The Wheat and the Tares

"The kingdom of heaven may be compared to a man who sowed good seed in his field, but while his men were sleeping, his enemy came and sowed weeds among the wheat and went away. So when the plants came up and bore grain, then the weeds appeared also. And the servants of the master of the house came and said to him, ‘Master, did you not sow good seed in your field? How then does it have weeds?’ He said to them, ‘An enemy has done this.’ So the servants said to him, ‘Then do you want us to go and gather them?’ But he said, ‘No, lest in gathering the weeds you root up the wheat along with them. Let both grow together until the harvest, and at harvest time I will tell the reapers, Gather the weeds first and bind them in bundles to be burned, but gather the wheat into my barn.’"

This parable, from Matthew 13, makes some more sense to us now. Our spelt grew tall, but the weeds grew taller. We should have harvested it several weeks ago, I think. Phil went to scythe it down (the usual method of harvest), and the heads shattered, or split open, so that none was left on the stalks.

Next he tried to machete it down, handful by handful. But this wasn't great. He tried to cut the stalks with a knife, but that was very slow. Next he tried harvesting by hand.

In the end, I put on gloves and stripped the stalks, with the grains dumped into a 5-gallon bucket. I didn't try to get it all. Phil came behind with the scythe, so that while I captured much of the grain, he cut down the weedy growth.

I'm thankful we don't have to rely on our harvest for all our bread for the next year. I mean, it was a fine harvest, but it wouldn't feed us all, even if we could extract the kernels easily from the husks.

I'm thankful that we didn't have a large area to harvest. And it worked pretty well: in an hour or two, we found 16 hidden eggs, have a couple of feedbags of unhusked spelt, and our hillside is covered with a thick layer of mulch.

We were thrilled with the incredible clover we found growing happily under our spelt. (A few sections had wild roses instead of clover; roses are not good for animals.) Another reason to be happy for the pigs plowing last year: they did a good job fertilizing the land.

Phil noticed today that the top two rows of trees, the ones that we planted into enormous holes with extra minerals have shot ahead of our other trees. They are doing really well. He said, "We should have planted them all like that!" I don't know if I would have survived.

We can't be sure, though, that the planting method was the main benefit. Those trees are meant to be precocious, so they will produce early. He shoveled about 500 pounds or so of minerals onto the base of about 50 trees; a good start to the extra minerals we want to spread on all our orchard. It's been on my "to do" list for some time, but Phil caught the vision.

To join our broody barn hen (above), I added a dozen eggs under the original broody hen (below).

We thought she was crazy; she would lay an egg every day on the empty tote from our minerals. One day, she just started to hang out all the time on the tote, but never laid an egg. We were actually a little upset with her, the slacker! But now that we have a better understanding of what's going on, maybe she'll produce some chicks for us. We're making sure she has food and water nearby. I suspect she's getting hungry.

The trauma of the day happened early this morning. Even though the pigs don't leave the electric net outside their pen, we'd really prefer that they stay in their cattle panel pen. I went to help drive the two piglets back into the cattle panels. The electric fence was off, when Princess Buttercup went a little too close and caught her ear tag in the netting. She immediately started screaming, which is one of the world's worst sounds. I couldn't get her untangled, and the more she pulled, the worse her ear felt. I grabbed her back legs, and then one got caught in the fence, which pulled her poor ear even worse.

I was shaking by the time Phil got to me (probably only a few seconds later, really) and untangled her foot and her ear, and put her into the pen.

Isaiah and Abraham helped me pull some more garlic. We had a good time trying to see who would pull the largest head.

I weighed my elephant garlic today, and I harvested 4 lb, 6 oz from the original pound. The catalog says that the garlic should yield 8 to 1 under good conditions. With just over half that "expected" yield, I suppose I have plenty of room for improvement. But how great to have a crop at all!

Tom the pig breeder told us about some of the predator issues he's had to deal with. We left his farm yesterday filled with incredible awe at the very gracious protection the Lord has placed over our farm this first year. We are thankful for the chickens yet alive; for the chicks who survived their gestation and first day; for the lack of vicious dogs who would run our sheep to death; for only minor damage from deer.

Thank you, brothers and sisters, for your prayers on our behalf. We don't always realize the Lord's protection against destruction, but it is present, and we are thankful.

Berkshire Baby Buttercup

By the time we reached home after our day of errands, our van could not hold another thing. We left with six Lykoshes and a dog. We bought 300 pounds of feed at the feed store, and some cheese and fruit (and the last window unit A/C!) at Costco, and picked up three piglets, too.

What a good time! We spent about two hours talking to breeder Tom. He left DC about two years ago to start a small farm. He's settled on pigs as a favorite money-making opportunity, and it makes sense. As he said: "I can make $500 on a pig, or I can sell a piglet for $150. The economics are in favor of raising piglets."

That's what I've heard, too. Other than raw milk dairying, raising piglets is the most profitable enterprise.

So we bought a purebred Berkshire gilt (baby girl pig) that we plan to bring back to Tom in the fall so she can be bred with his new Berkshire boar. Berkshire meat is the "Kobe beef" of the porcine world; it wins taste tests because of more intramuscular fat than other pigs (more tender and juicy).

We bought two barrows (castrated boy pigs), too, and we hope to process them this fall (if we could avoid feeding through the winter again, I'd be really happy). One is a full-blood Berkshire, and one is a cross, so someday we'll do a taste test and see if Berkshire meat is actually better.

After we got home, we decided we wanted a more secure pen for the pigs than the cattle-panels we'd set up. So Phil scythed more of the amazing growth, and we set up poultry netting outside the pen.

This was prudent. Before the night was out, two piglets had escaped the cattle panels, but they didn't get any further. What a difference than the first time, with such horrific escapes! (Below, though, you can see that they weren't eager to leave their safe pen at first.)

And Phil was thrilled: as he was scything, he was amazed to find a dense stand of clover growing below the tall weeds. We think maybe the pig tillage last year improved the soil, and we are so pleased to have more of them.

They are smaller than our previous pigs: the bucket next to the three of them is the bottom half of a standard 5-gallon bucket. They are little!

And so cute. Because this is still a "B" year, our girl is "Buttercup."


Isaiah wanted the darker piglet with white feet to be "Socks," so we named the other "Fox," in honor of Dr. Seuss. Below you can see Fox.

In other news, on Michelle Bessette's suggestion, we put ten eggs under a broody hen, who has been hanging out in our barn. We didn't realize she was broody, so we took all her eggs, and she has been nesting, forlornly, on gravel alone. Maybe she will adopt these new eggs, laid today, and raise some chicks. That would be fun!

Corn Planting

My handy guide to planting claims that, based on the standard first frost here, I can plant corn for the next week. Now that the chickens are out of the animal paddock, and most of the manure is pushed up and composting, I wanted to try planting some of the dent corn I bought, but our ground is so hard, I wasn't sure how to get it in the ground.

One book recommended a jab planter, so I took one of the fence poles with a good point on the end and jabbed that into the ground, then poked the seed into the hole. This took much longer than planting with a jab planter, that would jab and release the seed all in one (upright) position, but I was pleased to get some seeds in the ground.

Overall, it was a frustrating experience, though. I wanted to plant on the contour, which means all the seeds in any given row are on the same elevation. This helps prevent water runoff. The problem was, as I bent over to plant, I would lose the contour. Rows that were supposed to be three feet apart would sometimes overlap! Oops.

I also tried to cover the seeds with agricultural cloth, to make sure the chickens don't scratch and eat all the seed. But I'm not sure I'm done planting corn, so I didn't want to cut the cloth. Later in the day we had a rain storm, so perhaps my cloth will now be moldy. Argh!

I was pleased to do that planting in the morning, before the heat of the day rose, but it meant we had a very late breakfast, and I was grumpy. I'm not sure how to balance the "outdoors while cool" with the "family must eat" dueling responsibilities.

Add to that conundrum, what is truly most important. Maybe I need to spread more minerals so my orchard will grow more quickly. I noticed today that several cherries are under extreme insect pressure. I had no idea. They need some help, and soon. That probably should be a higher priority than planting more corn, but it is so hard to have a "plowed, tilled" field (our former paddock) sitting open, not growing anything.

Phil ran some errands today. With about ten days until Fern's hopeful breeding, we want her to get used to the headgate (the small containment area where she hopefully cannot kick the technician), and the pelletized alfalfa treat (our newest attempt; since we don't want to do grain, and she was really uninterested in the molasses, I'm hoping pelletized alfalfa will be the reward that she enjoys).

Fifteen Chicks

Phil and I ended up getting the hen and chicks after dark yesterday night, and brought them into the trailer.

First thing this morning, I brought the hen and babies outside to their temporary pen.

Isaiah eagerly helped me move the hen and babies: nine yellows, and six whites.

I'll be interested to see whether their coloring is sex-linked. Maybe we'll have a good many roosters to eat in a couple of months.

After church, we headed to the homestead. After a few days of heat-reprieve, the temperature was again pushing 100, and the A/C in the motor home quit working. We all started to sweat, just sitting still, so we headed to the creek for some cooling off. (The hike up the hill afterwards usually eliminates most of the benefit of the cool water, but it's peaceful and beautiful down in the creek.)

Joe, at one point, almost dove into the water, and flailed his arms for a few seconds until Phil grabbed him. Crazy child came up grinning. He is a rascal!

Glimpses of Our Day and Week

Phil and Abraham headed down to the "lower pasture," as we call the unclaimed land down near Hog Creek, that bisects our land. Phil took his machete and a tape measure; he wanted to see if the fencing we have currently would be sufficient to enclose the four acres down there, so we can start the cows grazing in the woods and brush.

Abraham loved trying his hand with the machete, almost as tall as he is. He held the tape measure for Phil, and returned, dripping with sweat and thrilled to have helped.

Later in the day, Phil followed where the sheep had been and scythed down the lignified stems of the weeds the sheep ate.

He tries to do that regularly. He also cut a small patch of weeds, sprung up in the last few weeks since the sheep grazed, and found that, beneath the weeds, some good grass growing.

But what to do about the ridiculously tall weeds in the stone fruit orchard?

We think it might be time to get pigs again. Not today, not tomorrow, but soon. They could plow down the growth, and eat the spelt ready for harvest. And by the time they're ready to process, I'm pretty sure our freezer will be empty. Good!

And here are some recent photos.

First, the back side of our beautiful Bethany, the cow we think was born in 2003. She's flicking flies; note her beautifully shiny coat. Marvelous.


And here is our beautiful Fern, two years old and ready for breeding. You can pray with me that she will be successfully artificially inseminated on the first try, which should happen around July 8. We are a little concerned about how to pen her enough that she won't injure herself or the technician; there's plenty to consider around that event.


A week ago, this was what I saw right near the living area.

Now the cows are almost all the way down the slope again. With once or twice a day moves, they get through the area quickly.

Ten of my twelve heads of elephant garlic. Look how large they are! (Elephant garlic isn't actually garlic. It's related to leeks!)


My cold frame. When I watered my still-diminishing seedlings today, I noticed a grasshopper sitting very still inside. Hmm. I can guess where my seedlings are going.


Happy Full Moon!

A Cheep Surprise

As we waved goodbye to Doug Bush, who'd dropped in for a visit, Phil heard an unexpected sound. Tiny cheeps from our parking area at the top of the driveway. He looked around and, unbelievably, saw a couple little chicks.

They look just like Strangey the Rooster looked when he first arrived, and one of our Rhode Island Red hens was hovering, broody, over those babies.

We saw two chicks at first, then three. What should we do with this unexpected blessing? Hens today, born in hatcheries after generations of artificial insemination, rarely go broody anymore. I have entire books on raising poultry that don't mention broody hens.

Well, praise the Lord for Carla Emery. HerEncyclopedia of Country Living covers everything imaginable. Here's what I learned.

Hens that go broody lay eggs for ten to 14 days in a secluded spot. Then they sit on their eggs for 21 days, getting up only once a day to drink water and eat some food. On the 21st day, the eggs hatch.

Incredibly, today was the 21st day! Those babies Phil spotted were only hours old. As we went up to see the chicks again, we saw a wet head peek out from under the mother: another baby, so newly hatched!

I could hardly tear myself away. I wanted to watch these little babes, with their yellow-and-black or white-and-black markings. I wanted to hold the balls of fluff, but I resisted.

The book said that, once the babies are hatched, move the mother and babes into a prepared area, about 4'x4', with food and water. We made a shelter out of hay bales and chicken wire, but as we grabbed two tiny chicks (so soft! so tiny!), Phil went to grab the hen, too, and she pecked viciously. Understandable. But as Phil distracted her with a twig, he lifted her a bit and saw more eggs, unhatched. We'll try again tomorrow.

The mother hen hovers over her babies. They can run under her wings, which she holds, a bit outstretched, over all eggs and chicks. She tears out some of her breast feathers in order to have better skin to egg contact, to warm the chicks better. And, she protects her babies quite well from intruders.

He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. . . . He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust.

For now, we bask in the sight of the nine balls of fluff. And I enjoy anew one of my favorite poems. (It's worth it to really read it.)


"God's Grandeur," by Gerard Manley Hopkins

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

Re-Entry

It's not easy to get back into the swing of things, even after a short absence. I felt for Phil, as I would catch him periodically staring into space.

We're not sure what to do about the sheep and the orchard. The first section of apple orchard we grazed has grown back astonishingly quickly. Some of the weeds are about 18" high, and ready to be grazed again. The rest of the apple orchard is bare, or almost bare: no more than a half inch for most.

On the other side of the driveway, the stone fruit orchard has some very tall sections of weeds, some as high as six feet. The sheep won't have an easy time grazing that. So maybe we should cut it.

On the other hand, if we cut it, we are coming into the hottest part of the year. If it's all cut and won't grow back, will we have to buy in feed?

We have so little experience, and have read reports on both sides of the issue, we're conflicted. So, for today, we do nothing.

The last two days I have tried to take the empty comb from the beehives. Yesterday I was astonished to see a marked queen bee in the Queen Esther hive. Probably the Queen of Sheba relocated next door.

Today I saw that many of the capped worker cells in the Queen of Sheba hive were now empty. Some of the comb had been demolished. Already! What could have eaten great chunks of wax in the last few days? I have no idea.

Phil and I moved the chicken pen into the recently-grazed pasture area. We put up netting and clipped the wings of the chickens. They are still flying out. Oh, well. Maybe they won't all fly out.

I don't know what's wrong with my cabbage seedlings. It seems to me that I had many more growing earlier this week than I do now. My hopes of a quarter acre of beautiful cabbage appears to be shrinking. Now I may have a bed or two of cabbage.

I've had very mixed success with gardening in general. Considering that seeds are programmed to grow, I am surprised that so few flowers came up (a few marigolds are all that's in bloom now). No watermelon seeds poke out of the ground; no tromboncino squash along the fenceline.

I am thankful for the things that do well, but do feel mystified by the hit-or-miss nature of growing.

Our Tenth Anniversary

For our tenth anniversary, Phil flew home. He'd been working in Colorado since Sunday night, and I was relieved not to have to move all the animals, set all the fence, and take care of my normal tasks, too.

I ended up taking a random route up to the airport; it turned out to be providential. A freak storm hit Charlottesville that afternoon, after record high 100 degree temperatures. We had a little rain in Esmont, but Charlottesville had trees torn in half and branches scattered all over. Phil's flight was delayed out of D.C., and we were all so excited to see him and eat at Chipotle.

But Chipotle was closed; traffic was directed and redirected all around the city, so what should have been a quick hour took two. When we finally reached home, all starving, I reflected that I managed not to lose my cool, despite almost hypoglycemic hunger pains. That's what ten years of maturity will do for a woman. Yay!

Earlier in the day, the boys and I had gone to see a worm expert. Jim Ashley, the worm crusader, gave a presentation at a senior center. Very interesting! A master marketer, he gives presentations in schools, and the students all get a bag of worms. They add their lunch scraps, and the worms reproduce, and all have a good time. He's been doing this for four years; make a business selling worms. Wow.

Some of the interesting worm facts:
* Forty percent of waste in America could be composted by worms, and turned into excellent (EXCELLENT!) compost for the garden. Cardboard, shredded paper, vegan food scraps; all are good.
* Worms reproduce in a very interesting way. All worms are both male and female. When two are eating near each other, they get a little excited and they both put off a gelatinous fluid. They intertwine, and as they slide past, the fluid mingles and will form multiple eggs. Each worm can produce up to 18 eggs a week, so their reproductive rates are quite impressive.
* Compost tea made with worm castings (where you soak castings in water until it looks like tea) is an excellent insect repellant for plants. The tea coats the leaves and makes them less appealing to bugs. And the extra compost tea soaks into the ground and gives the plant good nutrients.

All of this made me quite excited to start vermi-composting. I have seen, at times, Phil turn over a layer of the compost pile and have it crawling with worms. But perhaps our pile is too hot right now; there was nary a worm to be found. My vermicompost pile will have to wait.

But maybe someday I could have the most unique farmer's market stand around: buy some apples and some worms! Ha!

Goodbye, Queen of Sheba (again)

As I watered my garden this evening, I noticed the first peanuts popping through the soil. For some reason, I wasn't expecting the peanut part to come up, but there they were, with their little split skins, pushing to the light.

I still have my least favorite garlic in the ground, the Persian Star I planted as an afterthought. It's not bad garlic—actually quite tasty, almost sweet—but it had smaller cloves than the other hardnecks I planted, and the cloves did not want to separate from their heads, which made planting a challenge. I pull a few more bulbs every day, but they seem pathetically small to me, and although about half are wilting in the sixth leaf down from the top (the preferred method for guaranteeing they are ready, but not over ready), I think I'll leave them longer. I have nothing new to put in their beds, anyway, so I'm not in a hurry.

After I moved the sheep, I figured I should check on my bees. I haven't peeked at them since Monday, and I have enjoyed the 48 hour respite from the constant care they had apparently needed. All was ominously quiet, and so I wasn't terribly surprised when I looked underneath the Queen of Sheba hive to find absolutely no one home.

Feeling reckless, I opened the Queen Esther hive, too. A few bees yet live, and the queen cell had a dark spot, which makes me wonder if a new queen will soon emerge. Even should she be healthy at emergence, there are not enough bees to support her through the next six to nine weeks, until her babies would hatch. There's a strange mix of excitement and sorrow: the queen is coming! The queen is doomed.

I packed away my bee veil for the year. I took my waterproof clothes (slightly shredded by the beehives' metal roofs, drat!) and returned them to their proper drawer.

The end of my bee adventure, at least for this year. I confess I felt a rising elation as the afternoon wore on: I don't have to feed these bees this fall. I don't have to worry about whether they will starve over the winter. I don't need to figure out how to retrofit their hive with a mouse guard or a bottom insulating board, so they'll be warm in winter (which would be especially a challenge with living bees still ensconced.

I would like to know why the Queen of Sheba departed. I probably should have left her alone on Monday, rather than trying, for the second day in a row, to donate more comb, or to make sure she was laying appropriately. I did notice a wasp fly in as I was closing the lid. Did a single wasp scare her away? Was she bitter that the easy sugar water feedings diminished? Or irritated that I opened the lid again?

Whatever her reason, she left her brood, some with abortive hatchings, with eyes and antennae sticking out, and no energy or support to come out the rest of the way.

I've spent a little more time than usual with our beautiful cows. Because we move them once or twice a day, they grow more tame all the time, and I can pat their backs and scratch their tale-tops.

I have wondered how to entice them to come to me. Most people use a little grain, but I have read that even a smidgen will destroy the Conjugated Linoleic Acid (CLA) for a month or more. And since CLA is the most potent cancer-fighting food (more than all the other famed antioxidants in the news these days: more than blueberries, acai, mangosteen, pomegranate; this according to a lecture by Jerry Brunetti), I am hyper-vigilant about keeping my cows from grain.

But without grain, how to entice them? I read the answer yesterday: molasses. I realized about a year ago that not all molasses comes in small jars for baking. Agricultural molasses comes in flakes, in 50 pound sacks. We have some, but I wasn't quite sure how to go about enticing a 1000 pound animal, nor what to do with the animal once I enticed it, so I will try that another day.

A final note, completely unrelated to anything on the farm. Really only for the females reading this. Ladies, if you are still using disposable feminine products, you should consider other options. I have heard from numerous women that once they stop the disposables, with their weird chemicals (on such a delicate part of the anatomy, too!), all monthly cramping stops, and even the flow diminishes. You can find sources online for cloth pads, and, my personal preference, the Diva cup. Save money, support the environment, and soothe your body. And enough about that.

Our Cows' Registration Comes!

As we drove up to Charlottesville to visit a friend, the boys and I unexpectedly ended up behind a crew mowing the side of the road. Only one problem: they took up the entire lane of our road, with a double yellow as far as the eye could see. Nothing like a stint at 5 mph to make me reflect on the frustrations of country living. Except that rush hour happens in the city. Perhaps there is no sure way to avoid the scourge of irritating traffic, short of staying home.

Back on the home front, our cow registrations finally reached us. We knew the lineage of the three from Vermont, but I was tickled to see that one heifer had her first birthday on Saturday, and the other has her first birthday tomorrow. Happy Birthday, Toots and Babe!

Our Tennessee cows were a complete mystery to us. We knew they were registered, that they have had no troubles giving birth, and that they were a decade or less in age, but other than that, they were unknown.

Humorously, they are registered by their tattoo number. But the tattoos are in their ears, and very difficult to see, so I'm not certain even now which cow is which. I suspect, based on appearance, that Bethany is the "old lady" of the group, at the ripe old age of seven. Because Milking Devons mature later than most, she's just about fully mature now. We're her third owners.

The other cow (our Bianca) will turn five in August. Her father, I was tickled to find, is Colonial Williamsburg Valentino, a top bull, born in 1992. His semen straws are sold out. But I have one of his daughters on my farm! We're her fourth owners.

In other news, to add to my growing list of accomplishments, I can now say that I can set up sheep netting in parched ground, on my own. It took a long time, and I even brought over the watering can to loosen the soil, but I managed to get the next three sheep paddocks set up.

Isaiah had an interesting experience yesterday. He helpfully picked up a lid I had dropped, not realizing that the cast iron still retained heat. I had heard that burns can heal with additional heat—the opposite of what you'd expect. Isaiah quickly flicked his sore fingertips against the hot lid, and after two or three flicks, his fingertips were completely fine. So, if you find yourself with a little burn, try a little heat. It should help.

And I've been meaning to mention that I saw a new marketing method at Whole Foods. Their conventionally-grown cherries (which I didn't buy because cherries are one of the "dirty dozen" of pesticide-laden fruit) had, on the sign, "brix 20!" So the idea of brix (pronounced "bricks") levels is going mainstream. I wouldn't have expected it so soon. (Brix measures the total dissolved solids in a food; the higher the number, the more sugars and the more nutrients. Better quality food tastes better!)

A MIRACLE and Bountiful Garlic

This morning Phil said, "I left the water running in Zone 1!"

Bad news. Because the well had been watering 80 trees for 17 hours or so, our well should, by all rights, have been totally dry. It should have run dry after the first 800 gallons, five hours into the marathon watering session, around the time we returned from Bible study last night.

Miraculously, though, although the water pressure was much diminished, our pump was not dry. Our well not ruined. We had water enough for this scorching day.

I thought of the verse that says that the Israelites wandered 40 years, but their garments did not wear out and their shoes did not get holes. The gracious provision of a loving heavenly Father. (Is our well really more than a gallon-a-minute well? Maybe. But I'm not interested in testing it again!)

As I read more about queenless colonies, I think my poor Queen Esther colony was queenless for much longer than I realized, maybe even back to the first week I got her. The capped queen cell won't be able to do much, I'm afraid, but I opened the hive again today to see if the new queen had emerged. Nope.

Interestingly, I put a feeder into the Queen of Sheba hive; just a pint of sugar water. When I opened the hive today, the bees had consumed almost none of it. All those hundreds of pounds of sugar, eaten by the doomed Queen Esther colony. Unbelievable.

In more cheering news, I pulled the rest of the softneck garlic, and both the Elephant and Music hardneck garlics. What a beautiful harvest! I planted, I think, one and a half pounds of elephant garlic, which was only 12 cloves. Today I pulled up 12 large heads. Yes, every one of them grew!

I planted 40 bulbs of the Music garlic, which was a pound. Those didn't have a 100% germination rate, but I still pulled 32 heads (four were quite small). So wonderful!

The little cabbage seedlings are doing okay. I have screened windows over them, and I think all the sprouts are where the screens are; the windows are cooking the seedlings a bit too much, I think. Oh, well. There's nothing I can do this time, but I'll do better next time. (I also think I should have watered the seedlings more often than once a day. That would have improved their germination, too, I bet.)

What a lot we've learned; what a lot we have yet to learn!

Goodbye, Queen Esther

Phil and I set up the sheep pens first thing this morning. It wasn’t until we actually reached church that we realized that we hadn’t opened the pen for the sheep, so they couldn’t access the new paddock we’d set up for them. We had planned to stay in town after church, but realized we’d have to go home.

This worked out well. We had about three hours at home before we headed back to Bible study. We all shared ice cream again, and Phil read to the boys and looked at the passage for Bible study.

I had decided, when I fed the bees this morning and noticed that the entire area was covered with yellow jackets, that I was done feeding bees. After over 200 pounds of sugar consumed in the last three weeks, I am ready to be done, especially if I’m just throwing good money after bad.

I went out to check the hives for the first time, really, since they arrived. I dressed in my water-proof pants and jacket, with the bee helmet on top. It was hot, but I felt more calm, because any bees that flew to my face couldn’t actually sting me. And I didn’t have little creepy crawls up my legs or pants.

The Queen of Sheba hive appeared in good health, though small. I saw the blue-dotted queen, and watched her for a few seconds as she crawled over some comb. I could distinguish what I was seeing: some cells with tiny pupae, some with little worm-like bodies, and many cells that had bees metamorphosizing. The female workers have flat covers, and the male workers have rounded caps, because they are larger. All very beautiful to see.

Then I opened the Queen Esther hive. I was surprised, first, to find almost no clear nectar, to feed the bee eggs. Last time I opened the hive, when I was stung in the face because I didn’t know what I was doing, there were whole comb filled with that nectar.

Next observation: many drones. I hadn’t seen any drones around the sugar water for weeks; I had no idea I had so many. Drones, as consumers who produce nothing but potential queen-mating, shouldn’t outnumber the workers.

And I couldn’t find the queen. Seems like a queenless colony to me. I left to read some more.

Based on the reading, the hive is queenless and has been for some time. I should have been checking the hives weekly, but I think I was so terrified to open the hive after my first experience resulted in an eye swollen shut for three days. Besides, I could peek up underneath, and all seemed okay.

The books recommended combining a compromised hive with another hive.

I headed back to give at least the mostly-empty frames to the Queen of Sheba hive. But I noticed one promising fact: the Queen Esther hive had made a queen cell, and capped it. Apparently, when a queen leaves or dies, if she’s laid enough eggs, the hive can take an egg and build a queen cell and feed it royal jelly so it becomes a temporary queen.

Based on the blog, it was 21 days ago that the bees turned ravenous. My guess is that the sheep knocked the hive and the queen either fell to her death or gave up and flew away. The hive lost its direction, but also began to build a queen cell. In the next day or two, we'll either have a new queen emerge, or we'll have an absolutely dead hive.

One of the signs of a queenless hive is two eggs per cell. Without a queen, all the workers develop sexually and lay drone (or unfertilized) eggs. We had a few cells with two eggs, and several more with five or six eggs! Poor, neglected colony!

Other than spending much extra money on unnecessary sugar, I think that, had I found a queenless hive three weeks ago, I would have been beside myself with grief. But today, it seems more like yet another bummer that I had hoped to avoid.

Like having a random mutant lamb as my first experience, before I knew what a regular ram lamb should look like, having both the queen of one hive vanish on the first day, and then having a queen go queenless after a month—it's just too bad. But I couldn't have planned for it, and it's okay.

BUT—may the Lord bless our orchard. May he grant that no bad unexpected nastiness befall our trees. My goodness!

Cleaning to Completion

When I got up today, I intended to start spreading minerals on trees right away. But before I could do that, I needed to learn about how to move the cows on my own, so that when Phil is out of town, the animals won’t starve. And I needed to feed the bees.

The kitchen, too, could use a good cleaning. And the motor home. Breakfast for the family, home trailer pick up, answer emails, comfort Joe who, although not really sick any more, has a thoroughly messed up sleep schedule and doesn’t want to eat much. . . .

I never did get to spread the minerals on the trees. The Lord knows that, too.

I just felt good to get some loops closed. No dirty dishes spread all over; most paperwork taken care of.

In the late afternoon, we had a photographer come to the farm to take Tenth Anniversary photos (ten years on June 24!). She traipsed all over the property, though between Jadon’s involuntary grimaces, Isaiah’s excited arm raising, Abraham’s (involuntary?) desire to show his belly, and Joe’s general grumpiness, I will be interested to see how many good shots she captured.

Then we all headed into Scottsville to eat celebratory gelato: Tahitian vanilla, berry, and triple chocolate. It was a great combination.

Shearing Continues

As Phil continues to shear sheep (two today!), he’s begun to enjoy it. (Note how bare Eve looks, above. The blades leave more wool than clippers would, but that's okay. It offers the sheep a little extra protection from the sun.) The blades are not so scary, and the technique not so impossible. We have a book titled Shearing Day, all about how to shear with blades. It didn’t make a lot of sense to read before attempting to shear, but now that he’s done seven sheep, he can read with insight. That’s good! Below, you can see Ewok. She hasn't been shorn yet.

I pulled out the remaining kale in my garden, and planted the bed to peanuts today. The peanuts have a 130 day growing requirement, so they’ll probably not quite make it before the frost comes (probably sometime in October). But they just might, in the end, and I’m excited to try.

A few cabbage seedlings poked through the soil in the cold frames. It’s only been four days since planting! Great! I’ve been thinking that, now that Butch has moved all the manure out of the winter paddock, I should turn that paddock into my fall and winter garden: grow massive quantities of garlic, onions, and cabbage. I will need to start making raised beds now, then, in faith that I will plant in a few months.

Butch came today and used his tractor bucket to move a large pile of wood chips from the parking area at the top of the driveway down to cover the composting windrow. Compost piles should, ideally, have a skin on them, so they stay moist and protected as they work. The wood chip covering is their protection.

He’s about to have knee-replacement surgery, and we are thankful he could help us with his equipment before he’s laid up for a short while.

I stripped the seed pods off all the kale I pulled. My single bed, grown from a single packet, yielded over a cup of seeds. The generosity of nature!

Jadon finished his first semester of math. It took him the last week. I love the “Better Late Than Early” philosophy of school. No tears, no trauma, almost 100%, and just a few hours of instruction.

As Phil learns more about rotational grazing, he’s moved the cows into smaller paddocks. The five cows are in an area about 24’ x 24’, and I don’t think we can go much lower. They all have horns, and they don’t always get along in perfect peace.

The chickens did a great job spreading the cows' manure. They scratched the cowpies flat.

I spent a little time working in my “kitchen” barn. I know the techniques of proper organization: is there a better place for this item? Does it need to take up the most “prime real estate” in my kitchen? Do I use this? Do I like this? It can be hard to implement, despite the head knowledge!

The small section I did, though, feels much more restful than it did.

Overall, much good.

(And much kombucha. I’m up to four gallons brewing, or will be, once I get enough water through the Berkey filter. When it’s available, we drink it down, from Phil to Joe. It's supposed to be very cleansing, which I suppose it is; we've had the physical effects to prove it.)

Happy 13th Birthday, Chloe!

I woke up in the night when the power came back. Joe felt feverish all over. I don’t remember ever actually feeling a feverish child with hot hands and feet, too; it seems that usually those stay cool. He woke up mellow, and dozed on and off all day.

An unexplained fever in the middle of tick season? I’ll be watching his wrists and ankles for spots, which would indicate Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, a gift from ticks. More unlikely, it could be Lyme disease, although he doesn’t have the bulls eye pattern (I do realize that not everyone gets that pattern).

Or it could be that he inhaled too much chlorinated water at the pool, and simply has a depressed immunity right now. It’s hard to know, but easy to imagine the worst.

In the afternoon, we headed to the Bessettes for a short time for a pool party. Pool-hater Abraham refused to get in, but sat watching Jadon and Isaiah as they frolicked in the water. I admired Michelle’s garden; it’s coming along very nicely. And I got to see their adorable little heifer calf. She’s fawn colored, with white circles on her back.

On the way to the Bessettes, we waited for old, almost-deaf Chloe-the-dog to come with us. Her hearing is so bad, she doesn’t come when called, but if Phil turns on the truck, she hears the rumble and comes loping along. We realized that she is 13 today! We thought a year and a half ago that she was in imminent danger of death, but she keeps on keeping on.

I made a double batch of peanut butter cookies (1 C. peanut butter, 1 C. sugar, 1 egg, baked at 350 degrees for about 8 minutes) to celebrate. I didn’t give any to her, though; they were too yummy for that!

In sad tree news, I found many of the Stark Brothers trees covered with a beetle pest. Beautiful, jewel-tone beetles, that totally defoliated several trees.

My Cummins Nursery trees, thankfully the vast majority of my orchard, appear to be doing just fine. Buy beautiful fruit trees, for an unbeatable price, from Cummins!

We had hoped to attempt to artificially inseminate Fern today, but our ordered semen didn’t arrive in time. We think she was in heat, as she tried to mount one of the other cows, but it certainly wasn’t as obvious as three weeks ago. I think the heat (temperature) saps the energy for heat (breeding).

And our pancake patch (field of spelt) is close to harvest-ready: a little field of gold.

I Momentarily Fear for Joe's Life

I was working toward my deadline this morning, when Joe suddenly doubled up in front of me and starting crying, while pressing on his stomach. Back in third grade, I read a Sunday school paper about a boy whose appendix exploded and poisoned his body and he almost died. Ever since, any stomach discomfort really concerns me.

I went to ask Phil about this disconcerting behavior. He was shearing another sheep, and did not appear unduly worried. Joe had stopped crying and watched Phil’s blades with interest.

But by the time I’d walked back to the trailers with Joe, he slipped out of my arms, crawled under the office trailer, and crouched there, on his hands and knees, crying uncontrollably. He didn’t seem to need to poop; he was just really uncomfortable. And greenish in hue. No one else had any symptoms of food poisoning, and I checked on botulism, and it didn’t sound like that.

I forced him to ingest some acidophilus. No change. I didn’t have the homeopathic Arsenicum, which is for food poisoning; in desperation I gave him some Arnica, for trauma.

He vehemently protested the little round pills, attempting to spit them out over and over, while I pushed them back in for half a minute. Then I dragged him out from under the trailer and put him inside on the bed.

He appeared somewhat better: he let me hold him, let me lie him on his back. I tried to massage his tummy, but he was clearly uncomfortable. I turned him over, and massaged his lower back, and he immediately fell asleep. Or was he unconscious? Skin: cold, clammy; color: pale, green.

In truth, I was so scared he was about to die, I didn’t want to leave the room to summon Phil, lest he completely stop breathing while I was away. I watched him take each breath, and picked him up about every minute to make sure he could still open his eyes and respond to my voice.

About that time, Phil was done with shearing, and came of his own accord down to the trailer. He is more laid back than I am, and didn’t appear too concerned. He suggested we take our sweating son to the motor home, where he could rest in air conditioning. Shortly after we transported him, he started to smile when we said his name. Within ten minutes, he was laughing and running around with Abraham.

He never did poop, either, and has shown no further symptoms of pain.

So bizarre!

I’m not sure we ever remembered to put him on our family health insurance plan. He might yet be uninsured. It’s an interesting phenomenon, to have the niggling concern of medical bills hanging overhead, when a son might be dying—or might just have painful gas. Insurance … what a headache!

In the evening, we headed to a church-wide pool party. We had a good time, and even water-hating Abraham sat on the steps in the pool.

When we returned home, we found the power out. Apparently, an inch and a half of rain fell in the few hours we were away. Wow.

Children Come to Visit

We had our first children visitors today. How delightful to see the farm, and the animals, through their eyes. To remember the excitement of holding a chicken, or finding an egg hidden in the hay. Adult visitors tend to be more interested in the workings of the farm; the children were all about the animals (and the trampoline). And our cows were very patient with the quick-moving, excited little ones. I kept thinking, "I prayed for protection today; I hope the animals are listening to their Creator, and don't use their horns untowardly!"

But no problems, and one cow let us pet her back, as she didn't bother to stand up. No accidents with bees, either, despite one little person picking daisies, in happy unconcern, right at the entrance to their hive.

Phil and I moved the sheep this afternoon. The last time he set up fencing for the sheep, he broke one of the new branches off one tree, and the central leader off of another tree. He needed a little help to just keep the netting from snagging on the trees.

The way we rotate the sheep right now is really not sustainable. We were both out there for an hour, so that the sheep could mow a little section of land. "Real" farmers talk about time as money, and how if you spend time doing one thing, you're not doing another. So my stress level increased. As I looked at the trees, too, they continue to have little spots on their leaves, perhaps little "rust" spots. What spray would take care of that? What additional nutrition can we give them? How can we help?

Phil continues to work his way through sheep shearing, as he did another one today. I didn't recognize her, she looked so different. He also tried to encircle the chickens with netting, to keep them in their pen so they will lay eggs in the nesting boxes where we can locate them. Sadly, they all flew out, so we still are missing quite a few eggs (or so we think).

We Work with a Will

I got up to make breakfast, and the bucket of eggs that I've been collecting since I returned from my Colorado vacation, the bucket that I haven't wanted to touch because some eggs we found in odd places and don't know how old they are, yes, the bucket of eggs I don't want to sell or give away, that same bucket said, "Empty me!"

So I cracked about 20 dozen eggs, one at a time, onto a plate. If it passed muster, I put it into a Ziploc, and every dozen, I'd put into the freezer. So I have twenty dozen frozen eggs, ready for scrambling.

And I found about six totally rotten ones, and maybe another dozen that were on their way out. Isaiah was with me when I cracked an egg that EXPLODED with toxic fumes. (Not really toxic, but definitely gag-worthy!)

I had naively expected, when starting egg production, that by not washing the protective membrane off the eggs, they would remain in unadulterated, unrefrigerated, happy complete food perfection ... indefinitely.

Well, not really, or at least, not entirely. I would do my best to make sure only the most fresh eggs went off the farm; I made my family eat the older ones. But it does make me wonder—did an older egg slip by my eagle eye? Have gifted rotten eggs exploded across Albemarle County, to the detriment of the "Farm Fresh" movement (and, more to my heart, the Lykosh farm specifically)?

Time will tell.

For now, we have fresh, lovely eggs in our little refrigerator, and unless we know the eggs are only about a day old at collecting, we'll use them ourselves, with great care.

And, should we ever come across the stash of 100 eggs that we know the chickens have laid somewhere in the woods, we shall use them ourselves.

After the great egg-cracking extravaganza, I had to clean my campstove. The rotten egg residue had to go before I would do any food preparation. And besides, it has been 11 months without a good cleaning, and it was time.

Phil assembled our new fly catcher. Although the cows are rotating through the pasture, and I had hoped the chickens would take care of all the flies, that has not happened. So we bought an ugly, industrial-looking structure that, basically, entices flies to hit, then fall into soapy water where they die. I can't say it seems quite as effective as advertised ("kills a pound of flies a day!"), but maybe it'll work better as time passes.

Wonderful neighbor Butch came and scraped our winter paddock into a compost windrow. He first came with his skidsteer, but realized within a few minutes that it did not have enough horsepower. Indeed, he almost had to be towed out! We had almost a foot of compacted manure in spots, and the skidsteer couldn't push that weight uphill.

But, as a man with many tools, he soon returned with a bulldozer.

In the space of an hour, had built a four-foot tall pile, about 48 feet long.

Wow! Phil and I are thrilled! So much lovely manure to turn to compost! I purchased compost last year, and I know how expensive it is. And this will be even better, because besides the bovine microbes, we added biodynamic preps to help it compost well, and some kelp for a full range of elements, and some of our minerals, to bump up the level of awesomeness even more.

Phil figures that the pile will be ready for use this fall. Our garden can grow! Our fertility will improve! The process is starting.

Moving on from the compost pile building, I planted the 16 tomato plants given to me over the weekend. Now I don’t have to wait for my two-inch tall tomato plants to mature. Wonderful!

I harvested potato onions. From 8oz of starters, I had almost six pounds of onions, or a 6 to 1 return. I can’t even fathom what a 100-fold expansion would look like.

I harvest a little more garlic, too. I think I should have watered more, since most heads so far are grocery-store size or smaller. It is good to have a crop, though, even if it’s not perfect.

After harvesting fun, Phil helped me assemble the long-anticipated cold frames. We bought the windows back in March; we picked up old hay bales these last few weeks; the cardboard box as a weed barrier came in early May.

Phil hauled the 50-pound hay bales uphill for me. I’m glad he was there. Then, while he sheared another sheep, I filled the haybales like a lasagna gardening bed: layers of old, moldly hay, peat moss, some bone meal, the old purchased compost from last year; repeat.

After a thorough wetting, I scattered on top three varieties of cabbage, then pressed the seeds to the soil with my bare feet. I pray these seeds grow into many luscious cabbage heads, so that I can make sauerkraut enough to satisfy Phil’s craving every day this winter.

Such a productive day!

Kombucha

Saturday was another workshop on biodynamics. I drove the six hours and had such a refreshing time. I put one CDs of the Psalms and sing, and then I'd feel the urge to pray for a while. Then I'd confess, and sing some more. What a refreshing little mini-retreat.

The class itself had a fascinating lecture, and then an explanation and demonstration of how to crush quartz into a talcum-like powder. This silica is specially treated and sprayed on crops and has many beneficial affects on crops. The demonstration went on a little long for my taste, but overall I had a good time.

We headed up to church this morning, then took an extended lunch break at Chipotle with friends from church. My patient sons, despite having no real entertainment, sat for about two hours. What good boys.

It was over 100 degrees in Charlottesville. We were happy to eat in air conditioning, and then happy to attend Bible study with a group from church; another house with cool air circulating! And so nice to have a little extra time to get to know the beautiful believers we worship with every week.

Before Bible study, we stopped and bought another eight watermelon for the coming week (all eight from last Sunday having been eaten with great joy). And I bought another 106 pounds of sugar; that should last at least this next week. Every cashier I have expresses astonishment at the quantity of sugar I purchase. No kidding.

Some of that sugar has gone to kombucha production. Have you ever had kombucha? It's a health food, a cleansing, detox drink that's naturally fizzy. I like it better than soda, and definitely more than beer, though I think from a "refreshing" standpoint, it could take the place of either. To make it, I bought a couple bottles of GT's kombucha from the health food store. Using GT's as a starter, I added sweet tea and let the mixture sit for about a week. It transforms into a completely different drink. Some day, I suppose, I'll have enough on hand, but for now, all six of us wish we had more.

I've been doubling my production every week (there's a "mother" culture in every bottle of GT's, and as it grows, I can make more), so it won't be long until we have enough for us all every day. Very exciting!

My encouraging thought for today: I've been struggling the last few weeks. But Pastor Bill read from James 1, how the testing of your faith works patience, and patience must finish her work, so you may be mature and complete, lacking nothing. He said, "The scariest place to be is off in the corner where Satan doesn't bother you; it means you're totally ineffectual for God, so powerless that Satan doesn't even have you on his radar."

That was helpful, in some ways, to hear. The frustration and hopelessness I feel is a testing of my faith; but even that will grow something good—patience. And what a relief that even Satan's attacks mean that something good is going on in me and on this farm.

Which is all to say, YAY!

Inordinate Frustration Over Lost Labor

After working on a project for Sonlight much of the week, I went to send it off, completed, when the program crashed, and it turned out that, for whatever reason, none of my work had been saved.

Doggedly, I began again, only to realize after about 90 minutes that, despite appearances to the contrary, the program was still not saving my work.

This made me almost frantic, and I think I had a little taste of what it would be like to do something, day in and day out, that I felt had no purpose. To work for a week on a project that doesn’t come to fruition frustrated me inordinately; to work for a lifetime on a job that served no one—that would be more devastating than I can imagine.

This has been a weepy week for me. I suppose that happens sometimes. I realized this evening that, since visiting Colorado, there's been a little wish within that we weren't here doing this crazy thing, that I had countertops free of thousands of flies and one muddy cat, with kitchen cabinets and Costco, with sister and brother and family. Once I acknowledged that, the next words that came to mind were from a Keith Green song:

"So you want to go back to Egypt, where you're warm and secure?"

Oof, these moments of spiritual growth. Not always comfortable.

This is a little taste, perhaps, of how the Israelites felt. They had a spiritual high while leaving Egypt, saw God's amazing faithfulness and experienced freedom. But as they wandered in a hard place, the memories of slavery faded, and they remembered only the fresh green vegetables and, probably, their hovels.

I haven't really understood the appeal before. They were eating manna from heaven, for pete's sake, following a physical manifestation of God in the cloud.

But transition and change, week after week, no real settlement, no real home—that is wearying.

That said, they were stupid to want to return to slavery. I, too, am not smart to long for ease, when I'm called to be here.

My Garden Grows

The bees stung me twice today. I cried both times. The sting itself is such a small pain, but as the stinger remains in, the burn grows and grows. A baking soda and water paste helps draw the heat, but as the swelling begins, the discomfort grows. And I know now that the swelling will continue for three days, so I think about fat and ugly knees that can hardly bend to get into the house, and I wonder if these still-ravenous bees are worth it.

They did not sting in anger. One was on the cloth I used as a pot holder as I brought them food; I absent-mindedly set it on my leg as I bent to pick up the empty pot, then stared, stupidly, at the defensive bee, stinger still in my knee. The next time I brought them food, I started to walk away, and a bee must have been in the hem of my shorts, and felt threatened.

Options? Get a haz-mat suit and get dressed and undressed the multiple times a day I need to check on them. Maybe even just have jeans at the ready, or maybe waterproof pants to pull on over shorts.

Eight stings so far does seem a bit unkind, but I’m trying to remember that the bees act on instinct, not purposeful malice.

Little things like that can plunge my spirits so quickly. Phil, male, stays on an even keel emotionally. I envy that at times.

As Phil and I continue to recover from the planting marathon, we find so many piddly things to do, but nothing seems terribly important. Phil continues to look at fencing options. We were fairly set on a mix of cattle panels and electric, but we do worry about the boys and their safety, if we run electric near their play areas. It’s hard to decide what is best.

Even something as simple as corner posts give me fits. I hate the idea of pressured treated lumber; I hate that it contains poisons and that it’s bad for the environment. But to spend, perhaps, twice as much on black locust or cedar or some other tough wood that doesn’t rot—we don’t have infinite money. It’s hard to know where the trade off is. Hard enough it brings tears to my eyes. What is the right thing to do?

Bits of my garden grow by the day. I harvested two softneck garlic heads today. I saved one and we ate one. I think it was a mild Inchelium Red, with red paper around each bulb. I also pulled most of the potato onions, and will let them cure.

I have also been on a seed harvesting journey these last few days. I left some of the peas to grow on the vine, and have saved them for next year. I didn’t really harvest much of anything to eat, which was a bummer, but I figure I didn’t lose much except my time, as long as I get back about the same number of seeds I planted. And the few I get are perfectly suited to my environment.

I have a bowl of kale seed, and am acquiring a bowl of spinach seed. I am thrilled about the former, and not so happy about the latter. Why gather it, if I don’t much like spinach? It feels too wasteful not to.

My herb seeds did not sprout, so I overseeded that bed with pumpkin and butternut squash seeds.

The tomato and pepper seeds I planted last weekend continue to grow fairly well. They had been outside, but chickens kept jumping up and pecking the baby seedlings, so I brought them inside and added them to my limited RV counter space. They aren’t getting much sun, but it is warm in there, and they will, at least, live until they are outside, not pecked to death.

I have one cheery nasturtium growing bravely near the electric box; I had planted many, but at least one survived the late frosts and the poor soil. It makes me smile, with its happy orange face.

We watched a movie last night about a man fighting to provide raw milk in Canada. This morning, Phil watched a brief movie about raw milk dairy.

Yet another thing we know nothing about, but need to figure out soon. Build a milking parlor, buy more equipment, hope it works for us.

"Dust of Snow"

The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.

Robert Frost’s poem came to mind several times today, as I had several little joys that made disappointments not sting quite so much.

I had headed into Charlottesville for a workshop on fall and winter gardening. I want to grow vast quantities of cabbage and make vast quantities of sauerkraut.

But though the email reminder and the website advertised the start as 7pm, the time should have said 5:30-7, and I missed it entirely. That part of the day I rued.

My friend Johanna, on her way to join me, suggested we walk The Mall (a walking mall designed by the same man who designed Pearl Street in Boulder, so we feel right at home). We stopped at a coffee shop and sipped drinks outside, enjoying the unexpected freedom of no immediate responsibilities. That was my “dust of snow.”

On the way home, I bought out the grocery store of their meager supply of cane sugar (again). I did a quick calculation, and it is just possible that it will be sufficient until the next time we’re near a grocery store. Rue and thankfulness, mixed.

Phil attended his first men’s meeting with our church. He came away so encouraged by the discernment and thoughtfulness that attends every meeting and interaction he’s had. We feel quite blessed.

Altogether Blessed

Abraham volunteered to pray at dinner. “Lord God … bless this food. … Bless this farm. … Amen.” His sweet sincerity makes me think that is the most blessed this farm has ever been.

This was as precious as something Isaiah said a week ago (which I may have already written about; I think about it enough, I don’t remember). We were talking about the verse in Proverbs that says, “May I have neither too much nor too little, lest I either forget God in my pride, or steal in order to live.” And Isaiah said, “Just like us! We have neither too much nor too little.”

I looked around our 224 square foot construction trailer, complete with roaches and 88 degree weather, but also containing love and the provision of the Lord.

“Isaiah, you’re exactly right. Just like us.”

Phil spent some time in continuing education, as he read more about grazing management. There is so much to learn, and so much of it has to come on the fly.

A few seeds, after four days in the soil, are poking up. New life! New promise!

Phil finished the new chicken pen, complete with roosts and nesting boxes. He seeded one of the boxes with eggs, because I think the birds are confused by such luxury. What?! A dedicated place to lay eggs?! Amazing.

Visitors

Over the weekend, one of the things I realized was that I'm feeling a bit isolated. Who will come to visit us, as my faithful friend Tamara did weekly in Colorado, when we live so far removed from the rest of the world?

Ha! The Lord sent us not one, not two, not three, but FOUR visitors today. Jenny had come once before, back in April, and this time she brought one of our pastors, Bill. She was impressed with how much more we had accomplished.

Johanna Bush also stopped by, on the spur of the moment, and ended up taking Isaiah with her for the day. Then she and her daughter Serena came for dinner; they brought delicious Indian food, and I made tacos with our pork, and it was a great meal. It was great to have company!

It was a great reminder to me that the Lord cares even about the little things in my life, like making sure that I have friends.

Phil has been heading to bed a bit earlier, and rising really early (for him): up and working at 5:45am. This afternoon he ordered the sawmill, which won't arrive for about a month. (!) He also called Butch with a question, which was providential timing: Butch needed a strong man to assist him with a stuck machine, so Phil headed over.

He started burning some paper trash this morning, trying to get our place looking a bit more guest-worthy. When he went to help a friend with a construction project, he left me with the request that I check on the smoldering barrel periodically.

I walked out at one point to find flames shooting out of the barrel, and some paper trash burning, falling, out onto the surrounding terrain.

This freaked me out, but I managed to douse the ground with water, and the disaster was averted. Phew!

Death continues to stalk us, but the Lord's protection remains.

Baby Bird and Dehydration Stopper

Phil found a tiny bird hopping between our trailers on Saturday morning. We wondered at first if it was a guinea keet, hiding until hatching, but as we observed it more, it had amazingly long feather for its extremely tiny size, and the bright-red inner mouth that I remember means "drop food here, Mom!" It refused to eat the chick food, so I'm pretty certain it was a wild bird. Isaiah carried it in his shirt pocket for a while, then we put it in a bush and hope it found its mother again, though I realize the outcome isn't terribly hopeful.

In this case, it's better not to know.

The bees continue to eat heavily. I put down a pot of sugar syrup at one point, and left it. Because I neglected to put sticks in, when I returned there were hundreds of dead bees in my pot. I was so upset!

But, in a startling turn of mind for me, I preached to myself, rather than sink into sorrow. "You've never kept bees before. If they all die, they all die. It's not the end of the world. Now you know that they do need some ways to get into the sugar syrup, and you'll do better in the future. Buck up, little camper!" It felt like good growth for me.

My sourdough starter turned moldy. Bummer. I guess I'll go back to the standard yeast bread, though I'd much prefer to do sourdough. I'll have to figure out a better method one of these days, I guess.

Sunday morning, Abraham woke up and vomited. Then Isaiah vomited. This time, though, I figured that they had (voluntarily) skipped dinner, and probably sweated much of the night in our trailer, that was 88 degrees (with high humidity) when they went in to go to bed. Dehydration!

I tried an anti-dehydration drink: 4 cups water, 1/2 teaspoon each salt and baking soda, 3 Tablespoons sugar. I added vanilla to make it taste a little better (a bit like a cream soda). The boys drank it very reluctantly, but by the time we needed to go to church they were happily jumping around.

Phil was relieved. We hadn't left the farm since the previous Sunday and he figured we all needed a little time off the farm.

Amy's Guide to Getting Pregnant

(No snarky comments on the title, please. I realize it sounds rather salacious, but it was better than all the alternatives I typed up, and the topic isn't bawdy in the least.)

I have no experience personally with infertility, though I have friends and family that have. I realize that there are many reasons why infertility happens (one woman I knew was born without a uterus; another had a uterus tipped just enough that the sperm couldn't reach it—she simply had to flip onto her stomach after the marital act, and was pregnant within a month). So I hope this post does not come across as insensitive or cruel to the very real, deep hurt that accompanies infertility.

That said, were I to have problems getting pregnant, here are the steps I would take, to give myself the best chance possible.

First step: stop all hormonal birth control (aka "the Pill" and its ilk). Because the Pill has extremely high levels of hormones, compared to a normal body, do not be surprised if it takes your body two years to get pregnant. It takes a while to regulate. Also, actively try not to get pregnant the first six months you're off the Pill; the residual hormones can harm the baby. (I've always wondered if that's why I miscarried after getting pregnant a few months after stopping.)

Next: cut out the "big three" really obvious bad foods. Trans fats, the manmade fats found in most fried foods, margarine, and other spreads, have no place in the diet at all. I have read even one exposure can significantly reduce the chance of conception that month. Instead, eat the healthy whole fats: butter, extra virgin olive oil, good quality coconut oil.

High fructose corn syrup (HFCS) is the second. This almost eliminates soda and other processed foods. No one knows how HFCS is made: its an industry secret. It's also a health nightmare. Check your labels, too: standard ketchup contains this, as do many salad dressings. You can find legitimate substitutions, though—no need to deprive yourself entirely.

Avoid all artificial colors and flavors. If it doesn't look like a natural color, avoid it. The strange chemicals industry uses to make food taste and smell more appetizing aren't worth the health problems.

To sum up: rid the diet of really awful industrial chemicals. "Shop the store perimeter," or, better yet, buy from local farms.

What to do: Add in high quality cod liver oil (high in vitamin A, which traditional cultures recognize as important for pregnancy—those cultures consume ten times the amount of vitamin A that we do; also high in vitamin D).

If you can access raw milk, drink raw milk, especially if you can find a grass-fed dairy. It'll be a bit more per gallon than grocery milk because grass-fed cows, and all the raw dairies I've heard of, do not feed hormone supplements to their cattle (the infamous rBGH, or recombinant Bovine Growth Hormone). No one should be drinking the rBGH milk—it's led to a generation of daughters with precocious puberty (I heard in a lecture recently that 50% of American girls menstruate at age ten). It's not good to add hormones to the body, when the body produces hormones in parts per trillion, an incredibly small amount.

Anyway, the rBGH cows do produce twice the milk that a non-treated cow produces, but the high-production cows also suffer many illnesses and shorter lifespans.

For me, it's worth it to pay a little extra for my milk and get an unadulterated product that is good for the cows and good for me.

And that's not touching the disaster of milk pasteurization, but that's another topic. Drink raw milk if you can find it. But back to the topic at hand....

I would check my general health. I really like Julia Ross's The Diet Cure, though the numerous supplements she recommends can get a bit pricey. Great results, though.

I would also do my best to make sure I was in hormonal balance. Do you ovulate regularly, and experience a menstrual cycle without cramps or discomfort? That's how it should be. The best resource I know for hormonal issues is Dr. Sherrill Sellman's book What Women Must Know to Protect Their Daughters from Breast Cancer. (You can also purchase this for only a few dollars, used, on Amazon. If I wanted information tailored to me, specifically, I might even pay for a phone consultation with her, which seems very reasonably priced.) Really, this is just an excellent book overall.

I would also want to make sure I know when I ovulate each month, to give myself the best possible chance of conception. You track your mucus and track your temperature on waking, and that should give you an accurate picture of when you are the most fertile. I learned this in the Couple to Couple League's class (through the Catholic church), but I have heard good things about Toni Weschler's book Taking Charge of Your Fertility.

I hope this is helpful, and if you are struggling with infertility, I am also happy to pray for you, that the Lord would bless your womb.

A Little Progress All the Time

Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub, and who do you think they be?
Jadon, Isaiah, and Jonadab all play happily!

By early afternoon, we were all puddles of sweat. I don't remember sweat ever dripping off my nose, but it did today. I used to read missionary biographies about people in Cambodia or Thailand or India, and wonder how they dealt with such extreme temperatures. I think I realized today that they just do what they have to do. I can't change the weather, so I endure it.

It's a good indication that I have more margin in my life now: I decided it's time to potty train Joe. That requires many pointless trips to the motor home bathroom. He refuses to use the rough box in our construction trailer; it hurts his legs, I think. He didn't have a single success today, but I let him run around naked outside, so he didn't have many accidents-to-clean-up, either. He's asleep in a cloth diaper; we'll see if he's a bedwetter tomorrow morning. (None of my sons so far have been.)

I've also started back in with homeschooling. During the tree planting, we took our "summer vacation" early; there was no time for anything else. It's quite fun to read about Peter the Great and George Washington.

Phil dismantled the chicken coop. We're hoping to get neighbor Butch here to scrape the winter paddock, and make a large compost pile with all the manure. Before he can scrape, though, we need the area cleared. The chicken coop, six inches deep in dung (mostly on the outside), wasn't moving anywhere, so Phil took it apart and designed a new one. Joe delighted in bringing Phil screws, one at a time. Such a helpful guy. For its construction, he started to use the logs along our driveway. Good thing, since I think they're getting termite damage.

What else? I dug up and replanted one of my decorative crab apples (it's in its new home, below). I had put it right in front of the electrical box, and I suspect it was getting hit with too much stray voltage. Another crabapple, mere feet away, thrives (see it in the background).

I think I realized why the bees are so ravenous. Worker bees usually die off after about six weeks in the summer, literally working themselves to death. I hived them both six weeks ago; one hive, certainly, hasn't had a queen laying eggs for more than a week. I suspect they are trying to conserve energy, trying to give the queen and the brood as good a chance of survival as they can.

We ate a delicious watermelon for lunch, and I overcame my antipathy for planting, and stuck some watermelon seeds in the ground. I didn't turn over the soil or do anything fancy; I figure they might sprout despite imperfect growing conditions; might as well give them that chance. They certainly won't sprout if they're not in the ground!

I also finally got some tomato seeds into egg carton "planters" (punch a hole in the bottom, fill with soggy potting soil or compost, and plant). I was vastly encouraged to see the corn, okra, and lima beans that I planted last Saturday poking up well above the soil already. Great! I planted more limas randomly on the hillside wherever the spelt didn't take well. And a few zucchini seeds, so the boys can indulge in zucchini bread.

I also planted tromboncino summer squash along the fence. It's supposed to climb and provide both decoration and delicious squash. Bring it on!

Sheep Shearing

Phil and I talked at length this morning about what sawmill to buy. We've been looking at portable sawmills for several years. We figure that since we'll need wood to build a platform and interior construction for our yurt, we can either spend the money on lumber, or on a sawmill and use our own trees. I think it's better in the long run to have an asset, so I'm willing to be patient for the yurt.

We're pretty sure which model we'll get—it won't be fancy (nothing hydraulic, nothing mechanized), but it should get the job done. The salesman said that there are people who use this model as their full-time occupation. Personally, I don't think cutting 125 board feet an hour would be terribly exciting as a whole job, but it is encouraging that the machine can support such an endeavor.

My bees continue acting as if starving. They're on track to have devoured about $75 worth of sugar this week. I never anticipated such an expense when we began. I guess some things you can't budget for. I finally decided I was tired of the constant thrill while adding to their feeders, so I tried just leaving the pot open with some sticks inside, and hoped the bees wouldn't drown. So far so good.

Phil and I decided to try to shear our sheep. We've had a few days without rain, and, with nothing else pressing, it's past time to get that done. Note Ashley's unshorn state, below.

We had watched a helpful DVD with Fiona Nettleton last night, that walked through the positions and the sequence of sheep shearing. As an experienced young lady, she handily demonstrated a full sheep shorn in about a minute. Poetry in motion.

I knew we wouldn't match such a practiced feat, but I hoped to be at least moderately close—maybe within fifteen minutes or something.

Well, Fiona used electric clippers. We had purchased them but returned them when I realized that, after the $400 initial cost, beginning shearers have to send the blades in for sharpening after just about every sheep; they get dull quite quickly. And there's tensioning and combs and all these other details to figure out, as well as how not to nick the sheep.

Oh, and we'd need some kind of barn with electricity in order to run the clippers, and we'd need a barn-like structure to hold the sheep before shearing.

Since we don't even have a real habitation, building a shed with electricity in order to shear sheep was pretty low on my priority list.

I read a book on blade shearing, with, well, giant scissors, basically, and that sounded just fine.

So Phil and I set out.

He caught that rotten Isabella. About a third of her wool was already off, due to her weird late-pregnancy issue. And since she is destined for slaughter, she would be a good practice sheep.

Her belly wool was disgusting. Totally matted, crunchy with things we prefer to ignore. And we both tried and both nicked her. Phil was so upset, he almost threw in the towel right then: just get the clippers!

But he tried again. And again. Gradually, not in the proper sequence, certainly, but gradually a sheep emerged from under the nappy dreadlocks.

The pitiful amount of wool collected made me wonder why I ever expected to make any money from this "cashmere quality" wool. Blech! Little sheep give little wool, and it's all matted and unpleasant.

After two hours, Isabella was done. Two hours.

Next he did Acorn, and she, with her probably five-inch wool, looked truly shorn at the end of the ordeal. And Phil cut his time in half, finishing her in about an hour. (She was not dreadlocked, but rather fluffy and soft. So much nicer!)

Acorn, the white, sheepish sheep, looks shorn. Rotten Isabella looks greyish, in the photo below; it's harder to tell that she's been shorn.

You can see the difference in quantity between Acorn's wool, in the foreground, and Isabella's wool, in the background. Expert shearers would get it all in one piece. Maybe we will, too, someday.

At this point, Phil had been pouring sweat for three hours in the hot sun, amidst the prickly raspberry canes and dung, lifting unwilling sheep, suffering kicks and an already-sore back. Almost fainting, he stumbled off to sit in our water trough tub.

Two down; about eight to go.