Rocking "Rocks"

I would like to brag on my son Jadon a bit. He is growing in grace, and now, at 7 1/2, he shows initiative in helping like I've never seen in such a young man. Earlier this week, he helped Abraham get (re)dressed after Abraham went to the bathroom. He helped manage the children yesterday while I was away. Phil said he looked for ways to be helpful.

Today, though, he expanded beyond just general helping. Joe dumped out the bag of salt on the floor while I was outside doing dishes. Bummer. Abraham and Abigail, in the spirit of recycling, scooped the salt on the table and ran toy construction trucks through the "mountain." Laughing, I returned to the dishes. A bit later I heard the vacuum. Jadon had somehow manhandled the heavy machine out of the closet (over our bag of trash and pile of laundry), plugged it in, and was vacuuming off the coffee table, after finishing the floor. What a guy.

At the Bessettes this evening, we watched their incubating eggs prepare to hatch. In the next 24 hours, they will have their own chicks. We watched in awe as first one, then four, then seven eggs had either a tooth hole or a crack. Occasionally an egg would wobble on its own. What a sight! It defies the natural order, to have a round, rock-like object move with no external force.

Phil Runs Errands While I Learn a Lot

Phil and I spent Friday working diligently on our for-pay jobs. We both dislike wind, and the wind blew. We were happy to be inside.

In the evening, Joe found a rubber band gun and "shot" Jadon. He held it up to his eye, closed an eye (the wrong eye, but that's okay), and made little "pshoo pshoo" noises.



Jadon dramatically fell over, much to Joe's delight.



Today, Phil did not have a fun day. After he fed the children breakfast (making them eat what he served, despite protests by two young men who shall remain nameless but whose names begin with vowels), he drove up to Charlottesville to pick up our bulk food order. Sadly, he and the pick-up lady both didn't have proper contact info. After waiting in the truck with five children for a half hour, he was just about to pull away when she showed up. Mission accomplished.

After racing back to the farm, he plopped the five children on the perimeter of the trampoline and fed them a hurried lunch. (Had he let them enter the house, that would have been ten shoes to put on, as well as, perhaps, ten socks. Brilliant strategy to feed them outside.) Then he drove to the Bessettes, and off to Vintage Virginia where he got to learn about grafting.

The children enjoyed their afternoon at the Bessettes. Phil had a disconcerting ride back home, as the truck made horrible sounds that he couldn't fix. He bathed the children and brought them home at 8pm.

A minute later, I walked in. I had left the house before 5:30am to drive to southern Virginia for a biodynamic gardening workshop. Farmer Jeff Poppens presented helpful information from about 9:15 until 4pm, with about an hour break total. I took pages of notes and had the time of my life.

And I found out what a hoe does! I know people use them, but in my fledgling gardens, I haven't been able to figure out the point. With some trepidation, I asked; a merry chuckle rose from the crowd. Until Jeff said that the primary reason to use a hoe is to stop evaporation. A collective gasp from the crowd.

Apparently, after a rain, the surface dries out. Due to capillary wicking, the water under the surface will run to the surface to keep it wet, where it will continue to evaporate. If a gardener mulched their soil (covered it with hay or bark or other organic matter), that would prevent this wicking and drying. Or a gardener could run the hoe an inch below the soil and fluff the dry surface, creating a "dust mulch." End of evaporation.

The best surprise, though, was that I got to meet Hugh Lovel, who wrote A Biodynamic Farm, the first book on Biodynamics that I read. In it, he made the brilliant (strikingly obvious) point that Newtonian physics covers the gravity of the falling apple, but completely neglects levity, or how the apple got into the tree to begin with.

There was plenty more in his book that blew my mind. He has since moved to Australia, so I startled and pleased to be able to talk with him a bit during the lunch break.

So I had a fulfilling, interesting, intellectually stimulating day. And some six hours all by myself in the car. Ahh. The 178 miles and over 14 hours was the furthest and longest I've ever been away from Jonadab. Actually, probably Abraham and Isaiah, too. (Jadon got left overnight twice as a baby.)

And Phil ran errands. I definitely came out ahead.

Photosynthesis, Chipping, and Unintended Slapstick

The last three days have been one big chip fest. Phil moved the pigs into a pen around our largest, oldest pile, after we chipped all we could. We were hoping they would nose through the surprising amount of organic matter that remains (decomposing pine needles, some random mud, teeny branches, and such). They’ve not done a great job, though the area AROUND the pile is certainly mucked up now. Ah, well. We gave them their last bag of feed today. Sunday is processing day.

Despite a bit of lingering snow, and despite the massive mud slicks, we moved our chipper into previous pen for pigs and chipped the entire pile. With both Phil and I working, it took us five hours. That was a lot of vibration for him, as he manually fed each sapling and twig. And it was a lot of mountain goat traipsing up and down for me, as I gathered the readily available sticks and brought them within arm’s length for Phil.

And, yes, that really did take just as much time as Phil’s job. Our piles of brush and trees were not terribly efficient, so I have a lot of disentangling to do, and a bit of sawing apart. We were happy to get the chips to spread on the mucky ground. Use that good mulch to sop up the rain and keep the clay from eroding down the hillside.

Photosynthesis: an amazing process. I hold chips in my hand that came from water, sunlight, minerals in the air. Five percent of the mass of a plant comes from minerals in the soil. So 95% of the plant is air, light, and water. Next time you hold a plant, think about that—you’re holding stored sunlight. Amazing.

The power again went out yesterday morning. I have a deadline every other Wednesday, and I had about three minutes left to work on the project before I sent it off for approval when the power went out. I switched computers, and tried to send it from Phil’s, but I was one minute too late: the battery backup on our internet shut down. Argh!

I had two hours before my deadline, and a completed project ready to email. The power came back on, but the internet didn’t. Half an hour before the deadline: Phil started to tinker. Fifteen minutes before the deadline: now too late to drive anywhere to use the internet—if Phil can’t get it to go at home, I’ll be late.

The stress level builds! The baby starts crying! Two minutes to go—sent. Ahhh.

Most of the time, my work isn’t that stressful. I had reduced hours when we first moved here, but starting in January, I’m back at twenty hours of work a week, many of them completed between 10pm and midnight. When I finished my work a couple nights ago, this is what I found in my bed.



Tonight, I witnessed something not seen every day. As we got ready to go to Bible study, Abigail leaned on the door while getting her jacket off the hook. It swung open, she lost her balance, and, after windmilling her arms for a few seconds, she fell, full length, out the door.

Disaster. The melting snow has turned all our ground into an inch of red mud, and outside our door is more wet than most. Before I could even reach the poor girl, sprawled in the mud outside, I had to maneuver around boys and pull on my boots. I fully expected a sheet of mud from head to toe.

Astonishingly, she came through with a muddy face and muddy hands.



No blood, but just a small bump on the forehead. Because we have no warm water, we dry toweled her off and headed to Bible study, where we enjoyed the warm water cleaning. It was the most Laurel and Hardy/Three Stooges/slapstick sight I’ve ever seen.

What a life we live!

Gloucestershire Old Spots

Biodynamic farmers state that each farm is its own organism. That’s pretty out there, though, I suppose, if the stones would cry out to worship Jesus (Luke 19:40), and that the whole creation groans (Romans 8:22), I’m not positive the biodynamic farmers are wrong.

Side-stepping that huge mental barrier, certainly each farm has its own set of challenges and benefits, its own microclimate and soil. And since each set of farmers is different, each has different interests.

I enjoy figuring out what will fit our land, our personality.

I enjoyed realizing that my favorite thing to eat is fruit, so an orchard makes much more sense for us than a market garden (those market gardeners have to work REALLY hard, too).
I enjoyed trying goats and I’m glad we got to experience kidding, this once. I don't think I'll miss them when they're gone.
I enjoyed trying sheep, and plan to keep going with that. If the Babydoll sheep don’t work out as little lawn mowers between the orchard trees, though, we will probably switch breeds, or stop altogether for a time.
I think I will enjoy the guineas, once they start eating ticks. Right now they are mean to the chickens and very loud (if you live in the city, do NOT get guineas!).
I like chickens, and we eat a lot of eggs.
I enjoyed thinking about cows, and debating whether a Dexter or a Jersey would be best, until suddenly the Milking Devon burst on the scene with a complete sense of rightness. These are part of our unique farm.

All of these reflect Phil and I, and that’s fun.

Well, I was listening to an online lecture by the Vermont farmer we hope to buy cows from. He mentioned that they keep Gloucestershire (Glostersheer) Old Spot pigs.

Now we have been thinking that we should get a sow and a boar at some point, but I don’t really know a whole lot about the breeds of pigs, except that the ones we have (mutts) aren’t what I want. And, to minimize escape, the floppy eared pigs are, apparently, a better choice. We’re not really impatient to get pigs in the way that we’re impatient to get cows.

But let me tell you—I fell in love with the Gloucestershire Old Spots , also called “orchard pigs” because they thrive on windfall apples and the residue from cider pressing. How perfect is that?! They raise large litters on pasture, and forage well for their food.

And, they produce a lot of lard. Lard makes good pie crust. And lard (from pasture raised pigs on good farms) is the new health food. It’s a premium product that gets premium prices.

Why did they fall out of favor? After WWII, producers wanted to raise pigs indoors, and they didn’t do well there. And lard fell out of favor, too.

There’s only about 200 breeding sows in the US right now; looks like most of them are in the Massachusetts, Vermont area. Maybe when we drive up to get the cows, we’ll be able to get a couple piglets, too.

Perhaps the best part about living in the country: when I learn new information I can put it into practice. (Well, except for what I forget—and there’s a lot of that, too.) But what a joy: read about goat birth, then go watch. Read about growing garlic: plant some of your own.

Speaking of which, some of the garden beds are finally cleared of snow. The elephant garlic is already up about three inches. I found some red kale that wasn’t entirely ruined, so picked it and stir-fried it for dinner. We haven’t had many vegetables lately (we don’t make it to the store often, so we’ve actually had just about none—so much for healthier living); that kale tasted SO good.

Thawing Out

After we returned from church and the laundrymat yesterday, I went walking down to the creek. As in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, the imminence of spring showed in the trickle of snow runoff, in the mush of softened snow underfoot, in the dark earth between patches of snow. I may not see the snowscape again this year.

I’m okay with that. I appreciate that when the ground is frozen, the mud does not make life difficult. I think I appreciate the need to be inside. But I’m excited for sun and growing things, and the blossoms of spring.

We’re slowly figuring out how best to use the chipper. Supposedly it can shred paper waste. And it can—if you tear it all up into ridiculously small bits first. Not worth the gas to run the machine. The constant drizzle today meant we didn’t get much chipped—our gloves and mittens, soaked through, offered little warmth.

Snowpack remains, but it is only one or two inches in most places, instead of six or more.

Phil and I came inside at one point and found Joe bare-chested. Isaiah had written “Isaiah Isaiah” across Joe’s chest, and Jadon had written “Joe Joe Joe” on his forehead. Endearingly, Jadon also put little crosses on Joe’s temples, “to show that Joe loves Jesus and follows him.”

May it be so.

Love That Boy

Phil went to an all-day orchard planning class at Vintage Virginia. I think it was helpful to coalesce the basic apple orcharding information for him.

In the waning light, he quickly readjusted the belt on the chipper and chipped some more. That was his Saturday.

I stayed with the children. Jonadab had new snow boots, and he happily went for a walk in the snow with me. Below you can see that he tripped merrily along the surface, while I sank in the snow on most steps.



Then we stopped to see the kids. He would watch them jump around or climb up a little hay bale to play king of the mountain. (Below, see Beau, the multi-colored one, is falling off the haybale. Bright Star, with the white star on his forehead in the midst of his black pelt, looks on, amused.)



"Whoa," he'd say. "Whoa."

We had a great time.

Love that boy,
like a rabbit loves to run
I said I love that boy
like a rabbit loves to run
Love to call him in the morning
love to call him
"Hey there, son!"



He walk like his Grandpa,
Grins like his Uncle Ben.
I said he walk like his Grandpa,
And grins like his Uncle Ben.
Grins when he’s happy,
When he sad, he grins again.

His mama like to hold him,
Like to feed him cherry pie.
I said his mama like to hold him.
Like to feed him that cherry pie.
She can have him now,
I’ll get him by and by



He got long roads to walk down
Before the setting sun.
I said he got a long, long road to walk down
Before the setting sun.
He’ll be a long stride walker,
And a good man before he done.



[Poem by Walter Dean Myers, one of my 81 favorites]

We Chip and Shred

Phil assembled the chipper. Because nothing is ever easy, he had to drive up to Brown’s convenience store in Esmont to get the specific oil it needed. After about an hour of chipping and shredding, he had to check the tension of the belt, which, incredibly, required almost a complete dismantling of the machine. He must do it after every hour for the first five hours of use, or the warranty is useless. That little adjustment took perhaps an hour itself.

Patience is still not my strong point. I was about jumping out of my skin. No more mechanical time-wasters! Argh! Less maintenance! Argh!

Besides the time issue, I am so not mechanically minded, I think I fear for Phil’s life anytime we’re dealing with such things I don’t really understand. If he were to die, I truly do not know what I would do. I would have to read schematics for myself. And try to loosen bolts. I can’t even open jam jars—how would I survive? Such morbid thoughts compound any mechanical irritation with layers of emotional turmoil.



By comparison, I enjoyed the actual chipping and shredding. Phil fed the machine constantly, while I climbed on our oldest pile of downed saplings, begun in October 2008. I separated out the pines (their chips will serve well for strawberries and compost, but not so well under fruit trees, which prefer deciduous chips); I measured the circumference of larger logs to ensure we didn’t overload the chipper on the machine; I gathered the smallest twigs to go through the shredder.



Phil’s task and mine surprisingly took about equal amounts of time: the 16-month-old brush pile reminds me of pick-up-sticks: the top saplings must go first, in order to free the sticks beneath. Those lower sticks may be covered by leaves, frozen in place by snow and ice, or simply wedged too tightly to move.

After about two hours of actual chipping, we both felt pleased at how the pile shrank. Our landscape will, one day, be slightly again, and I look forward to that day.

Jadon and Abigail both enjoyed snowball production today, until their mittens were wet through. As I pulled branches for Phil, I was the easy target (though neither had terribly good aim, thankfully). Jadon did peg me on the back of the neck, right above my hoodie, and bits of snow and ice trickled down my back for quite some time. Brr! He laughed and laughed, head thrown back in classic Jadon glee.

An Interlude about Artificial Insemination

Phil and I need to figure out when to make a trip up to Vermont to buy our cows. We have to wait a bit, because rural Vermont up near the Canadian border can be difficult to drive around in winter. If we wait until April, though, it’ll be Babydoll lambing season. Thus, I’m hoping for the end of March. Before we can make the trip, though, we need to service the truck, buy a used livestock trailer, figure out what to do with all the children, prepare a place for the cattle to move into when they arrive. . . .

But, we’re not sure anymore exactly what we’ll be buying. We’re pretty sure we’ll get two just weaned heifers to use as oxen, and a yearling heifer that will hopefully be bred. We were going to get a bull, too, in order to avoid Artificial Insemination (AI). But now we’re not so sure.

On the anti-AI side: one of Phil’s favorite agricultural authors, Newman Turner, says that Artificial Insemination (AI) “is no doubt still the supreme abomination of man’s relationship with animals.” It is quite unnatural.

On the pro-AI side: a farmer chooses the best genetics he can find, and so herd improvement can happen quickly. And we could buy a “straw” from a top bull for $26, and not have to feed or shelter a bull on the farm until we birth a decent bull. Which is no guarantee—I have read that truly top bulls are “one in thousands,” so there’s no guarantee we’d ever get a superior bull.

Moreover, we know that we won’t be able to buy a great bull up in Vermont. Their best bulls are too valuable, so they’d sell us a cull. I suppose, in truth, anything that we buy is someone else’s cull, but since a bull is 50% of the herd (and since his genetics spread so rapidly and thoroughly through a herd, I’ve read that a bull should rightly be called 75% of the herd), it’s best to have the best genetics possible.

Not really a pro-AI, but more a resigned note of reality: all the meat chickens that we raised in 2008 were bred through AI. I suspect that just about all chicken purchased in the United States comes from AI birds—the modern meat birds have such heavy breasts they cannot breed naturally.

So I suppose we are not morally opposed to AI. And I suppose we probably should just get heifers, and order straws as needed. And trust that we will, one day, have a remarkable bull of our own.

Fun in the Sun with Chicken Litter

Our fragile palisade, still waiting for planting.



As the interesting project for today, Phil wanted to move the chicken pen. It’s made of about six shipping pallets, and designed as temporary dwelling for our laying hens; not meant to move. Over the last several months, the hens soil their bedding, and Phil adds more wood chips or sawdust. Repeat. By this point, the bedding is deep enough, Phil feared that adding more bedding would prevent the chickens from using their door.

We tried to move the house, but the six or so inches of compacted bedding inside, along with six or so inches of compacted spoiled hay mixed with mammal manure and ice outside, forced us to reconsider. Instead, we shoveled out the contents through the small entrance. I went inside with a small shovel and pushed it out the door, and Phil stood outside and moved it to where we’ll put our compost pile sooner or later. We were pleasantly surprised at how rich the bottom layer or muck appears already: rich, dark brown. Sadly, also terribly smelly, so we need to figure out a better chicken litter policy one of these days.

For today, though, we were grateful to work together, to be outside in the sunshine, helping our animals. The 39 chickens (or thereabouts) look healthy and beautiful. Below you can see them around their freshly cleaned house, with friendly visitor BB, born on the second of January.



Both lambs, too, look healthy. And big. I think they are taller than the Babydolls born last May, though the yearlings outweigh them, I expect.



Late this afternoon, our chipper/shredder finally arrived. It reached Virginia at the end of January, but between Phil’s travel and the snow storms (and the shipping company’s miscommunication two days ago, when Butch drove over in his skid steer and hung out for half an hour for the delivery guy who didn’t show—argh!), we’ve not seen this fancy, heavy piece of equipment. But we have it now, and I hope it will offer us many years of sturdy service.

The Faux-Hawk

In Boulder, Phil faithfully patronized the local barber shop every month (about a 10 minute walk away). Shortly after our marriage, he asked me to cut his hair. At the time, I possessed long blonde spiral curls, and haircuts in general horrified me. I sobbed, and he gave up. (In retrospect, that may have been during the few ill-advised months I was on the Pill, so I probably had some chemical weirdness, as well as basic immaturity. I don’t cry over such strange things anymore.)

Since moving to the country, the inconvenience of finding and driving to a barber shop, as well, perhaps, as the novelty of a different hairstyle after over a decade of the same close-cut look, has prevented a single haircut. Today, I conquered ANOTHER phobia and cut his hair. (Perhaps it helps that my spiral curls vanished sometime during the few years of child-bearing. Hormones! Blah!)

I didn’t do a great job, but we laughed to see how it is short enough to form the faux-hawk. (He won’t wear it like that normally, though.)



Feeling like he was presentable to the world, Phil went to buy the last 200 pounds of feed the pigs will need, before he and Dennis slaughter the pigs on February 28. (Dennis’ friend Ara will be there, too. Ara is Armenian and works as a butcher, or something like that. He’ll be the real expert.)

Phil stopped at the John Deere store; he had hoped to get a small-scale harrow to pull behind our little riding mower, along with chains for the tires to give the machine more leverage. Sadly, our machine doesn’t have quite enough horse power.

The children and I went out into the cold and breeze to play with the kids for a bit. Oh! They are even cuter today! They jump around, just a little. One will nurse from under Annabelle, while the other nurses the other teat from behind Annabelle. Their healthy pelts glisten in the sunlight, and I admire their beautiful coloring and unique markings.



Isaiah asked if the second born could be his. Phil said, “It could be, but you know we’re going to eat him.” Hmm. That clearly hadn’t been on Isaiah’s radar before. Hmm.

Phil got in touch with a Milking Devon breeder up in Vermont. We know enough to know that we like his program and farm, so we will try to figure out how to get some of their cows to us here. Phil got a book on oxen today, and we think we’ll pursue that.

I wondered if I could uncover some vegetables from my garden. I hadn’t pulled all the daikon radish before the snows came—perhaps one or two yet survived.

The ice-encrusted snow still lies six inches deep, and I couldn’t even tell which raised bed held the daikon radish. Under the snow, I will hope that the spinach and chard planted in late fall might sprout and grow. I crave fresh greens. Spring will come.

Annabelle Delivers

When I went out to feed the chickens around eight this morning, Annabelle was bleating constantly. I checked her backside and a single thin stream of yellow mucus fell to the straw. Labor!



Good thing, too, as her rotund shape has made movement challenging.

At 9:30, Annabelle’s bleats sounded like labor should sound, and she appeared to have contractions regularly. Expecting labor imminently, I called Phil, and then Abigail and Isaiah. Phil soon returned to the office, as the biting wind sapped any eagerness he may have felt for a kid vigil.



Abigail and Isaiah enjoyed chasing chickens and talking about feathers, but I soon realized that all labor signs stopped once we three spectators arrived. Perhaps Annabelle would progress with a bit more privacy.

At 10:30, I realized I hadn’t heard Annabelle’s labor bleats in some time. I went out to find her alone in the kidding pen with a kid half out! She grunted for a minute or two, long enough for Phil to join me. At the last second, she turned so that I could see only her front, but Phil watched the actual birth from his vantage point. I just heard it.

How amazing! The tiny sneeze and first breath, the immediate care Annabelle gave to lick the little guy off. Unlike the sheep, she was already in her pen and protected from the elements, so I really didn’t need to do anything for this kid. Thrilling, really, to sit beside a seconds’ old newborn.

Phil returned to work, while I watched the baby stand up for the first time.



A sac appeared out of Annabelle’s backside, and I thought, “Oh, that must be the afterbirth. Funny—she was so round, I would have expected another baby.”



And then two little white hooves appeared! Another baby was coming! And I was in the perfect spot to see it all! I took photos, imaging that THIS would be the triumph of my blogging career. After all, it’s not every day you get to see a goat birth. But the dim lighting and, I suppose, my excitement rendered the photos almost useless.



But again—a tiny breath! Another tiny boy! Below you can see the firstborn, standing on shaky legs to the left, while the mother cleans off the just-born second kid.



The first, though born steaming began to shiver, so I used towels to dry him more, and let Annabelle work on her newborn. I am amazed at how challenging it is to get all the fluid out of the thick goat pelts. I suppose licking isn’t the best way to actually dry an animal.

I put iodine on the navel, and used my little hanging scale to weigh them. The first was 6 pounds, 14 ounces; the second was 6 pounds, 10 ounces. Good, healthy weights.

While the babies appeared to be desperately trying to nurse, Annabelle leisurely drank some molasses water, ate some hay, licked her boys off. I finally grew so distressed, I had to leave. By 12:30, Isaiah and Abigail went to see the babies with me, and Annabelle still wasn’t letting the kids nurse. As I did for both sets of sheep, I milked out some colostrum into a glass and gave it to the kids with a drench. This perked them up a bit, and the second born managed to find the teat.

Immediately, she began delivering the afterbirth. The two children and I watched, fascinated, as the opaque organ gradually emerged. That was a relief to me, but then the first little kid looked like he was approaching the danger zone: hunched back, miserable appearance.



Poor baby! I fed him more colostrum, but it took another hour or two until he found the nipple (with my help) and ate for himself.

Finally, both boys seemed to be out of imminent danger.



And, oh, are they cute! More curious and alert than lambs, I haven't caught them sleeping yet. Here's the second born, looking for the source of the strange clucking noise.



Annabelle is an Alpine, with ears that go up. Sire Bubby is a Nubian, with ears that go down. We have one with up ears and one with down ears.



Their pelts are luxurious; once cleaned off, they remind me of a short-haired cat with their softness.



These were the first animals conceived and born on our farm. Delightful!

Perplexing, though: what we imagine should be “natural” has not yet happened. I would naturally expect lambs and kids to be born and thrive. But what we have: Ashley’s birthing in a blizzard; Acorn’s stillborn lamb blocking the birthing canal; and now Annabelle’s easy labor with kids almost starving—this is all quite human intensive.

Phil wonders if the kids would actually die without my interference. Possibly not. But how horrible to have healthy kids born, then lose them because their inexperienced first-time mom couldn’t figure out how to get them to eat.

There is a balance I don’t yet understand between domesticated animals and man, between necessary support and unwelcome interference.

I confess that I want my life to be a math problem, with one right answer that I reach every time. But there is no one right answer to anything, not even in the easy birthing of two kids. I find freedom and possibility of each choice and decision a weight to bear.

Guess the Weather!

Can you believe it? More snow today! Except for a few days reprieve when we pumped out the holes, we’ve had ground fully covered with snow since early December. Michelle Bessette said that February traditionally sees the coldest, most stormy weather, but I hoped she exaggerated. So far, the string of storms proves her correct.

On the Milking Devon website, I found a listing for bulls for sale, with bred cows. Shrewdly, the man will not sell a bred cow only. If we buy a bull, he will let us buy a bred heifer.

The man needs to downsize his herd (from a magazine article I found about him, he’s pushing 80!). He’s willing to deliver—and he lives less than two hours away. As a true farmer, he requested interested parties call before 6am, or between 6 and 7pm. We are not true farmers and prefer not to be awake in the hours before 6am, so Phil called this evening. We hope the snow subsides and we can visit next week.

Common Grace

As I was listening to the iPod while making breakfast, I heard the lecturer mention that he and his fledgling company put together a mix of pasture seeds: several types of grass and clover, which is common, as well as herbs like chicory and birdsfoot trefoil, which are harder to find.

Phil heard this bit of information with great joy. He had been attempting to source small quantities of rare pasture seeds, without much success. To now have a potential source in Prairie Creek Seeds—what a boon.

After two weeks without church (deep snow cancelled us two weeks running), church was energetic and joyful. The passage in the Sermon on the Mount had the following verse:

for [your Father which is in heaven] maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.

Pastor Bill talked about this example of Common Grace: that the sun rises every day, and the rain falls; that we have air to breath and food to eat, and that we deserve none. They’re God’s grace to us all.

Phil read that as an example of how we should love: loving Christians and nonChristians the same, like a blanket of love that covers all.

We considered going to Chipotle right after church, but long lines forced us to Whole Foods instead. I stayed in the car with five children while Phil shopped. Unexpectedly, he ran into the folks who own the land just south of ours. They plan to put in a basement and have a used tobacco barn they’ll reinstall on top. We’ve only talked to them once before, though we wave when they come down from Charlottesville to visit: I’m impressed he recognized them.

We then took a much needed Chipotle lunch break, and returned home at 4:15. Goat Annabelle has not yet kidded, though her tail is flared like a duck’s, and I think she’s just a day or two out. Phil and I walked down to the creek—it was our little Valentine’s date, tramping through the snow with faithful Chloe.

Phil’s been reading about oxen. There’s a school for oxen training up in Michigan he could attend (and probably should, if we do go that route). A tractor would be less effort, I suppose—until it came time to fix it.

Grafting Fun

I found mouse droppings in my measuring cup this morning when I went to make bread. I suppose one advantage of living almost outside is that I rather expect mouse droppings. I mean, to have a mouse running around a metal storage shed is not nearly so nasty as running around a kitchen in a house. Or so I tell myself—it’s pretty gross either way. (What an unpleasant thing to read first thing, that has nothing to do with the main event of the day!)

This evening, after we all bathed at the Bessettes, the night was clear, so the older boys and I went out and laid on the trampoline, trying to locate several constellations. I have lately been reading The Stars by H.A. Rey (creator of Curious George), and this was a good night to see the stars, without clouds, moon, or snow.

It’s really hard! We found Orion’s belt, because that is really obvious. And we found the Little Dipper and the Pole Star. But even with my glasses on, I was amazed at how hard it was to find anything else! So we pointed out some of the pretty bright stars and hurried out of the below-freezing temperatures. (What a lovely thing to read second thing, but it, too, has nothing to do with the main event of the day!)

The main event: Apples.

Phil went to Vintage Virginia Apples, a local orchard that grows about 250 varieties, for a tutorial on pruning. When that was done, he drove home and I went for a tutorial on grafting. This tag-team worked well: there was an hour lunch break between classes, and we live exactly a half hour away, so I squeaked in right as the grafting class was beginning.

I LOVED it. First, I loved being with such cheerful folks. A multi-generational family runs the orchard, and every one of them I’ve met is very friendly. Second, I loved learning a new skill (though I am definitely not an expert). We did a whip and tongue graft, which requires a 45 degree angled cut on the rootstock, with a second cut into the angle. Do the same thing on the scion wood, fit the tongues together, and tape to secure.

I’m embarrassed to admit that I am very weak, so even pencil-thin scion wood did not cut as easily for me as it did for our presenter. And after most people had gone home, Bill from the orchard helped me out some more: how to hold the knife, what the angle should be, how to join the two together. At one point, I was struggling to make the angle cut, and he said, “Is it really that hard? Here, try my knife; maybe it’s sharper.” And it appeared so initially, until he picked up the knife I had been using and easily cut through his twig. Apparently it was all me. Time to start working out again, or something.

We each got to choose two varieties of apples to graft onto our own rootstock. We used an unneeded length of rootstock to practice a graft, and then made our own. I have three baby grafted trees (Bill from the orchard gave me one of his perfect ones: I suspect he noticed my not-so-stellar attempts and wanted me to have something that will actually live.)

This was all good, but the real treat of the day was our presenter, Tom Burford. Because of the tag team, I had the only seat available, right where I like to be in lectures: front and center. As I sat down, I looked over and there was a 75-year-old man, who caught my eye and gave me a warm, sparkling smile. He exuded a warm, sparkling personality. And he was so excited about grafting: “You can take some of any fruit tree you want, and put it on a rootstock. It’s a horticultural adventure!” He said that interest in unusual varieties, and in grafting in general, has multiplied over the last few years. He’s teaching 11 tutorials on grafting in March alone, all along the East Coast.

It really does feel like a secret society, to know how to produce whatever fruit trees I want. When he was a boy, in the 1930s, his Dad owned an orchard. He learned to graft at age 7. (This made me laugh: my 7-year-old got a pocket knife for Christmas and had it taken away because he was doing something to the air mattress with it. I felt like the mother of George Washington when he cut down the cherry tree: no malicious intent, but absorbed and mindless destruction. My 5-year-old, too, has lost his for bad behavior; how was Tom so mature at such a young age?)

Anyway, Tom’s family would plant seeds from the Malta variety of apple and use those vigorous seedlings as their rootstock. Today, Tom said it’s worth it to just buy rootstocks: they’re certified disease free, so you’re getting healthy roots from the start.

My book The Apple Grower
has a photo of Tom and says he “leads the way in celebrating heirloom cultivars.” I mentioned that I had seen his photo in the book, and read his list of top twenty dessert apples he laughed and said enthusiastically, “Oh, that was several years back. Now it’s 40, 80!”

I hope that when I’m 75, I, too, will have a twinkle in my eye, passion for what I’m doing, and a zest for life.

Dexter: No? Milking Devon: Yes?

As the snow continues to compact to only six inches in places, my thoughts return to the as-yet-unknown cow. While we had thought to go with Dexters, we are now hoping to go with my initial love, many months ago, the Milking Devon. (Ever had Devonshire cream on scones? Maybe someday I will have that available here!)

The Milking Devon almost went extinct, but it seems to be a great option for the smallholder in three ways: great milk, great meat, great oxen, all on rough forage. They came with the Pilgrims to America; they pulled the wagons on the Oregon trail. The cows average 400 pounds heavier than Dexters (they weigh about 1100 pounds).

Why the sudden interest in oxen? We had planned to buy a tractor as soon as Phil returned from his Colorado trip. But while he was away, I read one man’s experience with used tractors: they break all the time. He bought a horse and trained it to pull, and loved it. On his list of why animal power is better than metal power: animals produce manure, which is good for the land. Animals offer companionship. Animals reproduce. Animals don’t break and are ready to work. Animal power is more pleasant aesthetically than machine power.

This was a new line of thinking for me. I’m not a horse person, but the idea of oxen intrigued me. Phil started to look into it, too, and found that there are multiple classes he could attend to learn to train and manage oxen. And, since we bought the free-standing chipper, we don’t need a PTO on a tractor: animal power would probably be sufficient for harrowing or hauling logs.

From what we’ve read, pound for pound, oxen have about the same pulling capacity as a man. So a 900 pound Dexter would be able to pull as much as six 150 pound men. And there are cute photos of Dexters harrowing. But, really, they are probably just a bit too small.

A 1600 pound Milking Devon steer, though: that would start to offer some real pulling power. The Devon website says that, for their weight, no animal pulls more. (I read, though, that the world’s largest ox weighed over 3800 pounds. Maybe it was a Chianina. They would obviously pull more. And eat more.)

So now the task is to find some Milking Devons, assuming that’s what we really want. Perhaps with a little more, ah, rumination we’ll change our minds again.

Milk Pail Trials and Gathering with Gratitude

Today my mission was to buy the most basic milking supplies: a stainless steel bucket, perhaps with lid; and a strainer, to get rid of any hairs or dirt that might fall into the milk.

This required more decisions than I anticipated. Stainless milking pails come in sizes from 6 quarts to 20 quarts. Goat milking requires smaller pails, but I am trying to anticipate for future cow milking, too. But how much milk would a Dexter provide? How long is a piece of string?

Goat lids are moon shaped, so you can milk into them without detritus falling in. Cow lids are full, so you can carry the milk from parlor to kitchen without mishap. And what about handles, or pour spouts?

And filters: what makes one filter $45 and the next $180? (From a marketing standpoint, why wouldn’t the website offer the benefits of the one that’s quadruple in price?)

I finally ordered what I hope will be serviceable equipment, and managed to avoid even the $45 strainer, opting for a mesh strainer with a canning funnel, and a 9-quart stainless pail without a lid. I’ll add a lid later, if need be.

Tonight at Bible study, we looked at part of Luke 11. Verse 23 says,

He that is not with me is against me; and he that gathereth not with me scattereth.

I was thinking about that from a straight agricultural standpoint: if you don’t harvest your corn, the corn doesn’t just remain in stasis. Raccoons or birds come to eat and scatter; the wind or snow destroys the stalks. Truly, doing nothing can be destructive.

Doug asked the children, “Who’s side do you want to be on?” And it was a delight to hear them all agree that they wanted to be on God’s side.

May we gather faithfully and well.

We are thankful today, that we continue to “gather” with all the Bush clan. While Zach was driving in to work yesterday, going 55 on the local highway, he got dizzy. He blacked out, and, as I understand it, his car went up the snow that was plowed on the right side, over the guard rail, down a slope, between some trees, and came to rest in a stream.

When Zach came to, not only did he walk away unharmed, he drove the car away—unharmed. Thanks be to God.

What to Do with Goat Kids?

Icy wind blew constantly. I spent the day inside cleaning up the toy minutia that accumulates on our dressers; Phil spent the day inside the work/storage trailer cleaning up the paper minutia.

Phil has plenty of work-for-pay right now, but as I walked around the farmstead, I noticed little things he’d done outside, too. He’d used pallets to prop up the lambing jug, as the sheet metal roof warped down with all our snow. (It’s soon to be kidding jug—Annabelle the goat is due any day; I think her bag is filling up). He’d also chipped away at the frozen ice and mud so that the door to the barn closes again.

At about 5pm, our power went out, again. My spirits plummeted. Cold, dark, again. Phil, on the other hand, rejoiced: it’s so peaceful! It’s like the first few months we lived here (back before we needed supplemental heat, of course). This time it lasted only four hours, thankfully.

I spent some time reading up on milk goat kidding. It sounds similar to lambing, but there is the issue of milk management. I was surprised to read in one book

Many people who don’t want to bother raising buck kids for meat euthanize them at birth. (The easiest way is to drown them in a bucket of water.)

That was a new thought. I’ve assumed we would raise the kids for meat. But to off the kids before we pay to feed them, to take all the milk for our own consumption—that was a new thought.

Phil shot it down quickly. It’s one thing to kill an adult animal with a .22 to the head. It’s another to manually kill a baby of any domestic animal. So, since I don’t see myself drowning a kid, and Phil isn’t going to, I suppose we will keep whatever offspring we can, at least for a few months.

Snow Musings and a Poem

Phil finally made it home from working in Colorado at almost midnight last night. He came bearing mail (hooray!), walking on the surface of the snow “like Legolas” (this was Phil’s simile. I am not enough of a Tolkien expert to remember much of Legolas other than that he’s one of the good guys).

Virginia snow amuses us. Colorado snow never supported our weight, but here in Virginia, this snow crusted over, with about three inches of ice over eight inches of powder. This makes snow walking quite interesting, as every step is a mystery: will I sink in? Or will a large section of ice collapse, leaving me stranded on a mini iceberg? Or will I trip lightly and easily on the surface? Each step is different, and, thus, exciting!

We spent today catching up, talking about everything from oxen to chicken pens, from pig breeding to pasture. He spent the rest of his time working “for pay,” and so did I.

And the snow began again. I’ve read that usually central Virginia gets about 11 inches of snow a year. This year we’re already over 50.

Now for something completely different: an indulgence in poetry. About a year ago, my sister and I started to talk about poetry. I was an English and humanities major, and wondered aloud what my 100 favorite poems would be. She, an art major, looked startled and said that she couldn’t think of a single poem that she liked. So for some weeks I emailed her a few poems a day, with my comments on why I liked them. We reached 80 before I realized that the last 20 would be fillers—they didn’t reach the same level of greatness-for-Amy. (Tangentially, this is part of what I hate about books with titles like 101 Important Dates in History. How artificial! I mean, maybe there were only 97 most important dates. One of my pet peeves.)

Today I found a new poem to add to the list. I give you “Not They Who Soar,” by Paul Laurence Dunbar.

Not they who soar, but they who plod
Their rugged way, unhelped, to God
Are heroes; they who higher fare,
And, flying, fan the upper air,
Miss all the toil that hugs the sod.
'Tis they whose backs have felt the rod,
Whose feet have pressed the path unshod,
May smile upon defeated care,
Not they who soar.

High up there are no thorns to prod,
Nor boulders lurking 'neath the clod
To turn the keenness of the share,
For flight is ever free and rare;
But heroes they the soil who've trod,
Not they who soar!

My Longest Stretch of Failed Electricity

Within five minutes of my previous post, we lost power. As it was 10pm, I just went to bed and figured I’d deal with the chill the next day. The forecast predicted that the temperature wouldn’t drop below about 30 degrees, so I knew we’d be okay for the night.

Next morning, it was cold enough to see our breath in our little bedroom. (When I finally got breakfast oatmeal made, I laughed at how much steam was coming off of it—the oatmeal appeared to be really hot. But when we actually got it in our mouth, it was barely warm—just shows how cold our room was.)

I looked at my cell phone—and it wasn’t working. I knew it had a full battery, but the reception was nonexistent. That was a bit disconcerting, but I figured that if we were in true trouble, I could walk to a neighbor’s. (In retrospect, I could have walked up to the top of the driveway and may have had improved reception.)

I got the propane heater that Phil had been using in his office: it’s just a little heater that screws into the top of a 5 gallon propane tank. I was pretty freaked about the unofficial ventilation in that room, as well as the many sleeping bags and inflatable pads—all of which, as petroleum products, are pretty flammable. Open flame heater with sleeping bags makes for one nervous mother. So if I put on the heater, I made the children all sit still, and made sure no animals were in the room, too.

The six of us spent all Saturday in the little bedroom. We were saved by the electronic games that came in our Christmas stockings: we hadn’t let the children play with them since the day they opened them, but I gave them unlimited access on Saturday. We read books and ate fruit snacks and just had a (mostly) happy time.

By 4:30pm, the skies cleared and the sun came out. Beautiful. The drifts weren’t bad, either—we’d gotten a crusty top on the powder, and although a lot of snow may have fallen, it didn’t look too bad.

That night, the temperature dropped to about 6 degrees. I knew it was going to be cold (open sky doesn’t keep the warmth in), so I moved the lemon tree from the unheated room into our (very crowded) bedroom and again went to bed early. I woke every few hours to turn on the propane heater for twenty or thirty minutes. That worked out well. I would see my breath before turning on the heater, and afterwards, it would be warmer.

No one wanted to use the bathroom the next morning. I remembered that, up until about a century ago, most people had outhouses. Surely walking across an unheated room to the bathroom wasn’t that bad in the scheme of things.

Michelle Bessette called around 9am and said that Dennis was going to come and get us. He had driven home the night before through such rough conditions that a tree took out part of his windshield.

It was a wild ride, and we hung on tight, but to be back in a home with warmth, and space, and laundry facilities, and a wider range of food than noodles and oatmeal was a great treat. The three older children spent all afternoon going down the amazing sledding run, while Abraham and Joe watched from the window.

The Bessette’s truck quit working after returning to their home, and their other 4-wheel drive vehicle was snowed in, so we all stayed the night. The Bessette children had made an amazing igloo house and Alex and Dennis spent the night there. (Well, Alex came in at 11pm, and Dennis made it until 4am!) After much shoveling, we made it back home.

Despite a call from the electric company letting us know that we had power, we found that we didn’t actually have any, and our house was colder than the 40 degree weather outside. So we resumed our bedroom life, reading and resting, until 3:33pm. Sixty-five and a half hours without power.

I know we lived without electricity from the end of July until mid-October, but the whole structure of our life supported that. These last days were livable, but not pleasant. They were really long, cold hours, and I’m glad they’re over.

Of course, we’re getting more snow tomorrow....

Electricity: Will It Stay or Will It Go?

Michelle called Thursday morning to let me know that the winter storm coming in was expected to reach 18 to 20 inches of snow. Phil won’t be making it home on time on Saturday; how should I prepare for the children and myself?

After a brief phone conference with Phil, in which we discussed me leaving with the children to go elsewhere before the storm began, we decided it would be best to sit tight as long as we can. My biggest concern is if we lose power. In that case, we have a little propane heater (that we wouldn’t burn after we sleep). But I know that I can melt snow in the barn if I need water and the pump isn’t working; I can use flashlights for light at night. And neighbor Butch can rescue us in his tractor if it gets bad.

I spent much of Thursday getting ready. Fill up the water bag so we have enough. Empty and clean extra poop buckets and fill with clean sawdust so I won’t have to go digging for either, should the snow persist on the ground very long. I tried to back the van up to the top of the driveway, but the few inches of crusty snow left over from last week prevented me from being able to leave the land. I had wondered if I was actually trapped here without a viable car; now I know for sure that I was.

I brought the pigs their second bag of feed in two days. Reading through a book on homesteading, I read that pigs need some way to build shelter, and it was like a lightning bolt for me: up until a few weeks back, every paddock the pigs have lived in has had some straw for nesting. Their most recent pen, though, just has a brush pile—and they haven’t been using that. No wonder they’re eating three times the amount of feed they should be: they need to keep their body temperature up!

That was an expensive mistake, but I brought them as much spoiled but not mushy hay as I could find. They enjoyed making a nest, I think, and I feel (a little) less like a horrible farmer. In some ways, I think it’s astounding that any of our animals are still alive. I don’t think we’re caring for any of them quite perfectly, but they keep on living, for which I am grateful.

Bible study was cancelled for the evening, and Denise came to bring me brownies and say hello. (She also picked up my mail—what could fit in the box, that is. Phil went in to the post office last Friday, and since then, I’ve had no mail. From junior high, I used to eagerly await the mailman; I’m amazed at how minor a trial it seems to not get daily postal delivery.)

Denise’s visit was the first adult contact I’ve had since Monday, when Michelle stopped by briefly to say hello. The children were pleased to have someone other than me to impress, too, and the energy level in this trailer soon reached impressive proportions. I don’t think the boys have been outside since last Friday, so a full week in two small rooms without going crazy is impressive. Good for them! (I suppose it’s no worse than sailors, but I’m not sure I’d recommend it to everyone.)

Friday: woke to snow. Snowed all day. Not much more to say.

Well, that’s not wholly true. Butch brought some hay, and set a bale down right in the sheep pen. Then he stopped the tractor and said, “There’s a petition going around the neighborhood to ship you all back to Colorado. [I wondered if our land truly looked that bad compared to everyone else’s. But then he continued.] We never had weather like this until you all showed up.”

He said that if we get 17 inches this storm, it’ll be the most on record.

The power has flickered off five times, but each time it has immediately reset. Every time, my heart flip-flops, but every time, my heart continues.

Providential Confluence

As we wait for the snow to melt, the children and I have done almost all of the Core 2 science experiments. Yesterday we did neat things with batteries and electrical wire (made a buzzer sound, lit small light bulbs, made a switch out of a paperclip, and mostly learned that electricity needs a closed circuit!). Today was human body, with things like swirling glitter in water to imitate what happens in the inner ear when you’ve been spinning for a long time (when you or the spinning bottle stops, the liquid keeps spinning for a while).

I had an unpleasant surprise today. Phil and I bought a twin-sized mattress shortly after we moved, once it became apparent that camping pads were not giving us the quality sleep we wanted. We kept the plastic wrapper on it, because everything here gets dirty after a while. But the mattress plastic gradually tore more and more. When it fell off in shredded tatters, I finally ordered mattress covers, but the snow prevented their timely arrival. When I went to put them on the mattress, I found that the bottom of the mattress was quite wet and had started to mold.

Was this a condensation issue? The rest of the mattress was dry. I’m guessing that, with seven people and two pets all exhaling all night, somehow the moisture pooled beneath our mattress. And, effectively, ruined it. A quick Google search suggested vinegar as a kill agent, but, preferably, “life’s too short to sleep on a moldly mattress. Get a new one.” Would a plastic cover have saved it? Or would the humid climate and somewhat cramped conditions simply repeat this experience ad infinitum?

The pigs devoured a 50 pound bag of feed in about two days (so it’s costing us $10 a day to feed those girls!). I went to give them another bag today. They were so excited, they jumped up on the feeder and tore into the paper before I could cut it open. Only a handful or two were lost, but it was a strange experience, standing there with two hungry animals, both of whom outweigh me, both of whom are more sure-footed in deep muck (which is what their pen is, in the melting snow). I was thankful to get out of there with only muddied pants and not a nipped behind.

A wonderful, surprising breakthrough happened today. I was listening to a three-hour lecture from the Acres 2008 conference that began, “I hope I have enough material to present to you,” and went downhill from there. As was my policy in college (mostly strictly adhered to), I figure that if I paid to be educated, I’ll take advantage of it as best I can. In college, that meant I attended every class I could, and took the maximum number of credits each term. Today, that means I listen to every lecture all the way through at least once.

After 40 minutes of excruciatingly dull question and answer, I began to question my sanity. Should I break my policy, just this once? But then, at minute 57, an unexpected boon.

I planted fruit trees the way I was taught: dig a $100 hole for a $10 tree. Dig it big, add lots of expensive amendments. But my soil was hard clay, and I had perched water [when he mentioned “perched water,” I almost yelled to the iPod, “Yes! Yes! I have that, too!”], so I was making not holes but little ponds. So the trees rotted. And if they didn’t rot, they might grow a bit and then fall over. I had to dig out the rotted ones, and they smelled terrible. And the sides of the holes were just covered in rotten, stinky filth.

So, what did I do about these holes? How could I break the polished clay walls of my holes? Hydrogen peroxide. I poured a couple pints into the hole, and it cleaned out the gunk and left the sides friable. Then I added carbon [humic acid, to be specific] and inoculated the soil with mycorrhizal fungi, and the trees started to grow really well.

Now this was fantastic news. I needed to know more. So I called the presenter directly—desperation leads us all to do “brave” things, I suppose—and spoke with him. He said that he digs holes the same depth as the rootball and just a bit wider—maybe 15 inches, instead of 12. He’ll do the hydrogen peroxide, and then plant the tree (just with the same soil he took out of the hole—nothing else!) with his humic acid and mycorrhizals. And that’s it.

Now obviously this appeals to me simply because the scope is much more manageable than the amazing holes we were digging. The price of his products I’m sure is nowhere near what I would pay for 90 cubic yards of compost. Phil can (I think) dig holes the size of a rootball fairly quickly and easily by hand. And I really like that he did this on land with perched water! He’s speaking my language.

As I reflected on this, though, I was grateful that I heard that little comment, perhaps one minute in a three hour Q&A, now. In December 2008, it would have meant nothing to me. Even last fall it would have meant nothing, since I had never heard of “perched water” and had no context for why it might be a problem.

The confluence of my need and the answer came together today. I would take that as another gift of our good God.

Cows and Heifers

I was talking to my sister today about Phil’s abortive attempt to fly out on Saturday morning. There was a time when the six wasted hours would have driven to distraction: he could have been DOING something PRODUCTIVE. But, really now, is six extra hours in transit the end of the world? No. (Maybe if it had been my six hours, I might feel differently, but I don’t think so.)

I heard about a book that advocates the 10-10-10 principle: what are the consequences of a decision in ten minutes, in ten months, or ten years? Those six hours certainly won't make much of a difference in ten months.

As I think about it, there’s just not much that will still affect me in ten years. Ten years ago right now I was a junior in college up in Idaho, not yet even engaged (that wouldn’t happen for another eight days).

Farming is a different pace than I'm used to. I still fall into my city attitude: get it all done now! But as I’ve contacted seven Dexter breeders over the last few days, the most congenial breeder (and, thus, my favorite) said something like, “I’ll buy a heifer and run a bunch of tests on her. If she’s good, I’ll keep her. Otherwise, I’ll sell her or eat her and buy a different one.”

This is remarkably freeing. It’s sort of like the saying of celebrity farmer Joel Salatin: “Anything worth doing is worth doing poorly … at first.” Or, don’t not do something just because you don’t have it all figured out in advance.

There’s not as much pressure to get the perfect cow immediately. If, in ten years, we have a herd of ever-more-sickly animals, that would be bad, but to have the chance to start off imperfectly and improve—that’s great! And realistic.

Of the breeders I’ve contacted, I have a few leads now, which leaves me quite encouraged.

Parenthetical definition: a heifer is a female bovine that has not yet given birth. A cow was a heifer but is now a mother. Wikipedia says that the average dairy cow in the US does not live through even three lactations. (Cattleman Gearld Fry says the number is actually 1.7 lactactions—not even two full cycles.) Most farmers separate their cows from the calves after a couple of days, feeding inexpensive milk replacer. Formula is never a true equivalent to mother’s milk, and the resultant calves do not have the proper strength for a long and healthy life. Put another way: “You cannot starve profit into an animal.” Indeed.

A properly cared for cow, given good nutrition and care from infancy, can last sixteen to eighteen lactations or more. Gearld Fry gave a fascinating lecture on cow health. Basically, if you let you calves nurse for ten or eleven months, they’ll repay you the money lost by a longer and healthier life. And the dairyman wouldn’t even have to let all calves nurse—just the potential cow replacements. Feed the steers cheap replacement, or the less than ideal heifers, but treat your replacement cows with care.

I suppose it’s sort of like a tithe: give the first fruits and see the increase.

The other bad thing that modern dairies do: breed heifers before they are physically ready. One heifer in five bred at the industry standard 12 months will not get pregnant again, and is culled. If the dairyman waited until two years, all heifers should breed back.

Brief boy blips: Phil has an old electronic chess set. Today Jadon checkmated it, and was very pleased with himself. (I overheard him yesterday talking to Isaiah: “I’m not playing myself, I’m playing Radio Shack, and Radio Shack is really hard to beat!” I don’t think he knows about brand names!)

Yesterday I overheard Isaiah as he played with Playmobil with the other children. (His character was an animal.) “Now he’s going to poop under this tree, in order to fertilize the ground so the tree will grow better. Poop, poop.” I love that all their play comes through their own narrator voices. The characters rarely act autonomously, but the children-narrators make them act.

Abraham has a “funny joke.” “I am dead.” “Then why are you still talking? (hahaha)” What can I say? It’s the best three-year-old joke I’ve heard. I’ll spare you the others.