the midst of signs of a valiant struggle, all of the eggs/hatchlings she had

been sheltering vanished. She had apparently fought to the end trying to protect her babies against The

Snake, but lost the battle.

Last month, I spotted The Snake in our goat hay feeder hut, but couldn’t get to it fast enough

before it slid into a hiding place.

Now, I can finally write The End to the Great Snake Drama.

Today, as I was leading little Sara (now five) on our Peruvian Paso mare, Tamaya, we were

heading down the driveway toward the gate when I saw it. The Snake. Crossing the driveway toward a

stack of firewood. So long it almost spanned the driveway from one side to the other.

I couldn’t let it escape again.

I swept Sara off the horse, handed her the rope, and told her to lead Tamaya away. Bless Sara

for all those lessons where she had learned how to lead our horses correctly. Bless Tamaya for her sense

of connection to Sara, to follow her direction. They started off toward the house while I hurried toward

the snake.

I had already been in the midst of a phone conversation on speaker with a friend, now privileged

to hear the play by play as the drama unfolded.

First, the scream upon sighting the snake. Sarah, my friend in Virginia, you heard that scream

when we flushed out a big black snake on the way through the pasture to feed horses years ago. Jenny-

my-college-roommate, you probably remember it from a night when a rabbit startled us as we were

making our way across campus, spooked by warnings of an on-campus rapist. Through the decades I

have learned to control the scream somewhat, holding it below its original blood-curdling level. Thus,

my friend didn’t get the full effect--but at least I didn’t terrify our horse.

So now I stand near The Snake. It continues in its stately path, unfazed by my presence. I know I

have to act quickly, or once more it will disappear, only to lurk nearby and reappear at the worst

moment.

I pause and eye its tail. No rattles. I look again at its head. I ‘m pretty sure it’s not the triangular

viper shape. I hesitate. In our nine years at this farm, although our neighbors have run across various

species, we have only ever seen one poisonous snake. Even that one I think arrived in the chassis of

someone’s car. I think our animals help keep the snakes away, except the otherwise harmless corn or rat

snakes that prey on our chickens. Even those, we’ve only seen occasionally. A blessing. I am not a snake

lover, although I endeavor to protect harmless varieties.

The snake continues on, slightly picking up its speed. In one swift motion, I plant my foot on its

head, suddenly realizing I am wearing my lavender house sandals. Why in the world had I forgotten to

change?!

The Snake begins to lash its tail, trying its best to rattle. I look again—no, no rattles. I gather my

courage and grab under my foot for the neck, just back of the head.

I got it!

But now what?

I stand in the driveway, holding fast to a gi-normous long fat writhing snake. Last year after the

Great Snake Escape, I researched Methods for Effective Snake Securing. I learned that professionals use

a pillowcase. For a year I kept a pillowcase ready in the grain bin in the barn, but it had been moved

when we saw the snake in the hay feeder.

I can’t see myself walking into the house to the linen closet while holding the lashing (five foot?)

snake.

Sara?

I walk back toward the house, my arm extended out as far as possible to try to avoid the

gyrations of the snake bumping me.

Tamaya is placidly cropping grass, her rope looped over the front porch rail. Good job, Sara.

Sara peeks out the front door, ready to flee once more.

“Sweetheart, can you bring me a pillowcase?” I call.

She disappears.

In a few minutes she emerges, proffering a couch pillow.

“Thank you, sweetheart, but I need a pillowcase.”

The pillow disappears. A few minutes later, Sara comes back, holding a ...folded sheet.

“Thank you, but I think that’s a sheet. I need a pillowcase to put the snake in.”

She eyes me, eyes wide, then disappears once more. I stand, holding the twisting snake.

Moments tick by.

She appears again, carrying a smaller something. She comes down the steps, circling around

Tamaya.

I think she has a pillowcase.

“Just bring it part way and you can drop it. I’ll get it,” I reassure her. I don’t want to bring the

snake too close to the horse, possibly startling her--although Tamaya seems 90% calmer than I am at

the moment.

Sara continues her wide circle, somewhat toward me.

Her mom, our daughter Abby, pokes her head out the door. “What’s happening? Why was Sara

crying and screaming?”

She sees the snake. “Is that alive?”

“Yes.”

She comes out onto the porch with her phone. “Why don’t you cut its head off?”

“I’m trying to be ecologically responsible. Sara’s bringing me a pillowcase to tie it in.”

Now both of the younger generations are looking at me as if I am crazy.

“Hold it up straight so I can get a picture.” Thanks for the help.

Sara drops the pillowcase for me—fortunately not one of our new ones—and retreats. I wonder

how I’m going to get The Snake into and secured in the bag without risking a bite. I kind of toss it down

in, quickly knotting the open top closed.

It’s too hot to set the bagged snake in the bed of our pickup truck, ready to go to town. If I put it

down somewhere, what if our dog tears into it and lets it out?

I see our small cat cage nearby. I put in the bag with the snake, latch it, and set it in the shade.

Sigh of relief.

“Okay, Sara, good job! Do you want to finish your ride now?”

She nods emphatically.

“Where’s your helmet?”

“I threw it down inside when I was scared.”

She retrieves it. We finish her ride, then put Tamaya back in the pasture and switch to Arrow,

our 17 hh Kentucky Mountain Horse. He’s been waiting patiently in the shaded ring ever since the

families left, shortly before The Snake appeared.

I lead Sara on Arrow. From his tall back, she can reach to grab an edible pink mimosa anti-

depressant “happy flower”.

She plucks it, looks at it, then says, “Here Grandmama, this is for you. You deserve this.”

She hands me the precious flower. I solemnly munch it. We go on with our ride.

Back near the barn, preparing to put Arrow away, Sara swings sideways in the saddle and

perches there, not ready to dismount.

She sits. I stand.

“I love Arrow. This is so peaceful. You can hear the birds and the horses eating.”

I stand, looking up at her. I’m ready to be out of the sun, to put away the saddles and ropes and

helmets left out after our event.

I listen. She’s right. I can hear birds, and horses munching on their hay around the corner of the

barn. I look up and see our granddaughter’s contented smile.

Later, back in the house, Sara suddenly throws her arms around me and says, “I love you,

Grandmama.”

Which makes up for later, when on the way to town I realize I forgot the cage with the snake to

drop off along the way.

“I saw on YouTube that snakes have teeth. It can probably bite the pillowcase and make a hole

and get out,” Sara says with relish.

“Should I turn around? But then you probably won’t have time to play at the Splash Pad before

it starts raining.”

We go on, visions of snake escapes flitting through my thoughts.

Finally that evening, I load the cage. DJ, home from work, goes with me. We drive several miles

and stop near uninhabited fields.

DJ opens the bag, tips out the snake, and watches astounded as it beelines for the open cat cage

and takes refuge.

No way!

DJ picks up the cage, upends it in some bushes, and we hurry back to the truck, The Snake saga

finished.

We hope.

2022

“Honey, you ought to write about that,” DJ has said several times. In company

with many of our friends, we have faced intense on-going challenges this year.

Currently I am sitting on an Amtrak train, returning from my mother’s bedside in

Lynchburg. She suffered two acute strokes a -few weeks ago. At home, our 22-

year-old daughter has been fighting post-Covid Long-Haulers since January. We

have been in survival mode ever since, We are so thankful for our apprenticeship

families and volunteers who have kept the farm going and the animals alive while

we visit cardiologists, neurologists, vision specialists, and rheumatologists, to

name a few.

Meanwhile, farm life ebbs and flows. Recently we were blessed to help set up a

homestead family with a starter herd of our miniature dairy goats and some of

our New Zealand-cross baby bunnies. (Plan: Milk and weed-eating from the goats.

Original bunnies: children’s pets. Coming progeny: food for the table.) With the

rising prices and uncertainties of food supplies, more and more people are

becoming interested in raising some of their own.

Leroy and Sully, our livestock protection dogs, turned a year old the month our

daughter came back sick. While they have settled down a lot, they are still

puppies at heart. Unfortunately, we have not had a lot of time to spend with

them. We have not yet convinced them that we love our chickens and goats and

cats and they should too. Instead we wait until after dark to release the puppies

from their pen, and set our alarms to put them back before first light when the

free range poultry begin to move around. Then we let out the bucks (boy goats)

and any chickens we had secured for the night.

Last Week: The Great Snake Drama

Okay. Yes, I admit, I do not like snakes. Yet for years we have diligently checked

descriptions and relocated rather than done away with problematic but non-

venomous visitors. Currently, however, snakes have neared the bottom, the

depths of distate, on my I-don’t-like-you list.

A few years ago, our neighbor gifted us with Mama Hen, a smallish size black hen

with a yen to sit on nests full of eggs and raise large clusters of chicks. The first

summer she raised three rounds, some numbering up to 17 chicks each, if I

remember correctly. Her daughters take after her and in turn like to sit on nests

full of eggs and raise clusters of chicks, often with less success than their mama,

but they give it a good try. Thus, we often have various sets of chicks wandering

the farm under the more or less strict supervision of their more-or-less watchful

mama.

For some weeks, we had been following the progress of what started as a set of

six chicks, three black and three blonde. The first week, one of the little black

chicks disappeared. We feared our cat had taken to chick theft, but then I found

him drowned in a forgotten dog bowl. Poor little thing.

His siblings, however, thrived. Every morning and throughout the day as they

scavenged the property, I would scan and see---yes, three blonde and now three

black. Recently, our older daughter’s family has become interested in backyard

“homesteading”. Our son-in-law transformed an unused shed into a chicken

coop, and the pet chickens we had “given” their children years ago now became

theirs in reality. Blondie and Checkers went home with them, along with Mama

Hen (now renamed Black Beauty) and Pepper, a Silkie-Polish-something cross

hatched on our farm but raised by a volunteer family. The children loved them,

and we promised to send another batch.

Meanwhile, Creamy, a beautiful but definitely “blonde” hen, set about raising her

own brood. She started off with a large crew, but was remarkably stupid about

keeping her babies together and safe. I would find little lost ones peeping in the

barn while their mom was obliviously pecking for insects with their siblings over

near the rabbit hutches. At night, she decided the dog house near our house

made a great shelter, so I would close it off with a baby gate each evening to keep

them safe from our big puppies on night shift guard duty.

Then came the morning little Sara came screaming into the house as I was getting

dressed. “The big puppy has a chick in his mouth!!” By the time I could get out

there, a parade of chicks had entered the dog pen with disastrous results, and the

puppies had discovered some new chew toys. One of the cardinal training rules

working with LPDs is DO NOT fuss at them. It just scares them and hurts their

feelings but doesn’t teach them. Unfortunately, it is really hard to follow that rule

when trying to rescue the adorable little puffballs they are destroying.

We re-vamped the once chick-proof “doghouse” pen and transferred the

remainder of the chicks there with plenty of (shallow) water and chick feed. Next

thing I knew, somehow their empty-headed mama had enticed them back out

and was herding them toward the big dogs’ pen. Again.

That was it. Creamy lost custody. I gathered the chicks and sent them with the

same family that had raised Pepper.

On Saturday, we planned to meet our older daughter partway (they now live

three hours away) with the five half-grown chicks to add to their collection.

Thursday evening, as had become my custom, I checked their whereabouts

carefully before releasing Leroy and Sully for the night. Although now wandering

independently during the day, at night the half-grown chicks still gathered near

their mother, now setting a new nest of eggs under an old woodstove in the barn

addition.

Just before I went to bed, I checked on the puppies only to see Sully trotting past

me with chick legs dangling out one side of his mouth!

“Sully,” I pled, and he fled into the dog pen. Remembering, I followed him in and

began to say, “Here, Sully, good boy, we love you! Come here boy” in a happy

voice. He came, sat near me, grinned, and the chick fell out of his mouth and ran

away while I grabbed his collar and continued to praise him.

And there I was, outside in the dark, barely holding onto a big Anatolian/Great

Pyrenees, out of reach of his leading chain, not daring to let him loose either in

his pen (where the chick had disappeared) or in the yard (where it might have run

through to, and who knew where the rest of the chicks were?) I also needed to

get ahold of Leroy in case he found the chick survivors.

To be continued…….

September 21,2021

Blessings in the Midst

“Can we live here forever, Grandmama?” little Sara asked from her floatie as she “rewaxed” in the pool.

The pool. Late September. Deeply blue sky, white puffs of clouds, horses cropping grass in nearby green

pasture.

“It would be nice,” I agreed, breathing in the peace, luxuriating in the consciousness of blessing. A world

with beauty still.

Push away, push away the darkness, the discouragement, despair, grief, lurking fear and pain.

Fall has brought new apprenticeship families to the farm, coming out each week to learn farm life and

help with chores. Children’s voices call across the yard, cajoling, asking, telling.

I had not checked our little above ground pool for weeks and assumed it had crashed. I pictured it full of

green goo. Yet last week when I was in the front pasture to fix fence, I was amazed to find the pool clear

and clean, awash with the pounds and pounds of salt which apparently was working despite a failed

pump. Last week the water was on the edge of cold.

This week the pool was just right, cool with spots of warmth from two days of sun following storms and

rain.

This morning Sara and I milked for the first time in weeks, something else I had let go in the crash of

circumstances. “I love to milk” our little granddaughter commented, gulping down her fresh hot

chocolate. For lunch we ate leftover homemade chicken soup made with homemade chicken. Gradually

we are converting to more of a “homestead” lifestyle and trying to help others do the same.

Friday June 24,2021

The Peaceable Kingdom

Leroy and Sully, our livestock protection puppies, are doing so well. Experts advise that you need to

consider them in training for the first two years, and not trust them around your livestock without

supervision. However, meanwhile, you want to give them lots of experience getting to know the rest of

your critters to help them love and bond to them. Most of the time, Sully and Leroy inhabit a large

shaded pen in front of our house, central to our little farm. At twilight, once the chickens have retired to

roost, we turn out the puppies for several hours to free-range. They have grown accustomed to the

horses, the barn cats, the goats from a distance, and learned to be careful of electric fences. Periodically

I have put them in the pen with our rabbit hutches. Rather than lunging and barking at the rabbits,

Leroy and Sully sniff at the cages while wagging their tails, then curl up to take a nap.

I have heard of these breeds terrifying visitors, but from their first arrival ours have enjoyed meeting

and being loved on by visiting children and families. Although little Sara describes them as “too

gjrumpy” (jumpy) she loves to pet them and play with them as well. Truly, they are growing into the

gentle giants we hoped for, yet their deep barks indicate their growing capacity to fight off predators

such as possums and raccoons, coyotes and even bears (or so we have heard.)

Most of our animals take turns at free-ranging our property each day. First thing in the morning, I let out

our young buckling goats for a couple of hours to run and kick their heels and grab some fresh grass.

Then they go back in their pen while our 19-year-old pony is separated to the yard to eat the vast

quantities of non-GMO pelleted grain he currently needs to maintain his weight. When he finishes, I let

out the does (female goats) for awhile, put Shorty back with the other horses, and open the gate to their

pasture. At night, after the puppies were back in their pen, I would let out the bucks to graze until

morning, when I would return them to their pen before starting the cycle all over again.

Some time ago, after the puppies were big enough not to be traumatized by a head butt, I tried letting

out the bucks while the puppies were still loose. Although the puppies initially would chase at them a

bit, no one got hurt and within a few minutes everything would settle down again.

Then Eddie, our senior buck, decided the lure of potato chips was not strong enough to balance the

attraction of hanging out near the girls. He became more and more difficult to catch.

“I’ve got better things to do than mess around like this!” I fussed at him, to no avail. Finally one morning

I had to get DJ to help. Instead of returning him to the buck pen to face the issue yet again the next day,

I said, “Let’s try putting him in with the puppies, then maybe you won’t have to mow.”

Amazingly, they all did well together, although our son began to notice a freshly pungent odor when he

petted the puppies. We added another portable dog house, although so far the puppies had mostly

refused to go into theirs. Eddie demonstrated their use, and before long we would see the row of three

houses all occupied during snooze times.

“Have you noticed that when the puppies come for petting at the gate, now Eddie waits in line for

attention too?” DJ asked me.

Our new little turkeys Lyle and Larry are now three weeks old, gentle and docile with whispery vocals.

Sara loves to cuddle one, despite the availability of her new black feathered-feet half-grown hens,

Lollipop and Cupcake.

Although the puppies can’t get out to chase our free-range chickens, sometimes chicks and smaller

chickens will slip into their pen. If the puppies lunge at them playfully, the chickens scatter, squeezing

back through the fence.

Currently a small flock of half-grown chickens are pecking around in a cluster in the puppy pen. Sully and

Leroy raise an eyelid before returning to their naps. Beyond, the horses and a few miniature dairy goats

graze green pastures. Behind me, I hear cooing and soft chirps from the poultry pen.

I exult in our peaceable kingdom.

Saturday June 24,2021

In the cool of the morning, I scatter scratch feed and carry in chick feed for the inhabitants of our

poultry pen.

Shaggy the rooster, Miss Dahlia, the mama with her one spoiled chick, Sara’s two black hens, Lyle and...

where’s Larry? I circle the coop and find Larry’s corpse fallen behind it, as if off a perch on the plastic

play fence which divides sections.

So much for the peaceable kingdom. Death has entered the garden yet again.

Thursday July 15,2021

Despite my best efforts, Lyle soon followed his brother to the grave. This time Sara and I held our own

little funeral for them, topped by flowering plants which she dug up and transferred as carefully as a

three-year-old can. A friend who has turkeys thinks ours succumbed to Blackhead Disease, carried by

earthworms, which often kills within 24 hours. And I always thought earthworms were good to have

around.

In the weeks since we lost Lyle and Larry, we also rescued a mama hen and her babies from a young

possum we found dining off our little black chicks roosting near the garden. Then, with the help of our

dear friend Ms. Mary, we fought for the life of our little doeling, Lila, whose upset tummy from trying

out pokeweed led to a bout with parasites. A friend wrote me today, parasites will always be with us.

Little Sara reminds me, in the new heaven and earth there will be no sadness nor death—with lots of

animals, but no nasty ones!! Come quickly, Lord Jesus, come!

Friday July 16,2021

10:30 p.m., our son calls:

“Mom, can you help me get in the gate? I’m trying to pull in but the puppies are playing around and I’m

afraid they’ll get out.”

A few minutes later, our now-giant six-month- old Great Pyrenees x Anatolian Shepherds on leashes, I

am walking back up the driveway as our son’s car passes. “Watch out for the horse!” I say as my

flashlight picks up the outline of our pony cropping grass in his path.

“Yes, Mom, I see him,” he answers as his dog herds Shorty out of the way.

Not the normal coming-home conversations of most 20-year-olds, I guess. Such are the difficulties our

children face.

Monday May 17,2021

Learning to Crow

Saturday was my first “Chicken Swap”. From time to time I’d heard of farm stores hosting one, and

thought it might be an interesting event to visit, but I always have plenty to do with my Saturdays and so

had never made it. Besides, we don’t need any more chickens, just to pass on some of those we have.

“You can sell them if you’d rather,” the store owner told me. “You don’t have to actually swap.”

Motivated by the 49 chicks and chickens overpopulating our poultry pen, I decided it was a great time to

go. Between preparing cages, catching chickens, setting up a warm area for chicks to spend the night,

loading feed, water containers, ropes, and so forth, I only got four hours of sleep. Just like good ol’

college days. I decided to keep the young red rooster, possibly Charlie’s son. In the morning, I plucked

two of the young reddish hens back out from the cage as well. Perhaps they were Charlie babies too,

and looked like they could grow up similar to Peaches, a favorite hen.

Despite my good intentions to get there early to set up, I was seven minutes late to the Swap. Expecting

a parking lot full of trucks and people, at first I thought the event had been cancelled. Then I noticed

several pickups across the parking lot with a few cages in back.

I pulled in next in line, saving a spot beside me for friends who had decided to bring some of their

overflow as well. I set to work unfastening ropes and removing coverings. In addition to a dozen chicks, I

had a big cage with five probable cockerels, another with seven young hens, and one more with two

miniature dairy bucklings. “Don’t bring any of them back,” DJ had said, shutting the gate behind me as I

pulled away. “At the end, give them away if you need to.”

Two and a half hours later, I was on my way home with only the little goats and cockerels, plus two baby

bunnies and a super-tame and easy-going Polish/Silky rooster from our friends. DJ has since dubbed him

“Shaggy.” I didn’t make a nickel, but I did manage some swaps.

“We’ll give him to you,” our friends had said, determined to pass on the crossbred rooster so they could

raise purebreds.

“No, you have to trade for some of mine,” I insisted. “There is no way I can come home with more than I

started out with!” Reluctantly they picked out two of the young hens.

When I first pulled up, the feed store owner was offering three-month-old Jersey Giant chickens for the

ridiculously low price of $5/pair. I wish I’d said “Sold!” but by the time I’d mulled over possibilities and

ways and means, decided to get two females, and tracked down the owner between my interruptions

and his, it was too late and they were all promised to someone else.

By then I quite wanted some of the large meat-producing chickens, a totally new direction for us. For

years we have enjoyed our eggs and goat milk while teaching visitors animal husbandry. We have hosted

and encouraged “homesteader” groups for those determined to produce most of their own food, but

for the most part steered clear of the blood and guts and trauma of meat production. With a procession

of young children visiting the farm, I didn’t want them to worry that the rabbit they were petting might

end up as stew. We did raise a couple of half-grown pigs awhile back (we joked about naming them

“Thanksgiving” and “Christmas” as providers of family dinners, and as I have never been enamored of

swine we thought we could handle it) but decided not to repeat the venture.

Lately, however, with the uncertainties facing our economy, rising food prices, and discussion of coming

food shortages, DJ and I have talked about possibly needing to transition to more of a genuine

homestead approach.

DJ didn’t like butchering pigs, and when he and our older son had processed some extra roosters in

years past they decided it wasn’t worth the work. “I’m okay with doing rabbits, though,” he said, having

grown up hunting rabbits, squirrels, and venison.

Ironic. When we lived overseas and our neighbors raised rabbits to augment their diet, we were not in

the least interested. Sadly, we failed to fully appreciate when they gave us a nice large already-

processed rabbit ready for the freezer. I wondered if it was the one I had helped feed some months ago

and put off cooking it. When I finally did, no one was very interested in eating it, and it didn’t taste that

good either.

However, a few years ago a local family led a workshop about homesteading in suburbia. With the help

of plantings, garden and rabbits, they fed their ten children largely from the proceeds of their largish

yard in the midst of an upscale development. At the end of the workshop, he offered us some rabbit

stew from the crockpot he’d had plugged in. Delicious.

When I saw the gigantic Jersey Giant chickens, I thought maybe DJ would find them worth processing.

However, I had missed the opportunity. Then I thought about rabbits. Of the two replacement bunnies

we’ve gotten during the past year, our large New Zealand cross “female” turned out to be Mr. instead of

Ms. Kennedy. I was hoping the reverse might be true of our “male” but wasn’t sure, and he/she is much

smaller anyway.

Just as they were pulling away, I learned that the young couple who had asked some questions about

our offerings had Flemish Giant rabbits for sale. I flagged them down and ended up swapping our dozen

chicks for two small baby bunnies that were declared “probably girls” by the feedstore clerk, after

examination of a dozen wriggling fur balls. At home we had an extra hutch standing empty, and the

couple said they had brooders and were experienced with chickens, so the deal seemed good on both

sides.

When I looked around, our friends were packing up with only the two Lionhead bunny babies they had

purchased, having passed on the young hens to an older gentleman starting to back his truck away from

the feed store.

“Sir,” I said, running up to his window. “Are you interested in more of the young chickens?”

“Well,” he ruminated. “It would depend how much you’re asking.”

I had started off wanting $10 each for them, but remembering DJ’s injunction and our overcrowded pen,

I said, “Sir, if you want them, I will give them to you.”

He stopped his truck and came over with his cage. Over and over he said, “Just ask (the store owner) if I

don’t take good care. I promise you, we will take really good care of them.” He seemed almost

overwhelmed, and I knew it was a fitting destination for the extras with which God had blessed us.

Perhaps it will make the difference for he and his wife in plenty vs. sparse meals in months to come.

No one actually bought our two little goats, but children enjoyed leading them around, and one man

took our number and may call after he gets his shelter ready. I made some swaps and went home with

19 less chickens than I came with. All in all, the morning was a success.

On the way home, I called DJ to report the results and ask him what he wanted done with the young

roosters. Give them away to friends? “No,” he decided, “bring them home and let them free range.” In a

few months, he will plan to process them. Times are indeed changing.

This morning I woke suddenly, listening, then hurried out of bed. It sounded like one of the young goats

was in distress. I threw on clothes and made my way outside...no, the goats were all okay. I heard the

sound again and looked around.

It was the young roosters, learning to crow. Instead of “Cock a doodle do” so far they only had the long

drawn out “-dooo,” which I had mistaken for a kid’s lament.

I went to feed the horses and start on the rest of morning chores.

Thursday May 13,2021

Chicks, Chicks and More Chicks

Last spring: Hmm, most of our hens are getting older. We are going to need to get some more at some

point. I wonder if I should get some chicks...but I really don’t want to go through the hassle of raising

them...

This spring: We are overrun with chickens! Chicks, chicks and more chicks! Help!

Our electrified poultry pen, recently converted to a chick pen, is currently home to eleven gangly

“teenager” chicks a couple of months old. In addition, four mama hens have staked out separate

territories for their various groups of chicks. They also share space with four 6--week-old pullets halfway

between the chicks and the ‘tweens in size, and Miss Dahlia, a lovely big dignified hen of indeterminate

ancestry recently given us by friends in the midst of down-sizing. The first time little Sara reached

toward her, Miss Dahlia started “talking” to her, similar to the reassuring mewling the mamas comfort

their babies with. When it first happened, Sara drew back, startled, but now she loves to pet her, telling

her, “We love you, Miss Dahlia.”

Our daughter says there is a worldwide shortage of chickens, but you sure wouldn’t know it by us.

Maybe God is blessing us with all these chicks to help others get going, I have thought. Over the past

months, I’ve already given away another four mama hens along with their chicks. In the past year, we

have also passed on countless young cockerels to friends. Every week or two, and sometimes every few

days, I find another free-range hen has hatched out a set of chicks. The little black “Mama Hen” the

neighbor gave us last summer has produced more mamas set on producing. She is a one-hen chicken

factory!

I used to keep a count day to day of our free-ranging poultry, averaging eight to ten hens plus two

guineas. No more. I still pick out individuals...good, there’s Blondie and Dominique, the big light red hen,

Gracie and Paisley. Fancy, Nefertiti, Little Red Hen, Sister (the Americauna, also known as an Easter-

Egger) and King Tut. At various times, hens drop out of sight and we find them later, hatching out more

chicks. Peaches was one of the hens we gave away, along with her babies. Little Sara’s Blackie died,

probably of old age, and we also lost our beloved Charlie rooster. Then there are the rest of the flock,

who come running when I put out feed, too many who look too similar for me to distinguish. To think,

God knows the number of hairs on each of our heads, and when a sparrow falls.

For me, storms a few weeks ago meant huddling under an umbrella in a deluge, flinching with nearby

lightening strikes, trying to usher mama hens and their various broods into additional shelters

strategically placed to avoid flood-prone areas of the pen. A clean plastic trash can placed sideways, the

opening propped on a root, became home for Mama-with-13-Chicks (four blonde, nine black). A cage,

now covered and weighted, still serves as a refuge for the mama with one large orangey-yellow chick of

which she is inordinately proud. I tried to persuade the mama with 8 chicks (1 blonde, 7 black) to

reposition from her spot on the ground of the coop. I had arranged a cage nearby, its open end resting

on a crossbeam to keep it out of puddles. The determined mama refused to vacate her normal corner of

the coop. Knowing that area pools with water during heavy rain, I finally just mounded hay for her to sit

on, hoping it would be enough to keep her chicks dry.

All 11 ‘tween chicks lined the roosting pole stretched end to end in the coop. Four smaller ones sat on

the framework for the first floor of the coop in one area, Miss Dahlia another. Finally I made my way

back to the house. Kneeling on the couch, I looked through the windows that overlooked the summer

location for our chicken pen. I raised the window a couple of inches... and heard frantic peeping through

the pound of rain. A baby out alone in the storm.

While a small-scale tornado was flipping semis, downing trees and tearing off roofs in nearby Prattville, I

was following the sound of peeping to the chicken coop. Opening the large screened window, I peered

in. The lost chick ran here and there in the wrong end of the shelter, its peeping shrill, its movements

frantic. Swinging my legs into the portable coop, I reached to catch the baby. It fled my clumsy efforts.

Rain pounded the metal-covered roof above me. Finally I managed to herd it back near its mama on the

pile of hay. I watched her settle it under her wing. The peeping ceased. Climbing out of the coop and

shutting the window behind me, I started back.

Stopped. Between reverberations of thunder, more frantic peeping. I found a small black chick circling

the roots and edges of shelter. It too fled my efforts at capture, but I finally got hold of it and tossed it

gently in the plastic trash can near Mama-with-13. Even in a storm—maybe especially in a storm-- I

didn’t want to get close to her beak. I wasn’t sure if it was actually her baby, but she accepted it, so I

turned to go, hoping everyone was safely settled.

Sure enough, next morning I counted the chicks. All present and accounted for—but now Mama-with-13

had become Mama-with-14, and the other mama had one less black chick. It became a permanent

switch, with the slightly smaller baby struggling to keep up with his new siblings. I don’t know if the

mamas realized the change or not.

Can chickens count?

Tuesday April 13,2021

Yes, I Love Fresh Farm Eggs

“Honey, remind me that I love fresh farm eggs.”

“Huh?” DJ looked up from doing diagnostics on our pickup, which ended up having to go to the shop.

I was bent over, maneuvering in the “chick pen”, trying to avoid the swathes of netting I had draped

over the top to discourage our growing kitten Rio from happy hunting. This spring, we’ve had batch after

batch of hens setting nests, hatching out chicks. When we find some with fresh babies, we’ve gathered

mama, nest, babies and still-hatching eggs into cages which we’ve then transferred to the versatile little

pen which we’ve used sometimes for dogs or goats.

I am not in a good mood. I had just introduced the hen which had been setting (forever, it seemed)

under the saddle racks in the barn. I had slipped some Americana (Easter Egger) eggs under her, in

addition to a few other varieties we wouldn’t mind to have a few more of. But after hatching out her

own four eggs, she abandoned the others to their fate. Just now, when I released her and her chicks

into the pen, already inhabited by another hen and multiple somewhat larger chicks, the mamas got into

a rooster-style fight, raising up and having at each other in the best of all-or-nothing boxing tradition. In

the past, multiple hens had often shared the pen with their babies with never an issue.

Thus, my efforts to gather one irate hen and eleven chicks ready to graduate to our electrified poultry-

netting pen.

So far, I’d managed to collect the mama and two babies. As I would circle the dog house shelter one

way, they would escape the other. Little Sara did her best to help, but chick-herding was not yet one of

her developed skills. Finally, I gave up and begged DJ for help. Again.

Tuesday April 6,2021

Charlie’s Not Feeling Well

Processing farm life can be difficult. For a three- year- old, even more so. A few weeks ago we found

Sara’s pet chicken, Blackie, dead below her roost. No marks, no symptoms...could have been simple old

age. Many of our chickens were gifts at one point or another, without much history.

With the most pitiable expression, little Sara has since announced repeatedly, “My chicken Blackie

died.” I offered her free choice of our current chicks, but she is holding out for a black one with feathers

on its feet, like Blackie. Last week we drove to a friend’s to get fertilized eggs from her black Marans,

and saw one hen (a French Marans) who looked just like Blackie. We brought back the precious eggs.

One of our Australorp crosses recently started setting a nest. My plan was to slip the eggs under her.

However, even after dark with limited flashlight use, she was too awake for that. Instead, one by one I

set them down beside her and she pushed them under herself. I wanted to exchange for the eggs she

had started setting a few days earlier so they would hatch simultaneously, but no way. I don’t have a lot

of hope for a successful outcome. A few days ago our other setting hen hatched out her own four eggs

while abandoning the special ones I had slipped under her, including green ones from our Easter Egger.

Then last week, one of our helpers noticed that Charlie, our beautiful and very sweet rooster, was

sneezing and coughing. Pollen? Pneumonia? He had his coop available as always; we have no idea why

he would have gotten sick. We dosed him with broken-off bits of garlic clove, which he happily pecked

up. He expressed no willingness to be picked up and further dosed. I decided to open up the pen to let

him out in the fresh dandelion and clover for lots of Vitamin C. Contrary to suburbanites, we deliberately

cultivate our dandelion plants, picking the greens for our rabbits.

Sara would say solemnly, “C’arlie’s not feeling well,” and imitate his silent open-mouthed attempt to

crow. However, he seemed to be doing okay otherwise, so upon my return from my latest trip, I didn’t

resume the garlic feedings, although we still left him free to roam.

Saturday, DJ said, “I think something’s wrong with Charlie.” The rooster wasn’t seeming vigorous and

still couldn’t crow. I went back to feeding him garlic cloves, and was able to administer some essential

oils after he was roosting for the night. We could hear his heavy breathing. I thought about bringing him

inside for the night and treating him with hot poultices of fried onions, which I am convinced helped

save our son’s pet chicken years ago. However, I was concerned about the stress on Charlie, not

accustomed to much handling. Instead, I set up a heat lamp in the coop.

Meanwhile, Honeysuckle had held off on giving birth. Our neighbor had previously checked her

ligaments and pronounced them tight, so not to expect an imminent arrival. Meanwhile, the weeks had

gone on. When I checked on the does Sunday evening, Honeysuckle was in the back of the barnyard

shelter and struggled to rise. I maneuvered her to the birthing stall, wondering if she was finally coming

to showdown time. Around 10, DJ went to check on her once more before bedtime. “Well, there was a

mama and one baby,” he said when he came back, in such an offhand way I wasn’t sure if he was joking.

Sure enough, Honeysuckle had celebrated Easter with a good-sized boy, a blue eyed, black and white

Jeremy baby with splashy markings. I duly helped towel him dry and tie off, cut and disinfect the cord,

then imprinted him and made sure he was nursing okay before returning to the house. Our little

grandson JW has christened him Leopold.

Birth and death, death and birth. I’d had high hopes for Charlie’s recovery. Yesterday morning he was

eating and drinking and moving around. Yet as I worked to add fine netting to our electrified poultry pen

(to keep chicks in and snakes out) I heard fluttering in the coop. Charlie was in his death throes.

Now Sara says, “C’arlie died. I miss C’arlie. He was our nice rooster. He wasn’t feeling well. It’s sad.”

Then she remembers, “My chicken Blackie died.” Sorrow upon sorrow.

We talk about the new heaven and the new earth, and maybe if God so wills there will be a new Charlie

and a new Blackie among the animals. We know there will be no death and “NO MORE SADNESS!” and

no more crying.

She pets new little Leopold and feeds the puppies. The sun is shining and the chicks are peeping.

March 20,2021

2:29 am

The Great Horse Escape, and Honeysuckle’s Due Date

This morning, 7 a.m. (well, technically, yesterday morning at this point) my alarm on my phone goes off.

I am out of town, helping family members in the midst of a move. I roll out of bed (literally, as it’s an air

mattress on the floor) and hit snooze. While my phone is still in my hand, it rings.

Our son-in-law, Creek. When he left for work, he saw our gate was open. At the end of the dirt road, he

found all four of our horses clustered just before the stop sign next to the paved road.

“Can you try to get between them and the bigger road and keep them from going out, and I’ll try to get

DJ to help you?” He’d forgotten I wasn’t home. “Just concentrate on the horses, I’ll call.”

After two rounds of voice mail, I get through to DJ, just as I’m in the middle of texting our daughter to go

try to find him if necessary. He’ll get a bucket of grain and halter/leadrope sets and help.

Then I wait. Praying. I remember my childhood friends whose horses got out. One was put down

immediately after being hit by a car. They arrived in time to stop the policeman preparing to shoot the

second mare, and she eventually recovered. I also remember last month when someone else’s horses

were loose on the paved road following a storm. Despite more than one reported spotting, we never

could find them, nor their owners. We never heard the end of the story. Hopefully they were eventually

reunited with their owners, although I’ve heard of other locals whose horses got out and were never

recovered. There have also been repeated sightings of a Great Pyrenees along the same paved road.

Again, we never can find it nor its owners. Could it be the puppy I saw darting across the road months

ago, now grown to maturity? A continued stray, or a frequent escapee?

Last Wednesday, I spent the day preparing for possible Category 5 tornadoes forecast for Alabama. I

moved the bunnies to cages in the barn, where I also set up the puppies. We cleaned out the bucks’

shelter and put fresh hay they could munch while under cover. Ditto for the bucks and wether across

the road in the neighbor’s pasture. I added a large covered cage to the goats’ birthing stall for additional

shelter. While usually a cosy spot, once in wild weather, rain blew in horizontally to soak the stall as

well. We put plenty of water and food under shelter for the chick pen, housing mama hens and their

little ones and for Charlie the rooster and his four hens in the poultry netting pen and coop.

The horses already had their run-in shelter with free-access hay. In addition, I tied ID markers into their

manes, writing contact info on strips of plastic or survey tape, just in case they would get out in the

midst or aftermath of storms.

Blessedly, the prayers of many were answered and the possible Category 5 reduced drastically. Although

we got plenty of rain (yay, our run-off stock tank and tubs filled!) and some wind, nothing worse

happened than some items blown off the shelves in the barn.

The horses should still have the ID’s fastened in their manes. A backup if they get away from Creek

before they could be caught. Assuming someone could get close enough to read the tags.

I thought of friends who lived not far north of us, who would probably already be up doing their own

chores. I called to ask if they would drive down the paved road from their direction, armed with grain

and ropes, in case the horses took off that way. Good friends that they are, they said, “We’re on our

way!” and started out within a few minutes.

The minutes go by. I haven’t heard anything. I don’t want to distract anyone in the midst of horse-rescue

by messages or calls.

Our friends text. No sign of horses on the paved road, nor all the way down the dirt road to near our

place. Nor do they see anyone out trying to catch horses. I wonder if I misunderstood, and Creek had

found them near the next stop sign, near the next, bigger, paved road. Our friends head that direction. I

keep praying, even as I’m helping our family members load up to take a round to their new house.

Finally, at 7:34, a text. “They are all in now.” Whew. Thank You, Lord!

I hear bits and pieces from DJ. “Creek was a big help. Made himself late.” When we can talk, DJ tells me

that by the time he got out to the road, our son-in-law (who is more into cars than horses, but obviously

had the needed touch) had maneuvered them into the neighbor’s yard across the street. All DJ had to

do was open our gate and shake the grain, and in they came. When I texted to thank Creek, he

answered, “No problem” and “No they weren’t mad” about his employers—good for them, as he has

been dependable day in and day out for years.

It wasn’t until I was back in town, eating a delicious “Welcome Home” supper cooked by our daughter

Abby, that I heard the rest of the story.

“How did you get them down the dirt road?” I asked Creek.

“When I saw them at the stop sign and they heard my car, it’s like they thought, ’oops, we’ve been

caught’ and they started toward home,” our son-in-law said. “I waved my arms and told them, ‘Get on’

and then I followed them slowly in my car, honking a little.”

However, at the place before ours the horses made a break for it and headed to the back of that

neighbor’s. His multiple acres border the big hay field behind both our properties. Creek stuck with

them, though, and somehow managed to get the horses started back again, until they ran into the

fenced yard across from us, where they fell to work cropping grass--and DJ found them.

I’m totally impressed. I had no idea our son-in-law could be such an effective horse wrangler. God bless

him for his willingness, perseverance, and ability!

At first, we assumed someone must have accidentally left the gate unlatched, but the last family

member in said, no, that wasn’t the case. Currently, in our pasture rotation, it’s time when we let the

horses graze the yards at night. Arrow, our 17 hand Kentucky Mountain Horse, is somewhat of a

Houdini, adept at untying ropes. Still, how could he have unlatched the chain that slips through a slot to

fasten, AND managed to lift and pull the gate off its support? This time, I padlocked the gate before

letting the horses out of the barn pasture for the night.

Sure enough, the horses started up the driveway for the gate. Curious, I followed them. There was

Arrow, his head stretched over the gate, in position to rock it off its support (which is raised on each side

to keep the gate in place when closed) and pull it open. The rest of the herd stood by, waiting for him to

let them out.

Time to go back out and check Honeysuckle again. With the dropping temperatures tonight, she’s

tucked into the birthing stall with a warming lamp. Today’s her expected due date from her Oct. 26

exposure, and it seems like maybe tonight will really be it.

Maybe I’ll go ahead and shut the horses back in to make sure Arrow doesn’t somehow figure out how to

turn the key in the padlock --or take the gate entirely off the hinges.

March 15,2021

Trials & Tribulations with Nesting Hens

“I think you’ve got a dead chicken here,” one of the volunteer moms announced a few weeks ago, in the

midst of freezing nights and chilly temperatures.

“She’s just setting a nest,” I answered. Yep, right in the middle of the path to DJ’s toolroom, I thought.

“But she’s under a bag. And she’s not moving,” the concerned helper said, peering closer to catch a

glimpse of the hen’s slow breathing.

When sitting on eggs, the mama hens become somnolent, nearly comatose, almost as if they are

hibernating, conserving their fluids and energy to endure 21 days of just sitting. Keeping eggs warm.

Several times I’ve had to look closely myself to make sure the mama is still alive. During the unusually

cold nights, we had propped some paper feed bags over the miserable hen to help insulate her against

drafts.

The next week during morning chores, as I approached our line of grain storage buckets, I noticed a red

chicken plumped on the floor in the passageway, right beside the buckets.

Hmm...I thought. That’s a strange place to choose to set a nest.

I started to move past, and suddenly the hen was flying at me and pecking my lower legs...well, at least

I’m wearing sweat pants, not shorts, I thought. It continued in attack mode. Moving around in an

awkward two-step, I grabbed an empty feed bag to fend off the hen.

“What in the world?” I gasped. Then heard a peep. The vengeful hen was merely a worried mama

defending her young. Apparently, they had hatched out and taken off exploring. I prepared a cage and

managed to shoo the hen and her chicks into it before our cats noticed. I could only find two chicks,

even checking the nest to count eggshells. It’s a wonder I hadn’t stepped on one of them while trying to

avoid the mom.

I find that mama chickens are remarkably ungrateful for efforts to help them protect and take care of

their young, whether still in the egg or running about. Often I try to put out small bowls of feed and

water for the mamas, only to have them peck savagely at me as I try to maneuver them into place.

During the cold spell, one managed to swipe me in a tiny gap where my jacket sleeve had pulled back

from my glove. I stood staring at the drops of blood on my hand (okay, not that many or that bad, but

still!) and wondered why we’d ever traded ducks for chickens.

Then a few days ago, just after I’d helped our little granddaughter Sara into the goat stall to play with

the babies, I heard frantic peeping and squawking in the barnyard. There was another hen with a whole

brood of surprise chicks. Just as I spotted them, an attacking guinea fowl succeeded in driving away the

mom and started after the scattered chicks. I hurled myself through the gate near the barn, yelling,

managing to frighten away the guinea before it got any of the babies. I also succeeded in terrifying poor

Sara, hidden behind barn walls and unable to see what was happening. Behind me, I could hear Sara’s

shrieks as the mama hen swept her babies to safety. The hen had successfully hidden out behind the big

bale in the goat’s hay feeder until they hatched. I got Sara out, brought a cage near to the hay feeder,

and set out chick feed and water. Peering over the wall behind the bale, I could just make out the hen,

setting the old nest with her chicks out of sight under her wings. It was hours before they ventured out

again.

This time I found nine chicks, some bright yellow, others little black ones that remind me irresistibly of

tiny penguins.

It’s not all trials and tribulations.

Friday February 26,2021

Yesterday as the sun shone, I spotted two red-breasted robins hopping around in our front yard. I

thought, Finally, spring is here! A leftover from growing up in northern climes, where the arrival of the

robin means the worst of winter has passed. Here in Alabama, I actually have spotted robins here and

there throughout the winter—after all, we are in the South, birds’ winter destination.

My husband has gotten rather attached to our chickens, relating observations of their behavior and

amusing incidents. He is known for wanting less animals, dreading the spring influx of babies, and eager

to pass on any creature he can persuade me to let go of. So I was taken aback a few weeks ago when I

gave away three young cockerels to a neighboring farm family. I had double-checked with DJ ahead of

time, yet afterwards he lamented their passing. (To be fair, as I read this account aloud to him, he

objects that the word “lamented” is too strong to describe his reaction.) He had noticed they each had

developed their family group of hens and he thought they helped protect them. Possibly so. Maybe

being busy with their own groups of hens, they didn’t have time or attention to be aggressive toward

people. At least so far, we hadn’t had issues with them except lots of early-morning crowing which some

of our family was less than appreciative of. We did save DJ’s favorite, though, a splendid cross of shiny

speckled grey body topped by shimmering gold neck and crest. Our oldest granddaughter and I named

him King Tut, after the resplendent Egyptian king discovered some years back in a golden sarcophagus.

The most similar hen we dubbed Nefertiti.

Our older daughter Susannah’s family is moving further out into the country in a few weeks, still several

hours away from us but at least not farther than they had been. Although our daughter had been

adamant for years that they were never going to take on animals beyond a dog, they now have a kitten

and are about to get their second dog. A few days ago, Susannah surprised me by mentioning that

maybe someday, after they are well settled in their new place, they might think about keeping a few

hens for fresh eggs. Kept in an enclosed portable coop, safe from dogs and other predators. Whenever

they come for a visit, our oldest granddaughter Ella and grandson JW are eager to find “their” chickens,

Blondie and Dominique. Maybe eventually these two will actually leave to help start another little flock,

along with a few of our younger hens. Wonders never cease.

Sunday February 28,2021

Usually, DJ covers Sunday morning chores, both to give me a break and in an effort for us to make

Sunday School on time. This morning, however, I woke early and slipped out just as it was light enough

to see without a flashlight. No early morning kidding. King Tut beginning to crow from the tree nearest

our bedroom, the hens stirring and clucking and getting ready for the day. I whistled for the horses and

gave them alfalfa pellets. They have plenty of hay pulled into their manger from our tilt-floor feeding

system for big round bales and later in the day we can give their bigger feeding complete with soaked

beet pulp, rice bran, and supplements.

A couple of times we have kind of laughed about the big bale in a covered feeder in the goat barnyard.

As they eat out of it, sometimes parts have shifted and trapped one of the goats against a wall behind it.

I would find them, indignant or plaintive dependent upon their personality, waiting for release. This

winter we have added some fencing to contain the bale as it is eaten. Not only to try to prevent

wastage, but hopefully to prevent future shiftings from trapping a goat. “What if it would happen when

we weren’t around, and they couldn’t get to water?” I asked DJ, who seemed to think I was

overreacting.

Yesterday, though, a member of one of my social media groups shared through tears about losing

several baby goats when a layer of hay from a big bale fell on them, smothering them. Others chimed in

with similar awful incidents with full-grown goats, and even a colt who was lost after getting wedged

between large bales in storage. Who would have thought? I remember one of our veterinarian’s

comments, “Goats are just looking for a way to die.” He said it another time about horses. I wonder at

the strange sad incidents he’s been called to assist with.

Farming, even in a little homestead situation like ours, is not for the fainthearted.

Yet, as I return from the freshness of my early morning check on our little kingdom, I am thankful for

each of our creatures and the opportunity to share life with them.

Wednesday January 6,2021

Yesterday I drove through mist into town on an early-morning errand, past crews with bucket trucks

setting up for work downtown. I assumed they were connected with utilities: electrical or gas or

whatever. However, as I headed for home a little while later they were stripping the trees of their

Christmas lights.

We love our little Prattville downtown, lined with small shops and restaurants. Year- round flower beds,

an artesian fountain, and Autauga Creek flowing over the dam, past the abandoned brick gin mil, create

photo-worthy scenes year round, a favorite location for senior pictures, prom shots, and most any

special occasion. Even this year, decorators transformed the area into a Christmas wonderland of lights

and ornaments.

Un-decorating is a poignant time, especially with today’s uncertainty and chaos. Traditionally our family

has left up Christmas through January 6, the traditional day to celebrate the arrival of the Magi. The

other night, though, I went ahead and stripped the Christmas tree of its bulbs and lights.

A little while later when our three-year-old granddaughter came over, she found the box of bulbs set

aside.

“Why, Grandma?” she asked, beginning to put the bulbs back on.

Yes, why? Why doesn’t Christmas stay year ‘round? Why do occasions lose their specialness if we live

them daily? Why couldn’t we keep the magical glow of lights and cheer and It’s a Wonderful Life?

“We’ll put them away for next year,” I say. Thinking, If there is Christmas next year. If there even is a next

year.

Today when she came, Sara found the tree not only stripped, but partially covered with a plastic bag

ready to protect it from attic dust. “Not Christmas now,” she said, nodding her head wisely. “New year.”

A pretty accurate summary.

December 2, 2020

Yesterday in an egg search, little Sara and I found a cache of beautiful eggs in the chicken pen—

amazingly, right in the drop shelf from the nesting box, where they should be but usually aren’t. We

gathered eight beautiful little eggs and left two to convince the young hens that was a good place to

leave their offerings.

“Hallelujah!” I rejoiced.

“HALLELUJAH!” little Sara bellowed with enthusiasm. I wondered if the neighbors could hear and what

they thought if so.

Not just Thanksgiving, but Thanks-LIVING, our pastor shared recently in one of those messages that

sticks with you. I have previously pondered the value of choosing to focus on blessings rather than

frustrations. I had not, however, traced the connection between NOT living with thanks and praise and

venturing into darkness. “For although they knew God, they neither glorified Him as God nor gave

thanks to Him, but they became futile in their thinking and darkened in their foolish hearts, “ Paul wrote

(Romans 1:21 ESV.) Later in the chapter, he goes on to mention a lot of the activities that darkness leads

to, unfortunately a pretty fair assessment of our world today.

Wow. All the more incentive to rejoice, even when it’s hard. Cold is not a favorite of mine. Especially

damp cold like this week with our sudden drop into the 20’s contrasting with the 70’s we had been

enjoying. Frost on the windows, frozen water buckets. Shivering in the sharp breeze whooshing past the

milking stand, forming a wind tunnel where I sit ....

Instead, may I revel in the warm creamy fresh milk in my mug of hot chocolate this morning. The half-

grown chicks coming running for their feed. The horses nickering for grain as they munch hay. The kitten

purring, the children laughing.

Saturday October 17, 2020

The Travails of Cocky-Do

A few years ago, friends gifted us with their extra rooster, Charlie. He started out life as their cosseted

pet pullet Charlotte. Then as he matured, his sexual identity became clear.

He grew into the image of the splendid rooster decorations found in farmhouse-themed kitchens

throughout the land. In the midst of his colorful red presence, he managed to maintain his sweet

personality. Based upon my profound distrust of free-ranging roosters, he graced our electrified

poultry-netting pen, with several hens for company. He was literally a hen-pecked husband, standing

aside for the girls to grab the choicest morsels.

Our two-year-old granddaughter Sara christened Charlie “Cocky-Do” in toddler-speak. During chores

most mornings, after I unplugged the fence, I would lift her over the netting ahead of me. Although

approaches from the neighbor’s visiting rooster had sparked tears, she would charge confidently

through Cocky-Do’s domain, looking for the eggs the hens worked hard to hide.

Monday October 5, 2020

Today as I tackled chores, annoyances kept cropping up. As I was trying to maneuver the first doe back

into the stall while letting the next one out, a baby (goat) escaped his night’s separation and ran to drink

from his mama who was in line for milking --and beat me to her, gulping rapidly. Ugh.

Then, once more separated and closed back in with the first doe (now reunited with her baby after her

milking), he began making it clear that he was growing up and could no longer be kept with the girls.

Ugh again. What timing! Yet to be fair, he turned three months old on the 25th of last month, which is

when I’d originally planned on placing him with a new family. Usually, though, we haven’t really needed

to separate our bucklings until they turn four months, so I was hoping for a little more time.

Next, I spilled some of the just-milked jar. “It’s like liquid gold,” a friend describes the precious fresh

goat milk, full of goodness and free of the hazards of commercial products. Even outside with a barn

kitten eager to help with clean-up, this spilled milk could easily be a crying matter, no matter what they

say. Triple ugh.

One thing after another, and I knew if I looked for them I could note many more irritants. It was starting

out to just be one of those days.

Years ago in parent training, the leader said, “Most parents are scanning for the things that need fixing.

Instead, set your radar to pick up the good things, not the negatives that need correction. Focus on and

encourage what is RIGHT.” After we moved to town when I was a child, my family lived near the radar

tower of a metropolitan airport. I picture its antenna, constantly revolving, sending out particles to

bounce back to the viewing screen. Our parent training encouraged us to note and comment on at least

four meaningful reality-based positive behavior for every correction. We even had to chart them.

Perspective. I challenged myself to come up with positives to balance each negative. 1. The refrigerated

cooler in which I could stash what milk remained while I completed the rest of the chores. (Thank you,

Vera Bryson.) 2. Our wonderful veterinarian who repaired poor Lacey dog’s ear Saturday evening, and

sent home antibiotics and pain meds to help her recovery. She wags her tail gently and moves with me

from chore to chore. I snap her leash onto a nearby fence panel as I feed goats or chickens. Thank you,

Dr. Dee, who instantly diagnosed the issue with her swollen ear (aural hematoma) while on a farm call

for a goat.

3. As I set out mineral salt for the goats, I chose to be thankful for whoever designed the new chelated

minerals, more easily absorbed by the goats’ system. Now, shooting a bolus (capsule) of copper down

their throats every few months is no longer necessary.

Ugh, I must have forgotten the bucklings’ bag of hay back at the barn when I walked to their far-flung

grazing pen at the other side of our property. Okay, I think of my opportunity for natural exercise built

in to my schedule. Also, last October’s foot injury as well as the heel spurs that developed in January

seem to have finally cleared up. 4. I can now walk without pain to the barn and back, a definite positive.

Then I see the hay-stuffed feed bag resting against the other side of a tree near the grazing pen; I hadn’t

forgotten it after all. 5. Yay for efficiency! But then I get caught in thorns as I try to drag the panels of the

grazing pen over for the goats to tackle fresh greens. 6. What a blessing, though, that they love to clear

out the brush and don’t seem to mind the prickles.

As I pull the pen closer to the woods, I see leftover plastic piping littering our woods. I am frustrated

afresh by the mess left by the former owners. We’ve cleared most of the debris, but some still lingers in

the woods. 7. Hmm...I retrieve a few lengths of varying diameters, hoping they might work to repair the

supports on the mini-trampoline I bought used for the new Pre/K REACH Explorers group.

Suddenly, I realize I’m playing the Pollyanna game. Presented with rough circumstances, look for the

silver lining in the cloud. Why has Pollyanna gotten such a bad rap in our culture? Her name has come to

signify empty groundless optimism unrelated to reality.

Yet, actually, the Pollyanna character was a resilient survivor; an overcomer. She grew up in challenging

circumstances as a missionary kid, dressed in people’s cast-offs, then orphaned and sent to relatives

reluctant to take her on. Eventually she was seriously injured and faced paralysis. I don’t think she was

out of touch with the reality of dark challenges.

Sometimes I am chided for pessimistic tendencies to worry and expect the worst to happen. So why is

someone who processes the negatives but looks for the life-brighteners criticized rather than

commended?

Thank you, but I prefer to choose to highlight the blessings, the silver linings; the reflections of infinite

wonder and joy.

Call me Pollyanna if you will. Then try to come up with three more compliments.

September 27, 2020

Farm life. Heartwarming, fresh air, the pulse of life flowing through our days.

Farm life. Heartbreaking, horrific, inadequacy and discouragement laced with grief and despair.

The past couple of weeks have been tough. Years of animal husbandry aside, suddenly we lost one of

our little goats. I found him in distress, high temp, and he passed away within minutes despite my best

efforts. We nearly lost his twin as well.

Then a few days ago, cleaning out our old seldom-used chicken coop, I found our missing free-range red

hen, Dark Wing, who had disappeared last spring. I knew she had started roosting away from the others,

and thought maybe she fell prey to a predator. Now I found her, nestled in a corner of the old coop, her

death still a mystery. Had she gotten in and though only a few feet from the propped-open escape

hatch, not remembered how to get out? Been stung by wasps? Gotten sick?

“Why are you and Dad looking upset and mad?” Abby asked us the next morning as DJ discreetly

disposed of the body so as not to upset little Sara.

Continuing on to the barn, I found our doe Mary Marie in labor, the “birthing bubble” proclaiming that

she was close to delivery. Yay, I thought, new life to offset loss.

Always our most wary and standoffish goat, Mary Marie seemed uncomfortable for me to come close,

so I backed off and let her continue the work of childbirth on her own. She was an experienced mom

with no history of difficulty.

Big mistake. I returned shortly to find the poor baby with only the head emerged. Even then, if I had

gone ahead and pulled it out, maybe I would have been quick enough. Maybe it hadn’t yet strangled.

But, afraid of tearing up the mom, instead I disinfected my hands and reached in, trying to find the

pushed-back front legs to get the baby in proper position.

To no avail. Later, our veterinarian told me that in like circumstances, he would just loop and pull the

baby out by the head.

“You did the best you could,” my mom tried to comfort me on the phone later.

But, the baby died. The mama had issues, needing care (a sleepless night for me) and a veterinarian visit

the next morning.

I wanted to give up. Forget the farm. So what of the families who come to learn farm life and animal-

keeping? Who am I to lead anyone in anything? The voice of the accuser beat at me.

Yet in the midst of it all, God sent comfort and encouragement. Sometimes I have felt alone. DJ was out

of town when I lost our almost-three-month-old twin buckling. Having injured my shoulder recently, I

couldn’t even begin to dig a grave for little Koda. My dear friend Lisa came to help bury the little

creature—even though her husband is the one to dispose of their losses. She came, she dug, we buried,

grieving.

Then, as I realized we were in danger of losing Koda’s twin, Kinney, and wasn’t able to reach our vet,

dear Ms. Mary from up the road came to the rescue with safe aspirin/dosage charts/antibiotics.

Together, we fought for the baby’s life, taking temps (it started at 105.7; normal is no higher than 103)

and dosing with a goat-friendly aspirin concoction and syringeful of antibiotic. Ms. Mary didn’t leave

until 11 p.m. that first night, and returned the next day with prepared syringes for the next four days.

Before long, Kinney was back to bouncing around the pasture.

How blessed I am with good friends. After losing Mary Marie’s baby in the birthing process, several

weeks premature, Ms. Mary hugged me, someone who understands the grief of losing beloved animals

entrusted to our care, realizing that our confidence in our knowledge and experience is finite and easily

overset.

So God has sent comfort, and encouragement to continue. Yesterday, we had new chicks hatch out, and

today DJ found another set. Friday, a church friend donated a long-needed riding ring/round pen.

Evidently God is not through with us/our ministry yet.