September 1, 2020

Amazingly, we still have all 10 chicks, now beautiful full- feathered miniature adults in a wide variety of

colors and patterns, from soft golden brown to dark red to black and white checkerboard. I heard one

trying out his rooster crow the other day; hilarious. In the beginning, we had seven look-alike blonde

and three black chicks.

Soon after the chicks started feathering out, one day their Mama Hen flew out of the pen. I had fastened

plastic fence in strips over the top to discourage the entrance of hawks and guineas. I guess Mama could

get out but was hesitant to brave the obstacles to return. Propping the gate open a little, small Sara and

I tried to gently herd the mama back in. However, she didn’t trust us enough and ended up bolting the

scene. For days she would hang around outside the pen, but we still couldn’t get her in.

Some weeks later the Mama did manage to fly back in, but the smaller space, combined with bigger

chicks apparently got on her nerves. She is an independent hen, and soon was spending her days once

again stalking around the yard and trying out one nesting spot after another.

As my husband is still in recovery mode, some of the heavier chores that he normally handles have

fallen to me. The last two weeks, friends helped me roll the big bale of hay into the horse feeder box

that allows us to winch the hay closer to the manger as the horses eat it down. Friday, when I was

cranking the almost-full bale into position, I felt the strain in my arm. Apparently, I pulled something.

Saturday, my arm throbbing in a sling, I looked at the waterers in the chick pen that needed cleaning and

refilling. I looked at the containers of feed, once again empty and needing refills. I looked at the three

“chicks” that had flown out that morning and were sticking their heads back into the pen, trying to

gobble scraps of chick feed from the outside.

I swung open their gate just enough to allow the little chickens entry into the wider world and stood

back. Some came out eagerly, others hung back, hesitant. However, within a few hours all were pecking

around the driveway and goat and bunny pens.

Family reunion. This morning, I noticed Mama Hen back in the midst of her huddle of ‘tween offspring,

contentedly pecking around together for breakfast. As has become second nature, I counted...eight

babies. Then, a little further off, I spotted first one then the last one. Still 10!

Several days ago, we noticed a beautiful big rooster along with sundry hens wandering our horse

pasture nearest the neighbor who gifted us with Mama Hen. His looks a lot like our Charlie, and could be

one of his sons that we had given Mr. W when he first built his chicken coop. DJ called, but neither he

nor Mr. W (who is legally blind) was up to chasing chickens nor repairing their coop. Then yesterday I

saw their rooster (with a distinctive pattern of tail feathers) was in our poultry pen, while Charlie is

nowhere to be found. After roosting time, I managed to catch and cage him, mostly one-handed, and

not without fear and hesitation before the grab. DJ is returning to light duty work today, and on the way

was going to call Mr. W and probably drop off his rooster at the farm store for re-homing. I am hoping

maybe Charlie is at their place, a case of mistaken identity.

For a decade, our Angel Grey Fluff Spare Cat (her name varies depending upon which family member is

referring to her) has been holding down the position of barn cat and running off any interlopers. I have

often wished she would allow for an assistant. When our neighbor called last week asking for help

placing her rescued bottle-raised kittens, I visited with little Sara. With amazing patience, all of them

allowed Sara to pick up and play with them. Hand raised, they are the sweetest little things, and yep,

you guessed it, we ended up bringing one home to try and see if we can’t persuade Angel to relent. Sara

adores little “Rio” (no one knows how or where she came up with the name) and carries him around for

hours. Nights he spends in a big cage at the barn. In the day, we often bring him to the house where we

have set up a small cage for when Sara isn’t playing with him. The last few days, I have started letting

him loose to play around outside while I am working nearby. Angel watches balefully, hissing, and we

don’t dare leave him unattended.

This morning as I took care of Alexander Bunny, and Rio pounced and climbed, our Golden

Lab/Shepherd Lacey came over to check things out. “Be nice to the kitty,” I reminded her. She settled

down and watched as he explored. I went on and shifted Jasper and Jeremy’s grazing pen about 20 feet

away and got them set up for the day. Hurrying back to check on Rio, I found him playing a few feet

from Lacey, who had apparently taken on guard duty.

August 28,2020

In an effort to

a) Save on hay/expenses

b) Minimize mowing and brush-clearing

c) Keep our goats healthy with fresh nutrients

d) All of the above,

I have been rotating the goats out to graze. First thing in the morning, I have been putting Isabel and her

little doeling Kayla (born August 3rd, after I’d just about given up on her arrival) out in the playpen

surrounded by metal fence panels.

If she is around, little Sara loves to help. Until recently, she was able to carry the adorable and

remarkably patient little black and white baby all the way to the pen, where she would set her down

triumphantly and then insist on staying in the pen with her to play while I went on with the next chores.

The last several times, partway to the pen Kayla has managed to wriggle free. Sara instantly bursts into

tears, ignoring the repentant goat kid who runs over to nose and try to comfort the toddler.

Wednesday, Kayla also managed to escape the pen. Rather than try to re-configure the pen to hold her, I

decided to just let Isabel and her baby join in free-ranging with the other does and kids. Isabel used to

jump over the manger into the barn while grazing, but now that she was a staid mama, I thought maybe

she would have outgrown the habit.

When I checked back some time later, I found that not only had she made her way into the barn, but

had also managed to scramble in and out of the chick pen. She didn’t score much in the barn (one

advantage of low funds and not a lot of extra grain right now) but cleared out the remainders of two ice

cream buckets that had started out the morning full of chicken feed!

As I called, the mama goats and babies ran back to the barnyard. I hadn’t been sure if Isabel would come

back of her own accord, but they all ran in. A couple of the babies started to get mixed up, so I helped

each black and white baby to follow it’s mama in, one set into Isabel’s stall, and other into the barnyard.

I fastened the gates. As I put fresh water in the stall, I noticed the baby’s growing horns. “Oh, phooey, I

thought Kayla was naturally polled like her daddy and wasn’t going to have any horns! I know I’ve been

distracted with DJ’s surgery, but how could I have missed them growing out so much!?” I thought.

Then, seeing one of the dams butting a kid in the barnyard, I realized that I’d accidentally switched the

little black and white half brother and sister, both of whom strongly take after their shared daddy,

Jeremy. Kayla has grown so much this month; their size isn’t that different at first glance.

I unfastened the barricaded barnyard gate (reinforced to keep inquisitive babies from pushing out

through every nook and cranny), extracted Kayla, swapped her into the stall while removing Koda, and

put him in the barnyard, once again barricading the barnyard gate. As I turned to go, I saw Kayla being

chased by an irritated mama in her stall—NOT hers! Only then did I realize that the mamas (similar in

size and color) as well as the babies had been reversed. Both looked at me indignantly as yet again I

unbarricaded the gates and put them in their right places.

I guess I’ve been more out of it than I realized.

July 30,2020

Back in the spring, I mistakenly thought that as we mostly work outdoors in the fresh air, our farm outreach would not be much affected by COVID fears. Yet we lost all our volunteer apprenticeship families, and only this month has our horse club met again. Two weeks ago, a prospective apprenticeship family came to visit, with plans to return. Last week, we were blessed to host a minicamp day as part of our friends Andrew and Margaret’s “Camp Memaw-Papi” with eight of their grandchildren, plus one of the mothers. Without our normal volunteers, I wasn’t sure how either event would go. Mostly new families with young children RSVP’d for horse club. How thankful I was when one of our apprenticeship graduate families showed up as well. Their older kids caught horses, directed the horse-grooming teams, tacked up, and led younger riders around and around in the heat before they took their own rides. Again, for the mini-camp day, with me as the only REACH volunteer available, I was wondering how I would manage. Before they arrived, I set up the petting zoo pen with our two baby goats. Fortunately, as former horse owners, “Papi”, “Memaw” and their daughter were all familiar with horses. In fact, the adults became excited about getting to ride again themselves after many years out of the saddle. We ended up saddling Arrow (our 17 hh Kentucky Mountain Horse) as well as our pony Shorty. They all pitched in, helped groom and tack up and instruct and lead the children around. I alternated between the horses and the petting area, with the addition of little Kennedy the bunny. Our toddler granddaughter Sara has become my regular companion for chores, stirring wet beet pulp instead of mud pies, scattering scratch feed, and insisting on stopping to pet every horse we pass. When it’s time for milking, however, I have told her she has to help by brushing and watching. Only. Watching and trying to understand what I am doing, she has a tendency to grab and pinch poor Honeysuckle’s teat. Hard. The poor doe, a first-season milker, does not appreciate the attention. Sometimes Sara also helps hold Honeysuckle’s back leg—often with new goats, you have to hold up one back leg, milking into a jar with the other hand. A few nights ago, while Sara was busy with beet pulp around the corner in the barn, for the first time I was able to let go of Honeysuckle’s leg for a few minutes and milk two-handed. With the intense summer Alabama heat, I have gotten in the habit of doing chores in stages. First thing, I let out the little bucks to allow them some fresh grass. If they can graze for an hour, they will happily chew their cud back in their pen for much of the day. Next I take out poor old Vanilla Marshmallow’s cold pack, usually a one quart bottle of water pulled out of our chest freezer, pick some fresh grass for both bunnies, and refill their food and water. A few days ago, following a rainstorm, the morning started out cool and cloudy. I thought, okay, maybe Vanilla doesn’t need the ice today. However, when I checked back at 11, the clouds had burned away and I found the elderly bunny stuck on his side, waving his feet in a fruitless try at righting himself. Several times we have found him thus in the mornings. However, so far, when we rub him all over, prop him up, give him fresh grass, and supply him with an ice pack each day, he revives and hops around his cage with ears up for several days. He is six weeks into his 11th year. His daddy lived to be 13, but his brother died last spring. I hold my breath each time I approach his hutch, afraid that this is the time I will find he has expired. Little Sara is a determined egg finder. This past week, peeking under and climbing over, she helped me discover several treasure troves of free-range eggs, several of them studded with pale blue “Easter” eggs from the new Americaunas. Some under a different corner of the milking stand. Another set under some pallets near the chicken pen. More in the grass near the hay bales, where I am surprised the dogs hadn’t discovered them first. Sadly, some of the eggs I shared with our daughter Abby a few days ago had apparently waited too long, a danger with free-range eggs. The last couple of days, Sara has proudly carried her “pretty” eggs that we know could only have been there since we raided that spot the day before. Sadly, Abby is not a huge fan of home eggs; nice reliable pre-washed store eggs are just fine for her

July 24,2020

Although so far Isabel has managed to continue to delay motherhood, so no additional kids, other babies have arrived at the farm in the past few weeks. The same day Honeysuckle kidded, we had picked up a furrily-soft brown six-week-old bunny raised with love by a local teen girl. We think “Kennedy” is a girl, but need to take her back to the breeder for another check to be sure. Then, a couple days before horse club a few Saturdays ago (YES, we actually got to meet this month, for the first time since March!) Mama Hen and her 10 chicks arrived. Our neighbor had decided his chickens were too much work and invited us to come get whatever we wanted from his stock. For some months, I had been wishing to add to our free-rangers, so I was happy to take him up on it. DJ, less so. We went over just after dark to raid Mr. W’s hen house. “Another one?” DJ asked with each hen added to our cage, while Mr. W urged, “Please, I wish you would just take them all!” Squishing through the mushy waste on the bottom of their stationary coop, I remembered all the reasons I prefer free range chickens or, at least, mobile coops. No fuss, no mess, just move the coop over a few feet. No clean-up necessary, just some fresh fertilizer for that spot in the yard. Although, truth be told, I’m still trying to get the last hardware-cloth floor panel taken out of our mobile coop, as it collects waste instead of letting it fall to the ground. Originally our coop was designed as a stand-alone, and for security we shut the chickens in the top part each night. Now that we keep it open within an electrified poultry netting fence, the floor is merely a nuisance. We ended up with four more hens to add to the free-rangers (two of them Americaunas, dubbed “Easter Eggers” for their production of pre-colored eggs) and two red hens flecked with white. We also got four adolescent hatchlings from Mama Hen’s first round, earlier in the summer. I naturally couldn’t resist Mama Hen herself, a black hen resembling our “Fancy”, along with the ten chicks from her second round—three dark fluffy babies plus seven blonde fuzzies who must surely have hatched from adopted eggs. The first night, I trimmed all the birds’ flight feathers to keep them nearby until accustomed to their new home. With their next molt, they will replace those feathers and once again be flight ready. The next day, Mr. W asked how many eggs we’d gotten. At that point, we had gotten a few in the stall where I’d parked the hens to start with. Since the new hens started free-ranging, however, I don’t think we’ve found any of their eggs, certainly not any of the colored “Easter” eggs I was looking forward to. Either they are really good at hiding their nests, or our dogs are even better at ferreting out free meals. At least the chickens have stayed on our place. DJ had been concerned they would want to return to their erstwhile home with our neighbor and their own rooster. The four half-grown chickens (three black probably-hens, and one red/black that I fear is a rooster) I added to the poultry-netting pen. They have formed their own sub-group, avoiding Charlie our rooster and our three red hens as much as possible. They were actually hatched on our farm, as Mama Hen chose to nest in the trees bordering our horse pasture. Months ago, I helped Mr. W’s wife, daughter and granddaughter herd the flock of tiny chicks back through the fence to their own yard. Mr. W told DJ that more recently he had found Mama Hen valiantly defending her second round of chicks from attack by our guineas, who disputed their right to inhabit our pasture. I kept Mama Hen and the babies in a big cage until we could run chicken wire around our “doghouse” pen, which has sheltered everything from dogs to goats to chickens through the years. With babies on the farm and children coming for horse club, I planned a petting zoo in our playpen fence so visitors could hold the new little goats, bunny and chicks. I didn’t realize how effectively protective Mama Hen was, however. After several defensive pecks, I decided that instead of cuddling sweet baby chicks, the children would get to observe Mama and babies through the fence. The next morning before church, I saw some of the chicks escaping the pen, darting under the new chicken wire lining and through the outside fence. As I was trying to get them to safety before one of the dogs or our barn cat discovered them, I once again experienced Mama Hen’s defense of her babies. Trying to escape me, they would press up against the fence, but they couldn’t get through to their mama. However, trying to reach through the outside wooden part of the fence was hard. Every time I almost had a chick, their mama would peck me through the holes of the chicken wire. Ouch! I started thinking about how Jesus talked about the Father wanting to shelter us under His wings, like a mother hen with her chicks. I realized I always thought of that just as a peaceful comforting image. I never really thought about it as God as our Defender, like this Mama hen! The Enemy better WATCH OUT because God’s got our back! We finally got all the chicks back in and the fence repaired before we left.

Sunday June 28,2020

In all the chaos, strife and uncertainty of current times, two little kids remind us of the joy of new life. Kids as in baby goats. For what seems forever, our pint-sized doe Honeysuckle has been on the verge of giving birth. Her udder began filling with milk weeks ago, her tail stood up, she was biting at her sides (all signs of possible imminent labor.) Night after night I would drag myself out of bed, slip my crocs on, and pick my way through the dark yard to check on her in the barnyard. Last Monday I ran a Ph strip on her, which came out 6.5 or 7, depending on which color you decided matched the best. Unfortunately, the information didn’t help much. I remembered a Facebook blog that said “7” was when “to get excited” so that night I thought sure might be the time for babies. But no. Although Honeysuckle was not a first-time mama, she is SO little (truly a mini miniature, sired by the tiniest buck we ever had) and she looked so big with babies, I was concerned she might have trouble. We had kept a buckling with the does for awhile, so we didn’t have an exact due date. I started to postpone an upcoming overnight trip, but DJ counseled, “It could be days, and I can take care of them.” So I left Tuesday, returning Wednesday night. Still no babies, but Honeysuckle stood by the barnyard gate. “Do you want to go in the stall?” I asked, and sure enough when I opened the gate, she made her way into the birthing stall and seemed content. I checked back off and on—no babies. Morning came, no babies. Honeysuckle continued to be placid. Days before, I had assembled birthing supplies—disinfectant, scissors, string, clean towels, a foldout chair. Thursday afternoon, I took a nap. Around 4:30, I got up and went back out to the barn. Still placid, Honeysuckle looked up at me. This time, beside her rested two little bundles, twin bucklings. The first, brown, looks like his mom. The other, a glossy black with blue eyes, takes after his daddy. When I sat down to imprint them (30 firm strokes all over, forming a foundation of familiarity with people that fosters lifelong trust) the tan buckling was already completely dry. The black one, though, was still damp around his feet. While I was still rubbing the black one’s rather slimy forefeet, then his still-wrinkly ears, our daughter brought little Sara to see the new babies. A couple of days later when seeing the little boys, Sarah grabbed the black one and started rotating his front feet, then began rubbing his ear. I started to admonish her, then realized she was only showing she knew what to do with baby goats, faithfully imitating my imprinting techniques! Each year, we name our baby goats starting with the next letter of the alphabet, which makes it easy later to remember how old each one is. Last year’s babies were Jeremy, Jasper and Jillian. Isabel was born two years ago, and Honeysuckle is now three years old. Our son chose the names Kinney and Koda for the twins. Remembering the old Kinney shoe company renowned for their tan Hush Puppy loafers, I deemed the brown one to be Kinney and the glossy black as the dramatic coda (but spelled with a K.) So far so good, and the two little two-pounders have already developed fans. Yesterday, wanting to get them out on fresh ground away from any build-up of bacteria or contamination, I put together a nursery pen for them and their mama, using some of the tight-woven grazing panels. Last night, I walked by their pen during the course of evening chores, enjoying seeing them with their mama. A few minutes later, as I passed by again I did a double-take. The two little boys had slipped through the 4” square openings of the fence and were just getting ready to go exploring. Wonderful guards though our farm dogs are, I don’t trust them with such nearly squirrel-sized little ones, and DJ was also bush hogging nearby in the twilight. I scooped up the babies, and bundled mama and boys back into the birthing stall. Today, I took back the toddler play-fence panels set up for possible baby chicks in our poultry pen, instead using them to form a sub-fence within the grazing panel pen. Overall, as trouble-free a kidding as possible. Now for Isabel, our next mama-in-waiting. She will be a first-timer

Wednesday May 27,2020

Wednesday, May 27 Have been trying to find out if masks are required for Uncle Carl’s funeral in Indiana next week. Marc and I plan to drive up. After my experience wearing a mask while returning home from Idaho (almost passing out on the plane) I have vowed not to go anywhere requiring a mask. My breathing/oxygen capacity still hasn’t recovered from the trip. Today I was noticing the difference just walking around. Tonight I found a bottle of “Breathe Easy” essential oil blend. Maybe that will help. DJ suggested, instead of calling off the whole trip, how about making a mask of gauze? Tests have already shown that the COVID-19 particles are so small, they pass right through the structure of both cloth and surgical masks (kind of like minnows going through a deep sea fishing net) so it’s not like it would really make much difference as far as The Virus is concerned. Our internet has been out today, so I haven’t been able to check on motels and suchlike. Isabelle and Jeremy appear none the worse today for their escapade. Mary Marie was NOT happy about being confined to the barnyard pen, though. Sometimes she sounds like a bellowing cow. Shorty seems to be back in his role of dominant horse. Sometimes in the past month or so, Jaz had begun edging out the others at feeding time. She would reach over for Shorty’s bucket and he would back off, to my surprise. When he was here over the weekend, Marc shoveled out the loose hay dust that had gathered in the bottom of the manger. He would even have swept it if I had come up with a broom in time. Sara was so excited when I came back from the church yard sale with a toddler helmet for her. She used to borrow her cousin’s, but I took that out to Ella in my suitcase. I promised to look for one for Sara so she could be horseback riding again. The first day while helping at the sale, I looked but didn’t find one. Saturday, I spotted one down in a bag of athletic gear. Perfect, it was even pink! I don’t know if it had been there previously, or came in with later items. As soon as Sara had the helmet, of course, right away I had to give her a ride on Tamaya. As I don’t trust a toddler’s ability to stick on the horse without someone holding on to them as well, giving her a ride by myself is a juggling event. With my right hand, I grip Sara’s clothes enough to be able to swing her off if need be. Holding Tamaya’s leadrope with my left hand, I shake it at her and cluck for her to walk, but not too fast. Most of our horses are pretty good natured about the procedure. The children love it when Uncle Marc is here and willing to help give rides; his are much more fun. He can hold them securely even way up on Arrow’s back (17 hands high, each “hand” equivalent to four inches) while I lead up and down and around until my foot gives out. Sometimes Uncle Marc will even put his saddle on Arrow and mount up. I help hand up the first child and away they go, around and around and up and down the driveway, the child’s face split wide with a grin while the next one jumps up and down anticipating a turn. Saturday we were blessed by a visit from Mr. M. We view him as God’s warring angel, sent to fight for us some years ago during a time we were crying out for the Lord’s help in a difficult situation. This was Mr. M’s first time to visit us at our own farm, although we had invited him many times to bring his specialneeds grandson for a visit. Unfortunately, as he arrived, his low-slung car got hung up on the driveway entrance. We ended up with a slew of neighbors (already gathered for the Memorial Day weekend) coming and basically lifting his car off the bank—a great showcase of the value of good neighbors! I was somewhat at my wit’s end trying to entertain little “Ben” meanwhile. He really wasn’t that little, and he was much more fascinated by tiny Sara than the goats and dogs and animals of the farm he had come to visit. At one point, I locked Sara in the cab of the truck to safeguard her from the 8-year-old’s poking and unintentionally too-strong handling. Yet after a bit, she seemed to understand the situation and would take Ben by the hand and cajole him to come look at the goats, or the rabbit, or to hunt for eggs. He remained more interested in her toy school bus than in any of the animals we tried to distract him with. Once Ben’s “Papa” assured her that he would give it back before he left, she let him keep the toy throughout the visit. “She is a treasure,” Mr. M exclaimed more than once. We ended up sitting at the picnic table, drinking orange juice or decaf tea and swapping stories. “Did you grow up with farms and animals?” Mr. M asked, and that led to DJ’s testimony of how his parents moved to a farm to get him away from poor influences and keep him busy with building fence and feeding cows. They remained blissfully ignorant of DJ’s penchant for growing pot at the edge of the property and partying, until eventually he surrendered to the work of the Holy Spirit and found peace and purpose in his life. Then Mr. M pulled out a picture of a young hippie and we heard the amazing story of God’s intervention in his life. Having only known him as a strong, respected leader in his church and community, by the time he finished we were all close to tears. It wasn’t until the next day that I realized we’d totally forgotten to have Mr. M sign the legal waiver which our nonprofit board requires of all farm visitors. As a lawyer, I wonder if he was surprised at the lapse

Tuesday May 26th,2020

Ugh. Still sick. No, not The Virus, but something intestinal, maybe from eating those leftovers I should have thrown out last Friday instead of trying? I woke up and thought, “My head feels like it’s going to explode.” Then I thought of my sister, almost four years ago now, with a brain aneurysm. For the first time, I wonder: if I had gone through with calling her that morning, would she have perhaps mentioned her headache? Might I have had the wisdom to encourage her to get checked out, and might it have made a difference? I had actually dialed the number, then stopped it before it rang, deciding to wait until after I finished feeding the goats. While in their pen, I got stung by a wasp and had a reaction—a missed opportunity to speak with her that final day which I will always regret. At some point after that, in light of family history (both my sister and grandfather having suffered brain aneurysms) I was scheduled for an MRI. We are self pay, although reimbursed by the health sharing cost organization we have been part of for many a year, Samaritan Ministries. When I went for my test, I found the imaging center had misquoted the price. The total was more than I had available. I never rescheduled. Maybe I still should. Someday. After all the stress and panic of the pandemic is passed, perhaps. Panic + epidemic = pandemic. I hadn’t put that together before. A few months ago, after e-mailed conversation with a specialist at UAB, I was also supposed to get blood testing for systemic mastocytosis, with which my brother has been diagnosed. It’s not genetic in a normal sense, but if our mother had it, each of us have a 50% chance of having it as well. Again, I procrastinated. Now I figure all the laboratories are too busy with COVID-19 tests. Yesterday, I absently scratched at what was probably a mosquito bite. A little while later, I looked at my arm to find it covered with allergic welts. I’m pretty sure that is a symptom? Oh, well. I’m keeping Benadryl on hand, and I think we still have an EpiPen on top of the cupboard. The swelling is gone now, with just the small bite mark showing. As I think about it, suddenly my arm is feeling itchy, and then my neck—I wonder, if I scratch again, will my arm swell up once more? DJ let the goats out this morning for me. Instead of putting them back in after a morning graze, I just left them out. It was raining off and on, but they had shelter available. I didn’t think they would get too much to eat. Instead of the lush clover which filled our pastures a few months ago, the grass is short, with brown patches here and there. Whereas before, I could grab a few handfuls and have a generous bunch for the bunnies, now I have to scrabble around to get a good snack for one rabbit. Oops. DJ just came back in from filling in with evening chores. The goats had gotten in the barn. Now we won’t dare let them out for awhile. Fortunately, they only knocked over and ate out of the bucket of black sunflower seeds. With all the roughage, they probably didn’t manage to eat themselves into a bloat like they could have if they’d gotten into the grain. I’m surprised if all four managed to make it in; the two mamas haven’t managed to jump through the manger side previously. Probably it was just Jeremy and Isabel.

Sunday May 17,2020

It was SO special to get to go help during and after the birth of our older daughter Susannah’s third child. My first time further west than Colorado, I flew into Spokane and spent almost two weeks in NW Idaho. Snowtopped mountains, rivers, lakes, plains, pastures almost always supplied with two or three good-looking horses, roads with names like Hoo-Doo Loop and Tweedie Lane—fun! Dandelions twice the size of any I’ve seen, multiple kiosks serving coffee even in small towns like Priest River, fawns and moose calves in people’s back yards . . . I was blessed to get to know our daughter’s in-laws as more than passing acquaintances. We discovered common ground in our life approaches that undoubtedly laid the foundation for their son and our daughter to connect as best friends leading to marriage. Now, six-plus years later as corona virus refugees forced to abandon their home and livelihood overseas, they are facing nearly overwhelming challenges with grace and faith. At so many points I was touched by people’s kindness, including: -- the library lady who selected books for our grandchildren to check out during the library shutdown, the local father and daughter who welcomed us to come meet their horses and even gave our little ones rides, the Dollar Tree employee who looked twice trying to find hair detangler for our granddaughter after someone bought out their entire stock for unknown reasons. I’m wondering, can you make hand sanitizer or drugs from detangler? Or use it to make toilet paper? “It’s so nice to actually be together,” enthused four-year-old Ella. “You can’t hug on video.” Words of wisdom I wish many would take to heart. Ella seemed to find me fascinating, whether threading a needle to mend clothes, reading books, or telling stories. We read through most of the Narnia book The Horse and His Boy, acting out the storyline with model horses playing Bree and Hwin and a series of dolls, action figures, and Paw Patrol dogs the rest of the characters. She listened to accounts of horseback riding in the Colorado mountains when I was her age, and of a family and friends trail ride which included her mother as a three-year-old (riding in front of a friend on steady old Skippy), Uncle Marc at age five being ponied (led behind another horse) on the small mule Rachel, and Uncle MD at age seven riding our miniature horse Blaze all by himself. Someday I want to ride mountain trail rides with Ella. I will miss her enthusiasm and concentration, her little brother JW’s sweetly infectious smiles, and her baby brother who was just beginning to spend some alert happy awake time when it came time for me to leave. After a grueling series of flights spanning most of the continent yesterday, it was a joy to see DJ and Marc waiting for me outside the Arrivals elevator at the airport. We spent the night with our son at his apartment. I was tired and wobbly and delighted to fall asleep on the couch. This morning, though, awake before everyone else, I enjoyed some quiet moments on his back patio. Although he lives in the middle of Birmingham, his apartment is in the back corner of the complex. As I sat on his wooden rocker next to his (chained) grill, basically I could see only a screen of trees and underbrush screening a small lake. His birdfeeder, stocked with black oil sunflower seeds, attracted a fascinating array of birdlife, from tiny nuthatches and chickadees to a cardinal and several varieties beyond my ability to identify. Squirrels and a chipmunk explored the ground beneath the feeder for dropped treasure, kept from a closer approach by Marc’s latest strategies in squirrel deterrence. Paintings of outdoor and farm scenes grace his walls. Wood figures largely in his décor, his furnishings carefully pieced together from cast-offs, yard sale finds, gifts, and home-built items. Eventually, I’m sure he’ll graduate to a house in the country, but meanwhile, he’s managed to create a touch of rural life there in the city. He cooked us a delicious breakfast of scrambled farm fresh eggs DJ had brought. We watched his church’s service together before he left for his small group’s first in-person meeting since mid-March . . . if you can legitimately term as “in-person” an outdoor meeting with people in masks within waving distance. I have nearly reached the point of screaming when I hear the oft-repeated phrases “social distancing’, “new normal” or “safer at home”, especially as the fallacies of logic in most of the rules and policies become more glaringly obvious with each passing day. On the way home, we stopped for lunch at the restaurant where our younger son, affectionately known as NRG, works. Today is the first Sunday their dining room has been open since the shutdowns weeks ago. Rules require families or friends of more than six to split into different groups further separated by empty tables. Taped arrows mark directions, including ins and outs at the restroom doors. As the doors aren’t nearly six feet wide, and people don’t normally have the leverage to push open doors while clinging to the side near the hinges, as practical guides the arrows serve only to amuse or befuddle guests. However, service was great (LOL, our son is the best!) and the lunch so good that we ended up ordering another round to take home as a surprise for our younger daughter’s family. While away, I had spent multiple video calls chatting with our younger granddaughter, Sara, who couldn’t understand why “GG” wasn’t home, nor why she was apparently living in a phone now. When her mom told her I was returning “tomorrow” she wanted to run to the gate to watch for me right then. As soon as she understood it was me at the door, she scrambled down from her seat and ran to nestle in my arms. We hugged and kissed, and hugged and kissed again as she repeated, “My GG’s home, my GG’s home.” Next, with Sara as my shadow, I walked to the barn to greet first our horses, then the goats. Shorty nickered and left his spot at the hay to come mouth “join-up” at me. Isabel and Mary Marie, Jeremy and Honeysuckle came over towards the fence to bleat at us. It looks like Honeysuckle’s milk is bagging up; I wonder if she will kid soon. After their evening graze, I’ll put her in an individual stall just in case. We checked and found five new “boo” eggs in the bluebird house. It’s good to be home

Tuesday April 28,2020

Mystery of the attack on Blackie the chicken solved—yesterday, I saw a big grayish coon cat exit out the manger side of the barn as I came in through the gate. It looked like it would make three of our barn cat, Angel. I think it’s a tom that belongs to one of our neighbors. Now to figure out how to make our place unpopular for it. First, we need to ONLY put the amount of cat food out that Angel can eat within an hour or so. “I think we should call her Two Shoes,” DJ said the other day of our granddaughter, Sara. Little Miss Two Shoes is at the stage where she wants to pick out her own clothes for the day, but she doesn’t want to be stuck with just a boring old pair of shoes. She delights in choosing one of each—one brown boot, one tap shoe, or perhaps a ballet slipper with a pink gym shoe, or a pink rubber boot with a white sandal. It makes me think of someone picking at a salad bar—a little of this, a little of that, with endless possibilities of combinations. Every day, Sara would point to the birdhouse and say, “Baby boo birds” and I would lift her up to peek in. Then she would say, “Mama- daddy” looking over toward the electric wires from which the parents often kept watch. “Soon,” I told Sara, “They’ll be big enough to fly away and they won’t be in here anymore.” Friday, after storms had come and gone once more, there were only two babies left. “See,” I told Sara, “One flew away!” By Saturday the nest was empty except for one tiny blue egg that had never hatched. “All gone!” I looked discreetly around; no feathers or sad little corpses. Hopefully they had gotten clean away without attracting the cat’s attention. One day last week Sara helped me gather 35 eggs, AFTER leaving two in each nest. Later during her nap, I found another half dozen or so. That gave us some for family, plus a dozen for friends PLUS a dozen each as a thank you for the workers who delivered hay. The hay guys used to drive a truck carrying six big bales to unload near our barn, but now they use a trailer that carries eight bales as well as a tractor. They park it on the road near our gate, drive the tractor down the ramp, then use a spear attachment on the tractor which pokes through the center of one bale at a time. One man directs from the ground while the other shuttles back and forth. Even though they have delivered hay to us for years, they are still bemused by our set-up. Last time no one was here when they delivered. Trying to be kind and get the hay close to where we needed, they started lining up bales too near the wall of the barn. We had to push away bales to make room to put down the ramp before we could roll one up into the feeder. This time I ran out of the house just as the tractor came back with the second bale. I showed the ramp to the guy directing the operation, and explained that we needed to keep enough room for it near the hay entrance. He kindly moved back the row of pallets. If the hay is set on pallets, air can circulate and the bales are less apt to mold. Then he had the tractor guy shift the bales back from the barn. After that he went above and beyond. After helping me arrange the ramp, he had the man use the tractor to go ahead and push one into the empty feeder before unloading the rest. The horses were so eager for the fresh new hay, Arrow started reaching over the gate to tear at the bale before we rolled it in. I had to scold him to back up or he would have bent the top rail on yet another corral panel. As soon as the bale was in, the horses jockeyed for a spot to reach it and started munching. The test of hay each time—will the horses want to eat it? This time, not only will they eat it, they love it! A few days later DJ joked that we were going to have to tell Mr. H that we could only pay him half price for the hay this time, the horses were refusing to eat their clover grass and it was all his fault; all they wanted was to eat his hay. Each time I turned away to do something else, something went wrong with the hay. The tractor guy started putting some of the bales facing one way, some another. I explained to the guy on the ground that they needed to all face so we could roll them toward the barn. Also, they needed to form a smooth line so we could cover them in a row. Not to worry, I said, DJ can probably move them later. No, no, the director guy said, and with much difficulty got the guy to push the bales the other direction. In the process, he drove over and broke off the corner of one of the heavy-duty plastic pallets. When he finished, the row of bales was still so topsy-turvy Dave had to shove them the best he could into place to be able to cover them before the rains came that night. Talking about difficulties in communicating and getting the helping guys to do things the right way reminds me of a couple of recent visits to one of the farm stores. The family-run store gives work to one guy, I’ll call him Stan, who is “as honest as the day is long” and “as hard a worker as you could ask for”. He also comes out with some of the most unfortunate statements. Our daughter refused to return after he told her she looked like she was about to have a litter; she was coming up on the due date of their second child. I ended up being the one to pick up their family’s dog food from then on, because it was still the best price for good quality food. If you have dogs, cats, or bunnies, check out your local farm stores. You’ll probably pay less for better items than you’ll find elsewhere. Stan doesn’t like to be questioned or corrected, especially by a woman. Case in point: DJ is working on perimeter fence, along with a teen he has hired for the day. He’s going to need more metal “T” posts. He calls the farm store to check prices and availability. This is the only store we know of that carries posts 6 1/2 feet long, the others only carry up to six feet. I offer to make the run to town so the guys can keep working. “Sure,” DJ says, “They should be fine in the pickup, just put them in diagonally and they’ll fit. Once at the store, I pay at the counter for seven 6 1/2 foot posts. “Head down to that next building,” the clerk tells me. “Stan will load them for you.” I drive down to the place indicated. Stan comes, looks at my receipt, and heads for a stack of posts on a pallet clearly marked “6”. Surely not-- I ease out of the pickup. “Umm…” I say, holding out the receipt again. “We need 6 and a HALF foot posts.” “That’s what these are,” Stan says, breaking open a bundle and sliding the first one up into the bed of the truck. It fits easily even with the tailgate up; no need for diagonal placement. I look at the ones Stan is holding upright. Clearly, they are more DJ’s height (right around six feet) and definitely not more than our son Marc’s 6’4”. “Uh, those aren’t long enough. We need six and half foot,” I say, pointing to the next stack over. I am careful to keep my tone neutral, my gaze slightly averted, so as not to make Stan feel put on the spot. Stan grabs the receipt again and studies it. “Six and a half,” he says. “That’s what these are.” “These aren’t right,” I say. “Do you want me to go get a tape measure and show you?” he challenges. “Yes, that would be helpful,” I say. He stomps off. I’m sure DJ would be able to get the right posts without a scene, I think. Stan returns, tape measure in hand. He pulls out the 6 foot post and measures with a flourish. The tape shows just over 6’. “See?” he triumphs. “Six and a half, just like I said!” Six feet, one-half INCH. “But we need six and a half FEET” I say. I take the tape measure and one of the longer posts and show him. “Oh!” He harrumphs. “If you needed six feet six INCHES that’s what you should have said!” Obviously the injured party, he loads the six-foot- six- inch posts and I drive away. Sometime I’ll tell you about the happenings when I went back to get fence panels

Thursday April 23,2020

Wow, but wow. I wasn’t too anxious about the weather today because radar had shown the storms were mostly crossing north of us, although we were on the edge of the line. Flash flood watches don’t worry us much here, although I get concerned when someone has to drive. It had rained off and on, with clear hours between. In the morning I put out the goats as usual; in the afternoon I let out the barnyard crew. With plenty of new hay and expected storms, we left the horses in their pen near the overhang. Then, while I was working on supper preparations in the kitchen, it started absolutely pouring. At first I thought, well, the goats can get under the old chicken coop. But it kept pouring. I better go check on them, I decided. I rolled up my capri pajama bottoms (hey, don’t laugh, it’s stay at home time, remember?) and zipped on a lightweight raincoat and ventured out to splash through water on the way to the barn. It was raining so hard, the water was pooling up just about everywhere. I looked ahead at the old chicken coop—no goats. Praying lighning wouldn’t strike as I snapped open the metal gate, I let myself under the roof and crossed to their barnyard pen—maybe they had let themselves in somehow. Still no goats. The rain pounded so heavily on the metal roof I couldn’t think they would hear me even as I called. Then I opened the gate into the barn center and glimpsed two goats huddled just outside the hay feeder under the entrance ramp/cover. Could the others be under the run-in roof with the horses? As I started toward the manger, I noticed Gabby and Jillian watching with guilty expressions from over near the grain storage buckets to the left, two of the grain lids knocked OFF! Isabel and Jeremy came to me from near the manger. Apparently, they all lept up from the outside into and through the manger—a problem to solve another day. I herded them out of the barn center and they gathered in the isolation stall to the left of the barnyard gate, refusing to go through the rain back to the covered stall. Through a gap in the corner, I could see water gathering on the ground outside which might rise and flood the stall before long. For now, though, I fastened them in and then ran back out into the rain, around the corner to where I had to pull Mary Marie out rear first. She and Honeysuckle were both pretty soaked. I pulled Mary Marie partway until she ran on into the barnyard, followed by Honeysuckle. Perhaps they are both expecting, as I hope, and found the jump up into the manger too hard. By now the rain had slacked off a bit, and I was able to open the stall door and shoo the other four on into the barnyard as well. The covered stall area there has heavy plastic dog houses and the old hay feeder that will help get them up off the ground if need be. When he got home last night, DJ spent a fair bit of time covering the fresh hay bales with thick heavy tarps over some, and pieces of metal weighted down with various items over others. We woke this morning to find the tarps had blown off, although the metal was still in place. Before leaving, Dave tugged the tarps back over the bales, so at least they were covered again for the deluge. As I write, I can see them billow up, then settle back down with the force of the wind. A t any moment, I expect my battery to run out on the laptop; I’ve unplugged most all the appliances and electronics, including the electric fence chargers. (I hope…did I remember to unplug the chicken pen netting as I hurried back to the house?) Hopefully the crockpot won’t get knocked out, at least not before it finishes cooking our supper. Occasionally the wind whistles around the house with shrieks reminiscent of the Ingalls family enduring the blizzards of The Long Winter, but here the trees are leafed out and everything green. Before too long I should venture back out and see if Gabby and Jillian have belly aches from too much grain, and if Mary Marie and Honeysuckle should go into the stall under the heat lamp to warm up. I am SO GLAD for the old carpet remnants we dragged under the run-in roof for the horses awhile back. Some months back— February?—we had been drenched with rain for what seemed weeks on end, until even under their shelter, craters of muddy water formed where the horses stand to eat hay. By the time we found someone throwing away old carpet (thanks to a tip from one of our apprenticeship families) we thought the rainy season had passed for the most part. Still, we didn't hesitate when we finally spotted the remnants one evening on the way back home from town. Sara watched tearfully from her carseat as her mom and I tugged and grunted and heaved rolls of nasty, smelly, yet pretty new-looking carpet into the back of the pickup. My guess is, some poor landlord had to replace carpet ruined by the last renter’s pets before the arrival of a new tenant. Dear Abby, thank you for helping your mom with such a horrid job, when you don’t even like horses! I never could have gotten them up in the truck by myself. Now, the horses’ loafing area is lined with two or three layers of strong carpet, protecting their hooves from mud and standing water. And thank you, DJ, for renovating the hay entrance at the barn last Friday! I was thinking of a quick fix with a few nails and a piece of fence panel cut to the right size. DJ and his helper used that basic idea, but first they replaced a whole section of deteriorated wood and the framing beneath it. I wonder why the goats didn’t shelter under the chicken coop, as they normally do during rain showers when they are out grazing. Were they afraid of being caught on flooding ground? Perhaps they were already invading the barn, hunting for goodies and grabbing hay through the fence panel? I’m so glad I did go out to check on them, hopefully soon enough to head off major issues. Now we’ll have to figure out how to better protect the grain from future rampages. More fence panels, perhaps sectioning off the grain storage area or the manger? Ugh, our son Marc has a point when he complains about troublesome goats. Yesterday our granddaughter appeared yet again around the corner of the bookshelves dividing the living room from the front hall toting a chicken—this time Blackie, the hen she claims as hers. DJ is amazed they keep letting Sara pick them up. I am so glad Blackie is still around, in good health. Sunday night when I was finally able to go make rounds following the evening storms, I found black feathers strewn all around in the hay in the center of the barn. I was afraid Blackie had met her match—perhaps a possum in the barn? I know it wasn’t any of the dogs because they were all cowering in the house. I went with my flashlight and found both of our black hens resting peacefully, Fancy on the corner of the goat stall in the barnyard where she spends nights alongside our two guineas, and Blackie in the red doghouse with Blondie and two of the red hens. I still don’t know what caused the scattered feathers—surely not the cat?—but I’m just happy the hens all seem okay.

Wednesday April 22,2020

YAY! The new hay finally arrived today. Apparently it rained so much Sunday the workers couldn’t get into the field to get it out until today. We were scraping up hay that had fallen on the barn floor from the center section (not where the horses and goats are) to put in the manger. We were going to be in trouble if the hay didn’t come today, as rain is expected tonight and storms tomorrow. We use big round bales (well, not the very biggest size, I think ours are about 4 feet wide and 5 feet high, as opposed to those 5’x6’. Round bales, first designed and produced back in the 1970’s by Vermeer out in Iowa, are rolled and then finished off with netting to hold them in place. Round bales weigh upwards of 600 to 1100 pounds, depending upon size and density. They shed water pretty well when set the right direction. However, once they are opened (as in, the netting is cut away and either horses or cows are eating from the side) they are vulnerable to rain. We have the hay guys line up the bales on pallets in a long row moving away from the hay ramp, and then hand-roll the bales into the feeder one by one. In the winter, each mixed grass bale lasts us about a week for our four horses and dozen or so miniature goats, plus oddments for the bunnies

Sunday April 19,2020

Yet another Sunday of storms. I am so tired of Sunday School via ZOOM and uploaded Sunday worship. No matter how hard everyone is trying to be supportive and creative, videostreams just aren’t the same. Will anyone ever feel free to just hug someone’s neck again?

This afternoon we were able to “attend” our oldest son and daughter-in-law’s gender reveal for their firstborn, again via ZOOM, shortly before we had to unplug our wifi due to lightning. I didn’t feel the same sense of urgency today about threatening storms, although apparently the morning rounds did a fair bit of damage at friends’ places an hour or two northeast of us. For us, there was just rain that we didn’t take too seriously, even though they are calling for flash floods. Several years ago, volunteers Ray and Betty Lockhart brought their heavy-duty Kubota and reconfigured key elements of our topography . Hallelujah, no longer does a channel stream through the bunny hutch area on its way under our house. Every time it rains heavily, I am thankful once again for Ray’s legacy.

However, pools of water have formed all around the property, and even our dog Lacey deigned to come into the house this afternoon, along with both Jewels and Opie. While it was still light, I looked out the windows from time to time to check on our rooster Charley and the little red hens in their pen. Although water has been gathering there, they were still walking around pecking, perhaps finding insects escaping the saturated ground. If need be, they can always roost well above water level on the second story of the coop. None of the hens have started setting the gathered nest on the ground in the coop. Even if it floods somewhat, the eggs should still be fine. I can gather them tomorrow.

As soon as the lightning settles down, I want to put on my muck boots and check the animals. I wonder if I should have brought in Vanilla bunny again? When I went out this afternoon to switch grazing rotations, right after I shut in the boys (they had already put themselves in their pen, so all I had to do was clip shut their gate) and went to let out the barnyard herd, it started pouring. I left both the inner and outer gates open so they could shelter under the roof in the storage area and hopefully go out between showers to grab some green grass. However, I don’t know that they ever did. I’m eager for the storms to pass enough to do a walk around, shut the goats in, and get to bed.

Our “hay man” called yesterday, and they have fresh-cut hay! We made it through! Sadly, they weren’t able to bring it yesterday, when we could have covered it before the rains. Even though the big bales are designed to shed water, it is so much better when they’ve not had to. Last year we got a bunch that were delivered fresh and promptly covered, and it was amazing.

It’s still raining but hasn’t lightninged for several minutes, maybe I’ll go ahead and run out.

Nope, there was another flash. With thunder strong enough to shudder the house.

Thursday April 16,2020

I wake up late. Perhaps in reaction to being around the hay yesterday, I ended up taking Benadryl in the night and oversleep. The grazing routine is off, the horses need to be put in their barn paddock and the boy goats let out—unless Dave thought to do them before leaving this morning? With the front perimeter fence finished except for a brushy area of the woods, we decided to add another “pasture” into the rotation and let the horses graze the yards for a week or two. I didn’t write down when we took them off the front pasture last time, and for parasite management we don’t want to put the horses back on the same ground until it’s been six weeks. However, at any time while grazing, horses may suddenly start running, whether due to springtime high spirits or a startlement of wind or sound. Not wanting to risk Sara toddling across the yards with loose horses, we switched schedules so the horses graze at night instead of in the day.

I hurry out, squinting toward the barn—yes, the horses are standing behind the gate, swishing tails in the barnyard. The boys let me know they still need out and I detour by their pen enroute to the barn. The panels near the hay entrance are pushed aside again, giving room for goats to squeeze through. Yet another item moves to the top of Dave’s ToDo list: install a proper gate at the hay door—perhaps a section of the versatile fence panels, suspended on hooks or nails?

Wednesday April 15,2020

As I sit at the computer desk, I hear our little granddaughter Sara shuffling in through the front door and down the hall. As she comes around the corner, beaming, she thrusts a chicken into my hands. Blondie looks up at me, acquiescent.

Not something I expected. How many people in the course of their lives have a two-year-old hand them a full grown live chicken in their living room?

Sara has been spending the past stay-at-home weeks reveling in farm time with few interruptions. Now that our driveway is gated and we don’t have to worry about delivery trucks roaring up the lane without warning, she can go back and forth between our homes on the same property pretty much at will.

With the abundance of fresh rich clover pasture, our other feed has lasted much longer than usual. This morning I finally opened and poured the second 50 pound bag of non-GMO Multi-Species into the horses’ grain storage bucket. This afternoon I cranked the final large hay bale, rolled into the tilt-feeder more than two weeks ago, to its last setting to enable the horses to reach it. Before, we were soaking and feeding a couple of gallons a day of beet pulp to be divided among four horses and eight miniature goats. Now, they just get a gallon once a week, soaked in the probiotic kombucha tea.

After we gently set the chicken down in the front yard, Sara goes with me to rotate grazing shifts. The boys were all ready to go into their pen, but Jewels stood in the way blocking them. By the time I got her to shift position, the goats had taken off elsewhere. “Jewels!” I grumble. “You were no help at all! You just stood right smack in the way!”

“Smack in t’way! Smack in t’way!” Sara adds her scolding as we divert to feeding the bunny while giving the boy goats a chance to reconsider. After picking Vanilla a generous handful of grass and clover, filling his feed bowl, and deciding his waterer is full enough, Sara wants to look for eggs in the boys’ pen. I refill their mineral salt bowl and hold it on top of their fence while Sara hunts through the shelters with no success. By the time she has given up, the boys have deigned to pass through their gate. Sara comes out, I snap shut their metal panel, top and bottom, and set down their salt bowl where they can reach it. We’re ready for the next challenge.

First item at the barn, we let out the barnyard goats, counting six as they stream by (Gabby, Jillian, Isabel, Honeysuckle, Jeremy and Ana Mary Marie.) Sara tucks herself behind the stall gate until they have passed, then begins hunting eggs. Yesterday she discovered that they’ve started laying again under the milking stand, as well as an abundance in the dog house, giving us enough to share a dozen with two different sets of neighbors. Today there are a couple more fresh eggs, both under the milking stand and in the goat cage under the barnyard roof.

“Remember, leave two,” I remind her. It’s a hard concept, but necessary to keep the hens from abandoning the nest site. She gets the first two, then while I am busy elsewhere she appears with two more. Finally I persuade her to return them under the milking stand, then to retrieve two (one for each hand) from the goat cage. By now she has lost interest in preparing beet pulp; she is busy playing with the tethered apple ball hanging from a tree in the barnyard, designed as a toy for bored stall-kept horses.

“Ap’le!” Sara screams, pushing the plastic globe one direction, then running under it and out the other side before it swings back down to hit her.

In the barn again, she grabs a brush from Arrow’s grooming box and marches toward the manger. I watch as she manages to climb into the long wooden feeding area, boosting herself up with the help of a pile of loose hay. “I gee’ in!” she announces. “CiCi!” (derived from “horsie” ) As the horses line up expecting a feeding, Sara points at them in order , naming each one starting with “Myyuh”. With more or less patience, they each allow her to “brush” them, stabbing the large brush at their heads. She reaches for “Myyuh’s” long mane of multi-colored tresses. I watch, distrusting Tamaya’s sometime moodiness.

Suddenly a yearling goat appears in the manger feeder, having sneaked in from the outside near a loosened panel across the hay entrance. “Get out!” I cry, and Sara joins in, “Go ‘way!”

Isabel slides out, then back in. I hurry outside to readjust the panels. By the time I return, Sara has developed a new game, running up and down the manger, darting under tall Arrow’s neck as if he were the swinging apple ball in the barnyard. Sara would probably stay and play for hours, but I don’t dare leave her in the barn without supervision. Finally I persuade her away and we move on to other tasks.

Monday April 13, 2020

As I walked outside this morning, the sky was blue and clear, the weather cool and comfortable, the grass a clean shiny green, the birds chirping and singing.

We are so blessed.

Just before midnight, after the main storm system passed us by, I walked out with an umbrella to check everyone. (Before leaving the house, I double-checked that this umbrella did, indeed have plastic stays instead of metal as there were still rumblings and flashes of lightening.) I’d taken Vanilla Marshmallow bunny into the house in a cage, but it was good to see his hutch was still upright, although a branch had fallen into the bunny area.

Ezekiel and Jasper (the boy goats) poked their heads out and baaed at me when my flashlight beamed across their pen. Three chickens were in the doghouse, a fourth sat outside the entrance, apparently not too worried by the torrents of rain. I walked on to the side of the barn, where all four horses stood under the roof of the run-in shelter added to the back of the barn Good, that close crack of lightening during the height of the storm hadn’t gotten any of them. I didn’t try to go through the barn to stir up the goats, but listening, didn’t hear any complaining so assumed they were okay. I peeked in the hold of the bluebird house. The mama’s eyes reflected back the light, so I quickly stood back.

Now, walking in the morning-after sunshine, I let out Ezekiel and Jasper. Free-range hens are poking around. Last night I had disconnected the electric fence near the horses (if lightening strikes the fence out in the field, it could zing around and take out the charger.) Now I reconnect it, then check the bluebird babies before plugging the fence back in. The babies are already looking bigger, and I see no sign of the two little blue eggs that never hatched.

Last night, our son-in-law and daughter agreed to hang out in our spare room rather than risk the trailer with severe weather warnings and tornado watches until midnight. After they had gone to bed, I checked the radar on our desktop computer and saw we were in the midst of a skinny but long redline that looked like it would probably be here for hours. Everyone else had gone to bed, with our clock radio known for blaring out weather alerts plugged in.

However, I remembered a year or more ago when we’d had a tornado skip over our property, the sirens and alarms didn’t go off until after it had passed. Later, one of the youth who has hung out some at the farm from time to time told me he had been a few miles away and watched the tornado heading for our place, and prayed specifically for us and our animals. Wow. Thank You, Lord, for the prayers of children.

It used to be that my home state of Iowa was known as one of the top three tornado states. However, it seems that anymore the South has caught up and more so. Since we moved to Alabama ten years ago, severe storm after severe storm has raged through, although not always hitting our local area. A few years ago with storms brewing, I felt an urge to prayer-walk the border of our property, praying God’s shield and protection over our neighborhood.

Now, I opened the door to the front porch. With the rain sheeting down and wind whipping past, once again I prayed for our farm, our people and animals and our neighborhood, for God’s shield and protection. When I stepped back and shut the door, I had to go get a towel to sop up the rain that had blown in.

Then I returned to the kitchen to finish cleaning up after our Easter dinner. The lights flickered out, then back on. By the time I finished, it was nearly midnight; the worst of the storm system had passed. I set the dishwasher going, did my walk-round the farm, and came back to go to bed.

TUESDAY, April 14

Small blessings:

Although dryers can definitely come in handy, if the Lord tarries and I am eventually no longer able to, I will miss hanging clothes outside. Especially on a day like today, with blue skies, comfortable in-between temperatures, birdsong, and a brisk but not overwhelming breeze. (REAL febreze—no better freshening scent for clean laundry!)

The other day I was lamenting my dwindling supply of clothespins. Even though they are cheaply made, I was wishing that while they had been available for $1/pack some time back, I had bought extras. Today as I was sorting and straightening in the laundry room, I found that, apparently, I had! I found TWO more packs of new clothespins slid behind some other supplies on the shelf over the wash machine. Yay!

I had just enough room this afternoon to hang out two loads of clothes on my pulley clothesline system without running clothes into the new tractor shed roof at the other end. I am thankful for the tractor that necessitated an extension to the woodshed, even if it juts into the clothesline area a bit. I am also thankful for a husband who likes to make things and has learned how to build throughout the years.

I’m still smiling over an incident a few days ago—if only we had caught it on video.

Some of you visitors know our son’s dog, Jewels. As a puppy some years ago, she picked him during a visit to the animal shelter. A border collie+ something-huskier mix, she assumes the lead dog position and takes her role seriously. The other dogs are required to obey her or a fight ensues. Numerous times a day we find her “mind controlling” one of the other dogs, requiring it to freeze in submission until she gets bored with bossing it or we notice and scold her. Many of our visiting families DON’T know Jewels, as we usually shut her away before company arrives, even though she loves children and craves their attention. The trouble is, if someone makes over and pets one of the other animals, she is apt to become jealous and attack it.

The other day, our son-in-law’s dog, Opie, a Rhodesian Lab, got tired of Jewel’s bossiness. He and Jewels were tussling, both reared up on their hind legs. I was starting toward them, ready to intervene. Suddenly, hissing, our small but wiry barn cat darted from behind and clawed Jewels’ back leg. The big black and white dog lept away, retreating behind the chicken coop. The almost-fight had effectively been broken up. When Opie advanced toward Angel –GreyFluff-- SpareCat, she hissed and swiped at him, too. Nonplussed, he backed away. Angel retired with dignity, for all the world like a school playground monitor who has done her duty.

Yesterday, I suddenly began to struggle with discouragement. Some of you are familiar with similar thoughts that attack—What is the use of even trying? You try and try and it never works out right. . . etc. etc. as a sense of futility sweeps over me.

All the more in such times must we focus on the praises and thanksgivings and blessings. Yes, we are flawed and our efforts often doomed to failure. That doesn’t mean that all is lost and nothing of value. Choose this day whom you will serve—doubt and darkness, or He who renews and restores, strengthens and empowers, and most of all, loves and cherishes us?

Monday April 6, 2020

The barnyard goats have been looking a little weedy, despite their daily turnout into rich grass, so this weekend I decided to worm them all come Monday—today! Usually this is a task I have saved to do with the help of our apprenticeship families—catching, securing, measuring out the doses, inserting them down the goats, and recording the information in our barn book is all so much easier to accomplish with multiple hands.

The process was made somewhat easier this time as the herd is used to being let out each day. I left the outer gate to the barn open (for those of you who haven’t been here in a while, we enclosed the whole roofed area with some of our metal fencing panels to keep the goats from tearing things up when they are loose). Then one by one I let a goat out of the inner barnyard gate, snapped on a leash as it came through the opening, slipped the handle end over the post of the milking stand, and administered the wormer (both Prohibit and Cydectin) before unsnapping the leash and letting the goat loose to graze.

The insides of their mouths all looked on the pale side, so I was glad I had decided to go ahead with worming. Without getting fecal tests done, it is hard to know just when to do it. In order to avoid developing resistant strains of parasites, our vet recommends just worming as needed, instead of on a schedule as heretofore.

Gabby didn’t bite down on the syringe (yay!) so I didn’t go through multiple syringes as has been the case sometimes in the past. Jillian and Isabelle were the last to go (after originally fighting to be some of the first out, LOL) and I had to pretend to be busy about other things before they would venture through the gate. At least I didn’t have to play the chase-a-goat-around-and-around-the-hay-feeder game! I had to syringe about 3 doses to get one down Isabelle, she was very good at not swallowing and letting the liquid to spill from the sides of her mouth. I am going to have to start spending some serious one-on-one time with her; we miss having all the children here to help with goat cuddling!

The hens in the pen have not been taking advantage of their remodeled nesting box, but instead have decided to form a nest on the ground in the back corner of the coop. Meanwhile, the remaining hardware cloth/2nd story “floor” is still there, collecting a fresh round of poo. Our little granddaughter, who normally is excited about egg-hunting, started to gather some but stopped as she got near the corner. She’ll wait until it’s cleaned out. Can’t blame her! I was wondering if one of the hens would decide to go broody and sit on the nest (10 eggs now!) but so far they aren’t showing interest.

This evening after I shut the barnyard goats back in, I’ll plan to worm the boy goats as well, letting them out their gate one at a time.

Tuesday, April 7

DID get the boys wormed last night. Every time I work with Ezekiel, our three-quarter sized goat, I’m reminded of why we transitioned to miniatures. He is not being bad, it’s just harder to hold him in position. Also, to get the correct dosage with the syringe I was using, I had to refill it several times.

Today while grazing, he rediscovered the little peach tree in the middle section in front of the house, near the elevated garden boxes. It had finally recovered from the depredations of the goats in past years. I’ll need to protect it with a couple of fence panels tomorrow before we dare let the boys out again.

Every time she comes to the barn with me now, our little granddaughter wants to see the “boo eg’s”. Annually, usually multiple times during the warm months, we have a bluebird family which nests in the birdhouse near the electric fence charger. The top pivots up so we can see down into the birdhouse and check on progress. This spring there have been 5 beautiful little blue eggs. Once, the mama was sitting on them when we looked in. Today, three had hatched out into almost naked squirmy little babies. Our granddaughter was amazed!

Thursday, April 9

Got two 16 foot panels fastened around the peach tree, but Ezekiel promptly started eating the branches he could still reach. Guess we’ll need to add another panel. I may need to borrow one off the pallet and panel pen which currently isn’t being used. Better yet, when we can come up with a few more panels, we can enclose the whole circle within the driveway loop, protecting the garden boxes, the peach tree, the lilac we replanted, and the other trees or shrubs I would like to add. I have been looking at possibilities online. On the outside of the front fence, I want to plant some elderberry and some more lilacs. Back in the pasture near where we’ve been meeting for horse club, I’d like to plant some apple trees zoned for Alabama, or maybe one of the 3-in-1 trees with several varieties grafted on, like we got years ago for Grandad Vern. Of course they will need to be protected from the goats. I was thinking of dwarf trees, but actually for the pasture maybe full size would be good, they could provide some shade and also treats for the horses.

Still just three little bluebirds in the nest near the barn, although not quite as naked as a few days ago. The mama and daddy usually take turns keeping an eye on them while perched on the electric wires along our neighbor’s fence. Our little granddaughter helped show them to her daddy yesterday. Probably graduates of the same bluebird house in the past, the parents don’t seem to get upset about us checking their nest.

I am wondering if the other two little blue eggs in the nest may be lost causes.

It looks like a couple of our chickens may be starting to set on the nest they’ve formed in the doghouse. It’s hard to tell sometimes if they are just lingering over egg-laying, or becoming focused on hatching out eggs. The doghouse location didn’t work well last year. I wonder if they would keep setting the nest if we transferred the whole kit and caboodle to the coop? I could surround the coop with our play fence, and they would be safe from predators within the electrified poultry netting pen.

This morning, our daughter was frustrated to find only three eggs left in the carton when she went to fry eggs for her family’s breakfast. Her two-year-old daughter went out with me to the coop. The hens are still rebelling against the actual nesting box. With some coaxing, our little granddaughter reached eggs one by one until we had five to take, still leaving a clutch of eight to entice an ambitious mama hen.

I drove to Dollar General this afternoon with a short list. Scored a pack of toilet paper and a loaf of bread for our neighbors, but no extra eggs for coloring. The lady said they had been out for two weeks.

Our little granddaughter is wanting to ride each day now, eagerly donning her cousin’s pink bicycle helmet (we don’t have an actual riding helmet small enough) and picking which horse. Yesterday she rode Shorty. He is shedding so badly that even though I cleared off a bunch of hair before lifting her up, she still got hair all over her pink pants. First thing this morning, as we walked to the barn (she loves to come over to help with chores) she brought up riding again. “Not yet,” I told her. “I still need to get breakfast. We can do it later.” Then, busy with various items on my to-do list, I forgot all about it until this evening as we walked back to the barnyard again, this time to shut in the horses. Until we can complete the perimeter fence, I don’t dare leave the horses out overnight in case they might break out of the electric fence and take off for parts unknown.

Fortunately for my promise-keeping, there was just enough light left for a quick ride on Jaz. As in, I haltered Jaz, snapped on the toddler’s helmet, lifted her up on Jaz’s back (much higher than riding the pony the day before!), took a firm grip on a wad of her shirt and the back of her diaper with my right hand, and with my left urged Jaz to take a few steps forward. Jaz was a good sport, ambling up and down the little lane between their current grazing area and the barn. Afterward, even though there is no light in the barn until we get out a ladder to replace the bulb, our granddaughter did not want to leave the barn. Maybe one of her uncles will give her a longer ride this weekend.

Before the shutdowns set in, I got some extra bags of feed to help carry us through, so we have been storing a bit more grain than normal. With the blessing of clover-filled pastures, we have been able to stretch out their usage. Even our remaining bunny, Vanilla Marshmallow, has been filling up on clover and using up his hay, feed and even water much more slowly than normal. What a blessing! However, yesterday I found a rip in the paper sack of scratch feed, with the grain spilling out. I had noticed a little spilled scratch feed over the last couple of days and just thought our granddaughter was being careless. However, we may be dealing with a rodent. I was able to pour the feed into a couple of empty storage buckets to secure the rest of it, but now I’m concerned. Angel-Grey Fluff-Spare Cat barn kitty, you need to get to work!

Friday April 3, 2020

The day before, due to my trip to town, the barnyard goats had a longer session on the rich pasture than normal and got a bit too much. “Yuck!” our little granddaughter says when she sees their lumps of green poop clusters, different than the neat little balls they normally leave behind. At least they weren’t actually bloating or having diarrhea. Yesterday I only let them out briefly to let their systems get back to normal.

For the past few nights, we have been shutting Honeysuckle in the stall with the heat lamp, remembering how we almost lost her last year with a sudden drop in nighttime temperatures. As usual now, Dave is letting the boys out of their pen when he leaves in the morning, then when I come out I can switch them back in before putting out the other goats and horses. When I came out, I found Honeysuckle had let herself out of the stall and gotten some extra grazing. Maybe Dave can upgrade the stall door when he comes back from helping customers. Most of our guys have “essential” jobs, so while their hours are cut back somewhat, they still have to venture out.

We need to roll in the last bale of hay as well. Hopefully, with the help of the pasture, this one will last until there is fresh this-year’s hay available.

Wednesday April 1, 2020

During my first shopping expedition in weeks, I see an acquaintance while at Aldi’s. Speaking across approved social distances, I tell her how much we are still enjoying our free-range flock. They had raised the heritage-breed hens and sold to mutual friends, who eventually donated them to REACH several years ago. She mentioned that they may decide to downsize a couple of hens if we would be interested in a few more. Of course!

Tuesday March 31,2020

Each morning we open the gate for the horses to graze. Throughout the day they put themselves in and out, loafing under the roof and eating hay for a spell before returning to the lush pasture. I originally put them out on the clover the day before the last horse club, gradually building up their grazing time from a couple of hours a day until now they are grazing 9 to 10 hours daily. Meanwhile, we have cut back on their grain and supplements. I reward them with their buckets as I shut them back in the barnyard in the evening. I still give Arrow and Shorty some rice bran, but I have cut everyone’s grain rations in half and am giving very little else. Today they each got 1-2 cups of beet pulp as it was their weekly probiotic day, when I soak their beet pulp in kombucha tea. They still get their raspberry leaves as well. I forgot to stock up on turmeric and we have run out, but the green grass seems to be helping with coughs.

Since we have mostly finished the front perimeter fence, instead of putting the goats out in grazing pens during the day, I have been rotating the herd between free ranging and the barnyard. For them, too, I have cut back to only the occasional beet pulp. Rarely are we stuffing hay bags. If they can graze an hour or so morning and evening, they can fill up quickly and spend their time contentedly chewing their cud. The barnyard goats still have hay in their big bale feeder.

Last week we found an abundance of eggs and were able to share with several other families. The past few days we are finding less, but still enough for us. Not sure if the free range flock is hiding eggs somewhere new, or…?

We have given up on the missing free range hen, the fat red one with a dark tail who had started nesting away from the others. But she is only the 2nd to disappear in 3 ½ years of free-ranging a flock, so we are doing pretty well. I would love to raise another round of chicks, but am waiting until summer to add to our numbers , in case it still might work for me to travel to help our daughter during the birth of our next grandson. This summer we are also looking forward to another piglet, and perhaps another bunny or two.

Saturday March 28,2020

In honor of his mom’s birthday, and maybe partly because of birthday presents delayed in the corona virus shipping slowdown, Jon set to work on the six-year-old chicken coop. What began as a spring cleaning pressure wash expanded to include a re-roofing project (adding sheet metal on top of the worn plywood roof), removing half the upper level hardware cloth “floor” which traps the chicken manure, luring the chickens into the coop and shutting them in before hooking up to the tractor and dragging the coop to its summer location AND re-constructing a nesting box on a slant so the eggs will roll down and out to a holding trough protected from chicken poo and pecks. WOW. Meanwhile, I strung more electric fence wire to form a lane through the middle pasture where the horses were currently grazing, to open up the next pasture in the rotation.

On a sad note, in the morning I found that Oreo had passed away peacefully in his sleep. One of Dave’s jobs was to bury him; we chose a spot near the bunny pen. Oreo was born soon after our arrival in Alabama, back in June 2010, so he was almost 10. His brother Vanilla Marshmallow is now our only bunny.