First Doctor Visit

After fifteen months in the country, a domestic accident yesterday evening left Joe with his left pointer fingernail torn loose.

Thankfully, I'm no longer as squeamish; I was able to put the nail over the tender, exposed skin, bandaid it up, give him some Arnica for trauma and another remedy for hurt fingers and put Joe to sleep. After 14 hours, with only intermittent wakeful cries, he awoke cheerful and happy.

We stopped by our doctor friend Zach Bush's house on our way to church. I found out later that, despite being a family practitioner, nail injuries make him squirm even still (he refused to look at his sister-in-law's toe when she tore off her nail even!). He managed to get Joe to bend both joints, and if the tip of the bone broke off, there's nothing that can be done for that. The bruising underneath the nail has begun, without sign of pus or infection.

Joe bore with patience the gentle prodding. The skin at the tip will soon fall off, so it will be a long recovery, but it could be a good deal worse, and we are very thankful for such helpful care. (Zach said that if we had gone to the emergency room, that would have been an $1800 trip!)

In less dramatic news, we awoke on Saturday to a very chilly house. The space heater, in transit, had no reached us on Thursday (the day it was on the truck), nor Friday, and Saturday morning the thermometer said 20 outside and 40 inside.

Phil tried to start the heater in the motor home, but found that the propane heater had been damaged since we used it last, and without heat on the thermostat to get the temperature up to 55, the motor home heater wouldn't go on, either. He managed to be resourceful, though, and soon we were all happy and warm enough in the motor home. The sun came out, too; that helped a lot.

While Phil and Butch lumberjacked along the new fence line, I spent most of Saturday dealing with chickens. I checked to make sure I had removed all lungs, pulled off any extra feathers, and bagged the 24 birds up and put them in the freezer.

I also tried a new culinary adventure. I have read about the amazing health properties of chicken feet, but, when we processed chickens in Boulder, took one look (and smell) at the feet, with bits of dung and dirt pressed into the pads, and composted the feet.

Michelle Bessette mentioned that she had learned from a woman from Jamaica that, if the feet are dunked in boiling water for about ten seconds, they outer layer of nastiness peels away, leaving healthy, clean connective tissue underneath.

This worked! It is not a fast process, as I would estimate it took me three or four minutes per foot to peel. Then I had to chop off the yet-nasty toenails. Even now I'm only maybe halfway done. But I look forward to the rich, healthy broth I will make one day, and that sounds good.

As a random bit of trivia: based on the recommendation of a friend, I put a penny on a wasp sting and was surprised to see that I had no swelling the next day, and very little itch. So you might try that remedy, should you be stung.

Gallbladder Removal

In honor of two relatives who had their gallbladders removed this week, we decided to remove the gallbladders of our broilers.

Well, actually, we removed all their internal organs, after we had bled them out, scalded, and plucked them.

The day didn't start off well. I woke, for some reason, at 4:30am, and couldn't go back to sleep, which meant I got in good work time on notes for Macbeth, but it also meant that, by the time Phil got up (after going to bed at 2am), I was feeling tired.

The expensive scalder we bought back in Boulder, that we used there to process two batches of chickens, simply would not light. We tried playing with that thing for an hour: hold down the "lighter" switch. Run inside to check the online trouble-shooting guide. Call the company (which never called back). It could be that, if it were less windy, it would have worked, but it showed no signs of life, and gave off only very intermittent smell of propane.

By that time, I was about frantic. The birds run out of food today, and Phil has a solidly scheduled two weeks ahead of him. This really was the only day to process chickens. And we own no cooking pots big enough to hold a large meat bird.

Phil had a breakthrough moment, though. His parents had brought us an ancient galvanized tub. We propped that on the cookstove, lit the two burners, and had a very functional scalder. (So, if you're in the market for a scalder, let me offer a suggestion that will save you $1000. Buy a large galvanized tub, and the Costco propane camp cookstove instead of the name brand scalder. And both stove and tub are dual-purpose!)

All afternoon Phil got the birds ready for me to process. By the end, I was completely physically spent. Pulling out guts is a lot of effort after the first twenty! And the stress of wondering if the gallbladder will break and spill its bile all over, spoiling the meat, or if the vent will shoot out some dung as I tug on the intestines ... yuck!

What's worse, with the trouble over the scalder, I was worried that the chickens would not get enough to eat and would start losing body condition. So I gave them some feed.

A few hours later we started processing. Chickens have an organ called a crop, right up above the breast. In the past, when we processed birds with empty stomachs, the crop was like a flattened balloon, easy to tug, and very clean.

Today, it was the size of a raquetball, filled with slightly moistened feed, liable to break in my hand at any moment. Yuck again!

It took us about five hours to process 25 birds. I have no idea how this could possibly be financially feasible as a farm income. My records show we spent $500 on chicks and feed, and probably have about 25 birds total, weighting, I expect, an average of just under 5 pounds. So we have $4/pound for whole chickens, not counting any labor or infrastructure.

I am happy to have soy-free, organic chicken, but, honestly, the meat was a bit tough, not terribly flavorful, and really just all-around disappointing. We didn't even finish our chicken dinner!

Ample Provision

Denise Bush stopped by today and commented that our soil looks better: "Not so orange." So encouraging, that an occasional outside observer would notice that. Phil and I were commenting just this last week over how much better our soil is: the tilth, the color, all of it!

We've seen some other little provisions of the Lord lately. An email from my Dad surprisingly reminded me that I had looked at a tax bill in the car at some point. It was a glancing impression, and I realized I had never seen it again. A frantic search through the massive stack of papers on my desk, ransacking several bags of trash, and looking into the crevices of the car yielded no bill.

But it turned up today. I am most thankful.

More humorously, Phil wondered where the keys to the riding mower were. Abraham said, "I know! I buried them!"

He had, actually, buried them. Better still, he was able to find them again! (Unlike Jadon, who last year buried a hammer, dug around for an hour looking for it, and never did recover it.)

Bianca had been such an easy milker, I had high hopes for her. Yesterday evening, I forgot the proper way to tie her tightly, and she managed to work her way a bit more loose. She, frustratingly, started dancing, and again whipping with the tail. This morning, as I was finally stripping her out, she even managed to get her foot onto the rim of my milk pail, but the cloven part caught, and I jerked the milk pail away. (It looked okay to me, but we'll make sure only Lykoshes drink that half gallon—or we'll spread it on the garden!!)

This evening, despite good tight tying, she continued to dance. Phil said I needed to just have patience. I took the half gallon she had milked out up to the house, and in the two minutes I was away from her, she managed to work herself backwards in the stall!

I untied her, led her around again (thankful she didn't bolt, as I don't have much traction in the sodden earth), and retied her. With an empty pail, I had all the time in the world.

She'd step forward, and I dug my head into her flank until she stepped back. She'd step back, pressing her bulky side into me to knock me off balance, and I dug my shoulder into her until she stepped forward.

After we did this a few times, she stood still for the remainder of the milking. Did I show her who's boss? We'll see tomorrow.

The other, most wonderful provision, is that we have been wishing for a tractor for a good long time. Especially for spraying the trees, but for skidding downed logs, for digging trenches for electric wire, for moving the chicken pen—the list goes on.

We had seriously considered a few, but when my Mom was visiting a month ago, she saw neighbor Butch's home and said, "If he ever wants to sell his tractor, you should buy it!"

Incredibly, today he offered! With all the features we would want or need, at a price we can afford.

The Lord has been so good to us. It reminds me of Samson, our dually pickup. We had priced used trucks in Colorado, and used trucks in Virginia, and Colorado offered more for your money, for some reason. One week we decided it was time, and Phil went on craigslist to look. Only half an hour before, Samson had come up for sale.

As he left to look at the truck, I said privately to the Lord, "I will really know this is the truck for us if the man kept records of his maintenance." Buying used, you can never be sure how well a person cares for the vehicle, and I really hoped for some extra reassurance.

What joy when Phil came home and said, "The man who owned this truck was an engineer," and he showed me the record the man had kept of every mile driven, every gas fill-up, every maintenance done. (When he got slightly less miles per gallon, he would make a note: "Brought sand from quarry.")

How precious of the Lord to be so clear that that was the truck for us.

And how wonderful of the Lord to be so clear in His provision of a tractor for us.

Black Widow and Big Decisions

On Monday Phil finished spreading minerals on the orchard (I overbought, so we have about 1500 pounds leftover; which means that Phil spread 8500 pounds, or thereabouts, by hand!), and I planted 2 pounds, 12 ounces of hardneck garlic.

We looked over at one point, and saw Abraham sitting in Butch's mineral spreader, taking handfuls of minerals out and tossing them on the ground. Joe was pretend driving. We sure laughed!

The boys have enjoyed the perfect, 70s weather. Even though they get very dirty, I am happy they have such fun together. All four will go up to the well head and play in the tailings for hours. And this morning, when I come into the trailer after doing some dishes, Jadon was reading aloud to Isaiah, while Abraham and Joe played Playmobil nearby. So idyllic!

I forgot to mention that last Saturday, I was moving a few bags of minerals at the end of the day, getting them under cover in case of rain. I was headed over to get the last bag, and Phil offered to get it. He hoisted it on his shoulder, then set it on the truck bed.

Isaiah looked at it and said, "Hey, Dad, there's a black spider there."

A black widow. Phil killed it—after it had been inches from his head and hands.

It struck me that I had prayed for protection that morning, which I don't often remember to do anymore. I remember feeling sheepish: how dangerous could mineral spreading be, anyway?

How great is the Spirit's guidance, that gives us what we need, even to the point of nudging me to pray, that the spider wouldn't strike.

Tyson had hoped to disc the neighbor's land on Monday, but he called with strep throat. We didn't have the seed in hand yet, anyway, and now it has rained well over an inch, so I don't know when Tyson will be able to work, nor when we will be able to broadcast the seed (which arrives tomorrow).

On Monday, we also got an unexpected phone call from the farmer with Berkshires and the market garden. He wondered if we'd be willing to meet again, since, really, we are just about perfect for that place. (As Phil said: if not for the community we have here, and the orchard and the work we've put into our land, it would be an easy decision.)

When we met before, I had an either/or idea in my mind: we would either take over Richard's, or stay here. Between those options, we chose to stay here.

But maybe the option would be both/and. Would it be possible to continue grazing on this land, to continue to do maintenance here, and maybe run some pigs, while also working Richard's?

That's the question of the hour, and we're really back-and-forth in our minds. How many hours are there in a day—how many trips to Spring Forth would we drive before we absolutely hated the commute?

And yet our home equity, savings, and inheritance money won't last forever. What if we could build the farm out of farm earnings?! How great would that be!

We've done so much simply by reading books. Richard would be a mentor and teacher: animal conformation, market garden rotation, pig butchering, marketing techniques (not to mention built in market!). There is so much more to learn, and to have a teacher sounds so appealing.

On the other hand, Phil feels pretty confident that it wouldn't take us 10 years to get to

We could, potentially, hire workers for the orchard and the garden. That's an appealing thought: it wouldn't have to all be us.

So, the possibility of moving is again on the table. And there hasn't been an easy answer forthcoming.

We unloaded what we hope is the last of the large shipments today: three large pallets of cedar posts, for fencing. Phil maneuvered deftly in order to unload the ridiculously long pallets. The driver was also quite competent, directing the raising and lowering of the gate.

First Frost = Summer Gardening Just About Over

Saturday morning we went out for chores and found the full moon just setting over the cherry orchard. We milk about 7am, and it's not very light yet, obviously.

Phil and I had finally ordered a space heater, as the heater for the trailer is broken. Good thing, since we had our first frost Saturday morning, and the temperature in the trailer was 45! Wow! (Jadon asked, "Is the door open?!") Thankfully, the day turned fine, and the weather for the next few days is supposed to be warmer.

I had intended to dig up the basil before the first frost, as well as the jalapeno. The basil isn't looking very good, though the pepper looked okay. I transplanted them into a five-gallon bucket, and moved that one, and my lemon tree inside.

My tomatoes did not look entirely decimated, but I was ready to clean them up to make room for this year's garlic. It took a surprisingly long time to strip the vines of their tomatoes. I ended up with three 5-gallon buckets full. (I spent 90 minutes in the night trying to get them ready for the freezer, but about went buggy: that's a LOT of tomatoes, and most of them green!)

Phil spent the day spreading minerals, and he has spread 6500 pounds, until his fingers could not hold the bag any longer. His arm muscles are extremely large now!

Our piglets are about ready to come off whey. I have heard that they need about four weeks before processing without whey, lest their meat get a little too soft. Fox, shown above and below, is the largest of the lot, and he is looking good.

Phil is reading a book on pig rearing, and the author spoke with an old-timer, who had farmed through two World Wars and the Great Depression. This old-timer said a man needs 10 sows, 10 cows, 10 ewes, and 100 acres in row crops (corn and beans, not market garden!), debt free, to make it.

I think I read that three years ago, and was overwhelmed.

While I'm still overwhelmed, we have certainly made progress! To think that a year ago we had only had electricity and running water for a few weeks, and now we actually have a little extra milk: what a blessing.

(We went to a baptism service this evening, and had an extra half gallon to share with our friends. One friend said, "It tastes like melted ice cream," which I thought was high praise indeed!)

Minerals Spread: Easy and Not So Easy

Last year, when we tried to spread minerals, we rented a broken-down hopper, and had an incredibly stressful few days trying to get our ten tons of minerals spread.

Well, it's the October full moon again, the best time of year to spread minerals, since the full moon flocculates the soil and makes it more receptive to additions.

We were certain we had it all figured out. Due to cost, we are only mineralizing our orchard, so we have only five tons to spread. And we were better-educated, and had the minerals delivered in 50-pound bags. The bags looked like standard feed bags (two layers of thick paper), but turned out to be a plastic weave covered in brown paper: very sturdy.

Phil carried bags to the hopper we borrowed from Butch, and after we'd loaded 150 pounds, he started off.

We figured it would take a while, but he had calculated how many bags would be needed for each row, and was ready to drive back and forth as often as needed until the proper quantity was spread.

Except it didn't work. The ripped soil was extremely bumpy, and for some reason, even though the hopper was fully open, the minerals wouldn't flow out well. After an excruciating few passes, bouncing along, I think about 20 pounds of minerals were gone, and Phil was ready for a new method to spread.

We tried a few options. He poked open a bag with a shovel and flung it around. That wasn't an even spread, as the minerals plopped at the zenith.

I opened a bag halfway and walked, letting the minerals flow freely. That was too stripey.

Phil cut some slits in the bottom of a sack and swung it as he walked. Eventually, he figured out the best size of holes, and that if we pour a bag halfway in, it's easier to manage (and only 25 pounds at the max).

He used our minted-this-year garden cart to push 300 pounds of minerals around at a time (I tried to push, but didn't get far on the uneven ground).

We got 600 pounds done before dark fell: 6% of the total.

Phil intended to do more of that today, and he did get some done. I would guess we're now about a quarter of the way done. We loaded the truck with 2000 pounds of minerals, and dropped them at 24' on center spacing. Slow going.

***

The faster method happened today next door. Twenty-five tons of minerals arrived, in a truck-hopper with a towed storage container. The driver, incredibly, managed to park in our driveway. He then took his truck-hopper to the neighbor's land and spread the minerals.

Phil had been quite concerned about the slope, the ripping, and the rainfall: could the mineral truck drive without getting stuck?

Not really. In the first pass, which only took about twenty minutes to spread 6 tons (I could not believe it!), there was a good bit of stopping on the hillside, backing for a running start, and driving up the hill. Back and forth. So the driver put chains on.

Then he loaded the truck-hopper with more minerals from his conveyor-belt storage container, and drove off blithely through our orchard to spread a small, not easily accessed area.

And he promptly got totally stuck. Sliding down the hillside with 6 tons of minerals in the hopper stuck.

We thank the Lord for Butch, who again saved the day. His bulldozer with treads managed to pull the truck-hopper out of the danger zone. The driver finished that pass without any more difficulty (this time in maybe 15 minutes), did two more runs, and was gone, back to Pennsylvania with a considerably lighter load.

***

Very briefly, in other news: Bianca has become my good friend. And, by milking twice a day, I got about 14 pounds each yesterday and today: 1.75 gallons. If I hit two gallons, I will be a very happy farmer. There's no way we can drink that much!

Our brix level, too, was over 12 today. All that kelp is paying off, and the reduced-stress milking. Glory!

My Gift Day

Some days are gifts, and this was one.

We went to milk Bianca without any restraints other than a collar and lead, tied close to the fence, and she planted her feet and didn't move. I couldn't believe it. Was the strain of nursing two babies for a day so transformative? Did Belle, finally forcing her way in to eat, break Bianca to milking? Or was she just so happy to have no board tickling her legs, no pressure on her tail? I don't know, but I am very glad.

She didn't milk much more, still only 9 pounds, but we're experimenting with twice a day milking, so her total for today was 13 pounds, but some of that probably was taken from tomorrow morning's milking.

After my peaceful, pleasant time with Bianca, I entered the house to find four little blonde heads under the sleeping bag, listening to Jadon reading aloud. How precious!

My dear friend Melanie from Charlottesville stopped by (while I was indisposed, sadly, so I didn't even see her!) and delivered both needle and thread, which I have been sorely missing, and an incredible bouquet from her garden. I think she could go into flower growing and arranging—what an array!

(My friend Tamara once said I reminded her of an orange dahlia, so there you go: see if you can see the resemblance.)

Phil came in while the boys and I were doing school, and suggested we come out and help him weed. In the spring, I had planted 150 strawberry plants, and about 30 berry bushes, in hopes of farm fresh fruit, this year even.

Much of it died within a week or two, which was extremely discouraging. Phil haphazardly kept it mown, but I didn't even look at the desolate mess. The area looked like this.

But Phil found strawberries today! Of the six varieties I planted, he found a row that had 22 yet-living plants in it! And two other rows had over twenty. (Three rows had only about 10, and they look a bit scarce, for sure.) Each plant we found was like buried treasure, or a little prodigal son returning home (that which we thought was dead is alive!).

Jadon and Isaiah came and weeded a row apiece, and Phil and I weeded a good bit. Then Phil got out the wheelhoe he made earlier this year. I had tried to use it, but I think it takes a good bit of effort, as Phil got several blisters on his hands.

But it worked! the horribly overgrown area is now cleared, ready for, well, whatever needs to happen to strawberries in the winter. (I should probably look that up.) And really ready for sending runners next spring.

This evening, Phil and I cut up and ground the rest of BB the lamb. We got 20 pounds of usable meat off that little guy, which, if lamb sausage sells for $15 a pound, could be $300. Of course, the ridiculous amount of effort to kill, cut up, and grind the meat, as well as the hay feed and the trauma of his birth on January 2 this year doesn't really make for any profit at all, but we have meat now for a couple of weeks, raised entirely on our farm. I like that.

We also got 6% of the way through spreading this year's minerals, but that is a story in itself, and I am heading to bed. It's been a long day.

Bianca or Bethany for Milk?

Wednesday morning, I went out to milk Bianca. I put her halter on and pulled her tight. I tied up her tail. I put the board in front of her legs.

And it was still disastrous. She managed to pull her tail loose; she inched here and there, and some milk sloshed out on my jeans. My toes barely avoided mashing, and she only gave six pounds (way less than a gallon). Her udder felt fairly heavy still, but no more milk was coming down.

The grand finale came when I walked her out of the headgate and she ran away from me. There's no way I can hold a 1000 pound cow if she's determined to go.

I asked Phil to switch her with Bethany, who had been the nurse cow.

The switch quickly done, we had to deal with Bethany bawling for her baby all day and all night. Phil checked Bethany's udder at about 11pm, and thought it felt very full and firm (which makes sense: 12 hours without any nursing, when she had been supporting two babies, was probably long enough). So I headed out, headlamp and all. Bethany is so patient and good, and stood still so patiently. (Except for once, when she stepped over the board, right onto my knee. She didn't trod heavily, but it still made me cry. This milking stuff is not for sissies!)

But she only gave five pounds. And she was an incredibly hard milker. While Bianca's milk flows out easily, which allows me to quickly milk, Bianca required all my strength; I even had to use both hands on one teat for a while. That, too, left me in tears of exhaustion.

I've been in tears a lot lately. I stumbled back to the trailer, sobbing, and fell into bed and cried myself to sleep. I cried this morning when I went to make breakfast and realized I didn't have all the ingredients. Phil was just about beside himself, with this puddle-for-a-wife.

And you know what I realized? I must not be eating enough! About two weeks ago, I weaned Joe. That day, in early October, was the first day since September 2001 that I was not either pregnant, breastfeeding, or both. Which means, for the last nine years, I've been eating for two. I hardly remember how to eat for only one, and apparently undershot it. What a relief! I won't always be a basket case!

Phil researched how to train a cow to milk more easily, and he thinks it will take just a few weeks to get Bianca to mellow out. And, as I talked to goat-cheese maker Gail yesterday when I went to pick up whey, she said that she, too, dissolved into tears on occasion. Even sometimes sang show tunes to the goats. Apparently, Jesus Christ Superstar was a hit: "I don't know how to milk you!"

She said to try massaging peppermint lotion into the udder, or speak soothingly, or press firmly but gently on the udder.

So Phil switched the cows back this morning, and we'll resume Bianca milking tomorrow.

After we had an amazing inch and a half of rain in less than ten hours last night, Phil and I walked the soggy perimeter of our land and the neighbor's. He has his work cut out for him, though it's encouraging to see the contour of the land better now that the leaves have fallen. As always, he sees possibilities, and I see an unbelievable amount of work.

Finally, as Phil and I talked about the possibility of moving, we realized that, as tough as life can be here, we really like everything we're doing. We like milk, and, someday beef; we like pork; we like lamb. We really like fruit. Sadly, though, we don't really like vegetables that much. A small garden is wonderful, but eight acres of vegetables sounds like too much for us.

And we really like our community right here. Even as I was typing last time, I thought, "You know, despite the promise of a greenhouse, and a real house; cold storage and Gators, tractor and 100 pigs—even though it's everything I think I want—I don't sound quite that excited about the opportunity." I thought the same when I woke up, and didn't ever really change my mind.

So we hope for future production here at Spring Forth, and we continue to trust God for the wisdom (and frugality!) to survive until that happens.

Naughty Bianca, Nifty Berkshires

Naughty Bianca would not stand to be milked, and she's figured out how to step over the back-leg board. Not a great start to the day, to have washed her udder soothingly in warm water, then have to run to the trailer and wake Phil up to help me cobble her.

Instead of cobbling, he put a halter on and put her face right to the fence, then put the board up. She had almost no wiggle room (though she still managed to inch her way backward, backward, backward). Bethany, on the other side of the fence, was poking her with her horns, and one of the yearlings came to see her from the front. That Bianca was a popular cow. And all that activity made her give only 5 pounds of milk, half what she gave yesterday.

And I got a tale whip in the eye, which stung quite badly and made me cry (I had poked that same eye a week ago very badly, so that's my excuse, for all you tough farmer-cowboys out there who take tale whips in the eye without flinching).

My hope is that Bianca is in heat, and that's the reason for the excessive attention and poor milk production. Otherwise. she maybe just had her let down, and stopped right in the middle of milking, and I missed it while I went to get Phil.

Phil continues to clear the fence line. Butch worked all day Sunday and cleared all the way to the creek. Phil is taking out trees that have grown up along the fence line for the last forty years, and then Butch will move them out of the way with his big equipment.

Sadly, Phil was trying to cut one down so it would fall away from its natural bent, and he got the chainsaw entirely stuck. A drive to Charlottesville for a new blade and a new bar, and he managed to fell the tree without killing himself. (This wasn't entirely a done deal: after he cut a second hinge point, higher on the tree, the tree still refused to fall. He cut part of the hinge, but the tree STILL didn't fall. He couldn't cut all the hinge, as the tree could behave in unpredictable, perhaps lethal ways, so he used the truck and some slings to pull it down, more or less where it should fall. Phew!)

He has between 10 and 50 more trees to down, depending on how clean he wants to make the fence line. And hundreds of feet of barbed wire to clean up. It's a big task.

Our really big news, though, is that, since we have found it impossible to find Berkshire piglets for sale, we went and met with Charlottesville's main Berkshire breeder. He's getting out of the business, and selling his farm.

We really liked it.

So our question now is: do we stay, or do we move? Twenty minutes away isn't too far ... but it is far. Far from our beautiful Esmont community, from Butch, the Bessettes, and all the Bushes; 20 minutes farther from church and community group. Twenty minutes deeper into the country—and that makes it COUNTRY, with dead cars, bathrobe-clad women, and Confederate flags.

On the other hand, to have a business with all the infrastructure in place, a doublewide trailer to live in, a mentor on-site to help ... that's appealing, too. (Can you imagine? ALL the infrastructure! All the expensive pieces we've been trying to locate for a year, that we have scratched our heads about how or when to buy.)

We wouldn't sell our little orchard, and might even choose to finish pigs in our woods. Maybe continue to rotate cows on the pasture. Plan to market fruit when the time comes.

But when would we find the time to work here on this, our Spring Forth Farm? With a large market garden, good-sized pig operation, and direct marketing to chefs and farmers markets, there wouldn't be much extra time to come and clear our lower pasture; not much time to prune the trees; not much time to watch the leaves change in our view.

And all I've read says that market gardening is really, really time-consuming. Is that in line with our goals of "the good life"?

On the other hand, is bleeding money each month, and having Phil fly back to Colorado for a week at a time periodically our idea of the good life?

We both feel that either option is a good option. So far, no real clarity one way or the other.

Please pray for us. The boys lately have been wishing for a house, for their books to get out of storage. I have been remembering the dishwasher and the washing machine (as Joe's potty training continues very slowly) with great nostalgia lately.

Overall, though, it's invigorating to consider the possibility, and gives me great excitement, whether we enthusiastically take on this new venture, or continue with what we're doing with renewed vigor and vim.

Big Machines

The last two days I have milked Bianca single handedly. Towards the end, she gets fidgety, and almost upsets my bucket, but the board in front of her hind legs prevents her from moving too quickly.

She gave a little over 10 pounds of milk today, too! More than a full pound more than she has before.

Saturday was a day of big machinery. While I spent hours gradually picking up the disaster that had become my house, Phil and Butch again worked all day on the fenceline: Butch with his bulldozer and excavator, and Phil with his chainsaw.

Phil was one tired man by the time evening came. He fell asleep over his dinner even! (But he might be getting sick. Isaiah wasn't feeling well this evening, poor guy.)

They have done an amazing amount of clearing. Starting from our road, Old Green Mountain Road, they have opened up a trail as far as I can see into the woods ...

and further on.

The most difficult section to date is the gully that runs across the fence line. Butch has filled in the gully a bit, but he (rightfully) hesitates to fill it in too much, lest it create an unwelcome pond on the neighbor's land.

For a section there, the fence line was lined with large pines. Phil would drop them, then buck them (cut them into sections), and Butch would push them away.

Abraham was happy to go see Butch's equipment and the new road.

At the same time, our hay-man Tyson came over to rip the neighbor's land. His tractor is absolutely enormous.

He said that the field was one rough ride, maybe the roughest he's ever driven. The rip would clog with the bushhogged downed trees, so he would have to stop and push them aside.

Some of the soil he could rip to 18 inches; some he could rip to only six. That's a pretty big difference in soil quality, or in the size of rocks right beneath the surface!

What a difference there is between the ripped soil and the weedy sod.

(Side note for you who pray: Tyson took time away from harvesting his corn and beans in order to rip, as a favor to us. If you could pray that he is not financially hurt in any way because of this favor, I would really appreciate it.)

Sunday, Tyson came over to finish ripping. Not normally a church goer himself, he wondered if we were okay with him working on Sunday. I told him that Jesus himself said that it is good to do good on the Sabbath, and I figured ripping was doing good.

By the time we returned from church, he had finished ripping, and begun discing (you can see the disc in the foreground: it looks like a bunch of plates in a row). The ripping is like taking a bunch of knives and cutting slices in the ground; the discing makes a smoother bed.

Sadly, the disc soon broke, and he finished up the day coming to the orchard and ripping a few of our tree rows. When we go to spread minerals this year, they should end up in the rows much more readily than last year.

This was a pretty delicate balance, since our rows are not much wider than the tractor. (We hadn't known anyone who could rip last year, and we weren't convinced it would be good. By next year, we figured the apple tree roots would be too spread out to be able to rip, but we seem to have read something that said this year, a year later, would still be okay. We hope we didn't just murder our orchard entirely. That would be a bummer.)

But, with some incredible driving (note how he's turned backwards, looking behind him while driving forward!), he managed to rip rows between trees. Amazing.

The fall colors continue to be stunning.

Jadon raced in on Friday and said, "I found a walking stick!" We had seen one once in Texas. What strange, large bugs they are!

Bianca Milking, Day 3: Success!

Phil and I woke 20 minutes late, despite going to bed at a reasonable time. Phil went to tie up Bianca, and she kicked at him and ran away. Not encouraging.

Happily, though, when Phil went to get some dried molasses for her, she walked right up to the gate, and let me clip her to the lead and pulled her into the headgate. I tied her to a T-post this time (she couldn't pull the whole fence over on herself and me), Phil put a board in front of her hind legs, and she stood still, licking up molasses the whole time I milked.

Two quarters were noticeably more full (the two with the larger teats, actually). The other two quarters appeared to be absolutely empty, so I tried massaging her again with warm water, and then I was able to milk her.

She was peaceful; I was comfortable, on my little stool, head on her flank, not pressing my head really hard to prevent her from kicking. The board worked well. It was the way milking should be.

And it was 8 pounds, 14 ounces! Almost three full pounds more than yesterday. It filled two half-gallon jars, and another little jar. So much better emotionally.

Phil and Butch started to clear the fence line along the next door property. It's wooded the whole 1300 feet, so Phil took the chainsaw and cut down many of the larger trees, while Butch came with his claw on the mini-excavator, and the bulldozer to make a path for the equipment, and to knock down the stumps that Phil left.

They made good progress after a full day of heavy labor, perhaps finishing one-third of the route.

Towards the end of the day, they came across on old dump. The junk is mostly just past the boundary line, not on the neighbor's land. Phil figured it was probably the farm dump, back before the land was subdivided. White-walled tires, an old refrigerator and window A/C unit, chairs of a '60s vintage, glass bottles, plastic bottles, metal barrels.

It was a sobering place, to see what, really, all our land should look like, were it not for landfills.

And it was sobering to ponder how we would clean it up (not that we need to, as it's not on the land we manage). How do you get rid of dozens of old tires? Hundreds of old jars?

Phil's big issue was the 700 feet or so of rusty barbed wire, stretched on "our" side of the boundary. How to clean it up? Butch said to cut it into lengths, and then dispose of it somehow.

For myself, several of the boys had a rough day. Jadon was on the highest bunk, about five feet off the ground, and fell on his head. The thud was so loud, and the delay so long, I was just about to comment that I was thankful that no one got hurt. But then Jadon started to sob.

Not a good sign when there's a delay like that. Maybe he passed out for a bit? Arnica for trauma, and a restful afternoon helped him out.

Then another boy pulled the metal shelving off the dresser, the shelving that stores the boys' toys, puzzles, and games. Great was the fall thereof. Both the sound of the crash, and the conk on Isaiah's head. More Arnica for trauma, and then a grumpy momma and intentionally cheerful, helpful children cleaned up the amazing mess.

There are times the size of our dwelling seems really, really small. Or maybe we just have too much stuff.

One day at a time, and more than a gallon of milk, so the day wasn't all bad.

The Bianca Milking: Day Two

After researching yesterday, I found that I needed to "enter my cows' emotional state" and be more relaxed and happy when milking, that I should massage her udder with warm water to encourage let down, and that I could hobble her leg if needed.

All things I faithfully carried out this morning. It still took an hour. Phil hobbled her, but then had to stand on the headgate, because at one point she lunged, and pulled the whole thing off the ground. So I was on the bottom on the stool, had the cow pressing on me, and the gate pressing on her. (It wasn't imminent death or anything, more like lots of pressure in a crowded space.)

When she wasn't dancing, backing, or kicking, she milked out very easily and nicely. My clothes stayed relatively clean, despite a drizzle falling, and a rainfall in the night. I didn't cry once, and remained cheerful throughout.

Only one problem. After 24 hours, she gave 6 pounds of milk. Three-quarters of a gallon. About as much as a mediocre goat.

And this may be her peak flow!?

How depressing!

It is extremely rich and good, though, and we polished off all six pounds today without difficulty.

In other news, the captured chickens remain penned (glory be!), and they showed their hand this morning, when we gathered five eggs from their pen. All previous days we've gathered two or three, but now we know what they are capable of producing, and we know that those chickens are slacking off!

They better watch out, because otherwise: processing time comes soon.

We tried to train Beatrice to a halter. She's probably well over 100 pounds at this point, and quite strong, but we managed to capture her and put the calf halter on. It was still too big, and she was quite stubborn. After playing tug-of-war for some time, I finally tied her to the fence, and let her pull against that. (I'm already sore from the milking!)

Sadly, after what felt like a ridiculous amount of time spent in needless stubbornness, she managed to worm her way out of the halter (it was too big for her).

I know that Milking Devons are brilliant, and that they remember everything, and that, even more than children, you don't ever want them to win an argument. So this is quite distressing.

Phil brought the chicken litter from their cattle-trailer pen up to the area for the new garlic bed. He also brought up some of the compost. You can see the normal red Virginia clay, the white wood chip/chicken litter, and the black compost from our dry lot last year.

Phil realized that the compost was rather mucky, without good tilth, so he's spent some time turning it. By hand.

Bianca: Not Yet an Easy Milker

Instead of sleeping and reading the Bible, my hour from 7am to 8am was spent doing something much less pleasant.

Buoyed by the easy milking of Bethany last week, I set out at 7am, hopeful that I could manage milking her on my own, but I had Phil come, just in case.

Bianca had passed a rough night, lowing for her baby across the fence periodically.

She allowed me to lead her and tie her, but she began to dance around as soon as I began to milk her. Phil adjusted her tie; she danced some more. And pooped. A lot.

Phil went to get more molasses to appease her, and I tried to milk in his absence. She knocked me over on my side. We moved her into a head gate; she refused to allow me to sit on her right side. Trying to milk from the left, she continued to dance. Milk spilled all over my jeans.

It helped us persevere that we knew that she had to be milked out, lest mastitis strike.

But after I knelt in some older dung, then had fresh dung pooped on me, I stripped off my soggy, filthy jeans (so clean only a few minutes before), and milked in my underwear.

A few tears, a few silent screams, some sore muscles from pushing her, and tugging stubborn legs into place. . . . It can only get better, I suppose.

After we took a breather, and I tried to project calm, happy thoughts, she allowed me to milk her, though as I examined the milk later in the day, I think she withheld all the rich hindmilk (the cream). The rascal.

And to add insult to injury, after I was done, I went to hang the pail on a T-post, to prevent her from knocking it over while I massaged salve on her teats. I poured almost half the milk onto me. I couldn't believe it.

Both of us, working hard for an hour, managed to produce 6 cups of milk.

And we're not sure what to do differently tomorrow, to have a better experience.

Nurse Cow and Babies

A year ago today, we got an offer on our Boulder house, thus ending the nightmare stress of the first few months after we moved. What a great relief that was!

Today was a great day. The Indian Summer has continued, with glorious weather in the 80s, and cool nights in the 40s. The fall leaves sift down on the pigs and the trailers, and the colors around the clearing grow more vibrant daily. Truly, the most perfect weather imaginable.

Phil somehow managed to maneuver a round bale all by himself into the new paddock for the nurse cow and calves. We never did come to a good conclusion about which cow should be the nurse cow, so we finally flipped a coin (hey—there's biblical precedent in Proverbs 16:33: "The lot is cast into the lap; but the whole disposing thereof is of the LORD").

Bethany won the coin toss, so she'll be the nurse cow. I like that choice. Although I loved milking her those two days, since she just stood calmly and peaceably, I think both calves gravitate to her, and I noticed they had no difficulty nursing, even both at once.

Both babies are resting and hiding in the sparse grass. We watched them nibble at the greens, which is very sweet: they're learning to be good cows.

Tomorrow morning, we'll start once-a-day milking for Bianca. Although big dairies even do three-times-a-day milking now, for most grass-fed cows, they don't produce a whole lot, and once-a-day milking is enough. There is about a 15% reduction in quantity, but that is mostly water. The solids are the same.

For half the labor, to get 15% less (not to mention being free in the evenings), I think it's a good trade.

To get Bethany and calves separated was an experience in itself. Phil put Bethany on a leader and walked her calmly over. Belle is, perhaps, feeling a bit under the weather. He carried her most of the way before she scampered off.

That little Beatrice, though—she's a firecracker! She would not be guided or corralled into the proper pen! She would hop the water trough, dance through tight openings, charge around the chicken's electric netting, anything!

Meanwhile the other cows noticed the sparse greenery, and especially the stripped cornstalks, so they all walked through to Bethany and Belle. Even Bianca, and then Beatrice. And one sheep.

The sheep was easily manhandled back. Phil tugged Bianca back, and then we used the polywire to guide the remaining three cows back to the appropriate corral. Just as the three cows went back where they should go, two more sheep squeezed to the wrong side. Phil, crouching, with Isaiah at his side, cornered them, and at last: all animals in their proper pens! And, hopefully, milk tomorrow!

We moved the chickens today, and none got out. Phil worked on a more permanent roof (rather than just sheet metal laid on top). Part of the roof is chicken netting wrapped around a wooden frame. I love that we can pour water into their waterer just through the top! So awesome!

And the cow feeder is so wonderful, I made Phil make a new one for Bethany and babies. We were getting 2.5 or 3 days per bale. Now, we're at the end of day 4, and think we have another day to go. What a money saver! (You can see that it looks like about a third of the hay is left in the feeder!)

Continued Progress, and Open Pollinated Corn

When we moved the chickens first thing this morning, seven feral chickens escaped. Argh! We were all looking forward to a day without any barn visitors. Bah! Oh, well. Tomorrow we will try a new method of pen movement, without lifting one side up with a dolly.

I spent some time last week rearranging clothes for the changing seasons. I have to do that for five people, and started to clean out the toys area, and the toys in the motor home. And I woke this morning to find a house that does not have a place for everything. I fear I fall a bit further behind in the "possessions over-running life" category every day.

Jadon began to dig a hole a few days ago.

It has grown, so that he can fit himself into it (like a contortionist, but still!).

Today the boys spent quite some time transporting all their trucks and Little People from the well tailings to their new pen. It is right behind our house, next to the pig pen. I wonder what the pigs think!

Phil spent much of the day putting together the tow package for the mill. He's sawn all the logs up in this section of land, and we want to use the paddock where the sawmill has been set up. After we talked about it, we figured it would be good to put the nurse cow and the two babies there.

Yet another task that only needs to be done once, but sure took a while. Every day, though, we are a little more established here, and from now on, he can tow the mill easily and quickly where it needs to go.

As he worked on the tow package, he noticed bees flying about the ubiquitous white weeds. They sure look like my Buckfast bees. I wonder where the Queen moved, and I hope they continue to thrive in their home.

Phil hit on a good solution for the bucks: he put them out of the electric netting. They cannot impregnate the sheep, are eating the broadleaf weeds we don't want, and are gradually working through rutting season so their meat will again be more palatable.

(When we were children, my Mom would say, "Bucky, bucky, poo!" when we did something particularly gross. A blowout diaper, for example. I wonder now: was that a cultural Dutch expression? Or was that a throwback to her mother? My grandmother, and all her eight siblings, would get a kid each year, raise it, and sell it to pay for school books. They must have experienced the less pleasant aspects of goats—perhaps she started to say that? I know I am!)

My task, to prepare for the arrival of the cows, was to harvest the corn growing in one corner of the paddock. There isn't much: the planting date in May or June (or was it the 4th of July?!) meant that I wasn't expecting much. And I didn't water the patch at all: any growth was simply from nature. The yield wasn't great, but enough that I think it could upset the cow's rumen. And I want to eat it, anyway.

I planted a heritage (older than 50 years), open pollinated variety.

"Open pollinated" varieties of vegetables "breed true," which means their seed will be identical to the parent. You can use it year after year. "Hybrid" varieties do not breed true (they are produced, my Eco-Farm primer tells me, through forced inbreeding). With hybrids, use the purchased seeds to grow a crop, then discard any seeds from the crop, since the offspring will not be at all similar.

Eco-Farm also informs me that "OP [open pollinated] corn could contain an average of over 400 percent more of these nutrients [calcium, sodium, magnesium, zinc, copper, iron, manganese]." We heard similar information at a marvelous lecture by William Woys Weaver: it took 2.5 pounds of conventional tomatoes to equal the nutrients in one pound of his heirloom tomatoes.

My sister mentioned yesterday that, though she's allergic to raw tomatoes (even organic), she's able to eat the heirloom varieties she's growing in her garden.

Why would anyone bother with hybrids? Hybrid varieties usually offer greater yield potential, and often greater pest resistance. They store well, ship well, and suit modern growing/grocery/transportation needs. They generally are short on flavor, short on nutrients, and, at least for my sister, less palatable.

So if you want an heirloom, you'll either need to shop at a small farm or farmer's market, or grow it yourself. Modern groceries don't carry heirlooms.