2011: Year of Growth

In this, the third annual retrospective on the farm, I was surprised to find how much grew and changed this year. (With special thanks to Isaiah for his aid in taking photographs. While my heart initially sank at the 377 photos we took today, it is a joy to see his creative vision, to see the farm with his eyes.)

We have radically changed our animals from New Year's Day to New Year's Eve. Of the birds, we have the same Chanticleer cock.

We have our beautiful black Tux.

Otherwise, other than the lone remaining guinea, we have an entirely new set of laying hens.

Incredibly productive, the White Leghorns might actually earn their keep: the first of our animals to do so.

And we have two faithful ducks, Mrs. Mallardy and the Welsh Harlequin.

Of the sheep, we have culled to just six. Of those six, I suspect two may be long-term residents on the farm. After two years of heart-rending lambings, we have no plans for lambs in 2012. (The garden, behind them, disappointed us. But it will be great, one day!)

Our cow herd, though, doubled, from seven at the start of the year: two calves, three heifers, and two cows.

To fourteen now, with the addition of our bull, another cow and calf, and four calves. Our milk production has dropped to nil, however: until this mama finds more time, and the milk cows have feed enough to make their milk quantity worth my while, the Lykoshes continue a water and kombucha family. One day.

And though we bought and lost a Jersey in the space of a month, we persevere in cattle because we love them, and we love what they do to the land. And we happily have management of the pasture to the north and south of us now, too. We went from three months of pasture-feeding last year to six or more months this year. In 2012, I'm hoping that once the spring flush hits, we'll have no more hay feeding—ever.

Though I had to combine hives, I ended the year with one, hopefully healthy hive. Infinitely more than last year. I love the bees.

I do plan to move their hive about 30 feet, though, into this sweet moon-shaped flower bed next to the driveway.

And we added sweet Bit of Honey, or Bitsy, for short.

The apple orchard grew, and we even harvested a dozen or so fruits from the most precocious of trees.

For the rest, their branches reach eight feet; some more.

I noticed there were a few red leaves still on the trees. On closer examination, they were all water sprouts: branches that grow vertically out of "real" branches. I'll need to prune those soon.

In the rows we tilled and seeded, the cover crop came in well.

In the stone fruit orchard, we removed the cherries, and transplanted the peaches on contour, with swales for water retention. The aesthetics improved immensely.

The peaches, for the most part, have done well.

We hope for even better things to come, both from those in the ground, and from the future trees we plan to plant.

My kitchen garden moved entirely. The truck can now park where the vegetables grew.

We planted almost 10,000 daffodils around the bases of the trees, and now are finding creative uses for the plastic crates.

I planted a couple hundred hazelnuts. Although less than half survived, those that did look great. Some of the male plants are now putting out catkins, the male flower that will (hopefully) pollinate the females.

Down in the lower pasture, Phil cleared some more trees. He milled lumber which we've used all year.

And, going forward, there is plenty more to clear and plenty more to mill. Plenty of uses for the lumber, too.

We are blessed to have so many large trees to use.

From a construction standpoint, the farm looks different now. We started with the little greenhouse back in February. It served us admirably for the intense time of seedling starting. But, since we're unlikely to do that again anytime soon, the greenhouse now is Phil's shop, for now.

We also have the big greenhouse. Mostly up, it needs more board feet of lumber for the base, and the cover put on, after the soil has had a winter to leach away the excess sodium. (Directly downslope is the green manure crop, just waiting the spring planting of blueberry bushes, and below that, the asparagus.)

Phil also carved out a little level section for the trampoline. The boys have used it both on top, for jumping and reading, and underneath, for intricate canals and pools.

Phil made himself a butcher block, and butchered four or five pigs and piglets on it. (And we've used bright flags all year: to mark swales, future trees, future bushes.)

Phil built an outdoor storage area for our animal feed (currently surrounded by the purchased compost we haven't yet spread in the orchard).

And he built a new compost area, away from our direct line of traffic, closer to the woods. Much preferred, aesthetically.

And although we bought a metal building, it remains on the ground.

The pad for it, though, has been of much use to us as a parking lot. (And the trailer has been of much use to us as we move the cows from paddock to paddock. It's not, perhaps, the most efficient, but it allows us to water the animals on land that has no well.)

I laughed to read that, a year ago, we had plans for placement and purchase of a yurt. How long ago that seems. This year, we're liking this spot, closer to the bottom of the finger.

And the idea of a yurt is long gone.

Interpersonally, the boys have done well this year. Phil and I were glad to see Joe and Abraham, not usually much interested in books, quietly looking at books this morning. Both resting their cheeks in their hands, identically. (I suspect Joe watched his brothers at some point, and learned that that is the proper posture for perusing pictures.)

Joe remains the constant companion of both parents.

And while I don't know how much longer I will be greeted by a child running to my arms, I treasure it while I can.

Thank you for reading my writing, and encouraging me on this journey. May the Lord bless and keep us.

Worm Bucket and Shoe Bin

In order to get the tractor down to the lower pasture to free the chainsaw, Phil spent the morning forking hundreds of pounds of wet hay.

He cleared a room-sized area (barely visible in the photo, but about 10" in depth or so), and spread the stack on the acquired mud and muck in the dry lot.

Then we moved a fresh new hay bale into the original confines of the dry lot, and all the animals went it. We put the gates back, and the additional area they'd accessed during our time away, our farm road, was then accessible.

He drove the tractor down. The tree that had trapped the chainsaw had fallen during the night: the wrong direction. A bit of the chain was still pinched, so Phil tugged the tree and rolled it a bit. It rolled so much that it fell off the stump and crushed the bar and chain of the chainsaw.

It could have easily destroyed the chainsaw itself. We're grateful it didn't. But since that was the second bar and chain ruined in the last two years (one ruined by a friend who was borrowing it: Phil isn't that destructive), lumber jacking was done for the day, until we get to a repair shop.

I finally got around to making holes in my worm bucket. I drilled seven holes in the bottom, and an array all the way around. I have the lid beneath it, to catch any of the valuable worm liquid. They live in the bathroom (where it might get a little below the ideal 40-80 degrees), and I have covered the bucket with a towel to keep it warm, insulated, and away from the light. Worms don't like light!

I am not feeding the worms any animal products (Bitsy appreciates those, and if not Bitsy, the chickens). Sepp Holzer says that he thinks his earthworms don't like garlic and onions, so I might avoid those, too.

These red wrigglers are supposed to be isolated from "wild" worms. I'm hoping to get a good quantity of naturalized worms, too, in their own bucket. But those might need to wait for warmer weather: my bathroom is full enough.

Sepp Holzer actually has four varieties of worms. Maybe I'll even try nightcrawlers one of these days!

My Mom had a bin in her closet to keep shoes. On our return, I realized that I now have 29 bins, that held 10,000 daffodil bulbs, that I can use. One of them fit perfectly in the available space, and I have a much cleaner entry.

And, just because it's pretty: a necklace my sister made for me during our bead nights. Very chic.

In Which I Prevent a Terrible Tragedy

Phil had strung electric line between hay bales when we left for vacation. He didn't have a way to electrify the line, but expected the cows would be well trained enough to avoid it until our caretaker came and rolled it up.

The cows must have forgotten their previous shocks, though, since they somehow managed to trample down several lines, and then bury them in a few feet of dung and spoiled hay, before our return. Compound that with several inches of rain, and the mass of moist, heavy, soiled hay effectively hid the ends.

Phil managed to uncover two of the three lines the first morning we were back. But the third was simply buried.

The cows have continued to eat through their hay bales all week without problem. For some reason, though, every time I went outside today I noticed a cow with a foot in that line. I would think, "Someone's going to get hurt. Lord, protect those cows."

I'm reading a book right now about a missionary who needed to learn much about prayer. And it struck me, just before dark, that I kept praying for the Lord to protect the cows, rather than just grabbing a pitchfork and shoveling for a while.

And so I found a pitchfork and dug in. How hard could it be?

There's a reason pitching hay isn't high on anyone's favorite activity list. The top inch was fluffy and light. Deeper than that, it was slow going. And, since the stalks of hay are easily two feet long, it was quite difficult to actually get a good purchase on the hay: like a heavy chain, the stalks immediately on top of the line connect to the hay on either side.

After I had cleared a few inches, and the sun continued to set, I came up with an alternate plan. If worse came to worse, I would just cut the line. It would be too bad to lose the line and hook, but better that than a cow.

I think it was the first time I've had to work in close proximity to the cows since I was gored. I've been extremely chary since then, but my personal discomfort was not important today: saving the lives of the cows was foremost on my mind. And so I worked, feet away from Snowman while he grazed; I looked up on occasion to see cow noses just inches from my face, driven by curiosity. At one point I stood up and a sheep tumbled where I had just been bent over.

And then the red end came! The wire ensconced outside the enclosure, I could thank the Lord for his protection of the animals, and go inside, easy in my mind. I had done what I could. And there is no doubt in my mind that there would have been a terrible tragedy. It had that sort of feel, that sort of advance warning. I've felt that way before and not acted; regretted it, too. How satisfying to act in time today.

Phil headed down today to do some lumber jacking. He said that he had dropped six or so tall pine trees when the chainsaw got stuck with less than an inch to go. He took the hatchet and cut a notch right above his chainsaw, but even that was not enough to free his tool. Perhaps it will fall in the night.

If not, we have ideas.

This is a good time of year. I have more time to read to the boys. And I head outside and just stand, looking at the spaces, trying to get a handle on what we've done, what we have yet to do. I went to look at the bee board. They are yet living, though I wouldn't have known it by the activity at the entrance (which was nil). They gave a gentle hum as I pulled the board, and then returned to their hibernation.

I watch the cows: not because they are more interesting than usual, but because it's startling to see how large the six-month bull babies are, how noticeably larger the two month-old heifers are (they grew so much just in the ten days we were gone).

This year flew by; it's nice to spend a little time just standing still.

A Day of Missing

I made rice last night, using a beautiful half gallon of top-notch stock, painstakingly made by peeling chicken feet, until it was thick and rich: incredibly nourishing.

And I forgot about that pot of rice, and let it cook not 45 minutes but three hours. (Once I left the frigid motor home kitchen, I had little thought to leave the warm trailer again, and our hunger pains were assuaged without the rice.) While the charred flavor is not intense at the top of the pot, it is present in every kernel. What a waste.

My first thought on waking was, "Buy a rice maker!" This seemed prudent, so I began looking at options.

It was not easy to find one that is not nonstick. (I do not trust DuPont when they say that their nonstick coating is harmless. I wore out several pans early in marriage, and I am sure those nonstick chemicals are lurking somewhere in our bodies. Nasty!) Hours later, I finally found one. But I'm not positive I want it (as apparently, without a nonstick surface, the rice sticks and burns anyway, which doesn't seem much different than what I'm doing now, except it would turn off when done).

Then I went to look for our books on cordwood construction. While I have always loved the polka-dot look, Phil has never been terribly enthusiastic with cordwood as a building material: as an engineer, he views them as giant drinking straws, sucking water into the house from the outside. But maybe he's changing his mind. We certainly have plenty of trees that we could use.

But after opening dozens of boxes, each pulled from the depths of our storage area and labeled "Homestead," I could find no books. Another hour or two later, and out of options, I reordered. (Especially frustrating as I found plenty of books I didn't need to have bought, or really care if I ever see again! Argh!)

Later, I went to make dinner, and I had put a binder of recipes ... somewhere. It has had a set home for months, but in my last cleaning, I must have moved it, to an unremembered destination.

Some days are like this, I suppose. Blah.

55.1 Inches

The near inch of rain we had on Tuesday brought the annual total to just over 55 inches. That's a lot of indoor days. A lot of runoff. There is no more predicted for the remainder of the year; that's fine with me.

While on vacation, I read a book about Sepp Holzer, a permaculture farmer in the mountains of Austria. I've watched several television specials about him, too: his 100 acre farm shines like a jewel in the midst of surrounding spruce forest, with 70 ponds and wetlands, 14,000 fruit trees, various animals and market garden beds.

He advocates building raised beds in a unique way. He digs a trench about a yard down, and drops in a downed tree. He piles dirt on, and sod with the grass facing in, ending with topsoil on the top. He aims to have the final bed about a yard or so wide and a yard or so high, so it looks, from the side, almost like an inverted ice cream cone. The tree in the middle offers free nutrients to growing plants for about a decade.

This is quite inspiring.

Quite inspiring, too, is his idea that you simply scatter 40 or so varieties of seeds as you walk the land, and then harvest the crops as they come up. And if you don't harvest 80% of your crop, that's fine, as the animals will come and consume the produce.

So I got to thinking about our farm. How could we be Sepp Holzer in Virginia?

I also had begun to wonder about milk production as a long-term goal. After all, it was not the easiest thing to find someone to come and care for the animals for ten minutes each day (truly: just check the water and check the chicken feed; not onerous tasks). If we had milking to complicate the absentee care, would we ever get off the farm? And even once a day milking becomes, well, extremely regular. Any task that's supposed to be done once a day is, by definition, a chore. Do we really want more chores?

Phil pointed out that last year at this time I read a book that really inspired me. We spent six months trying out the full-service CSA I'd read about in The Dirty Life. This was a good reminder. It's fine to be inspired, but to completely overhaul our own plans because I want our place to look like an established, successful farm is a bit ridiculous.

Before bed, I read the first chapter in one of my Christmas books, Harvey Ussery's Small-Scale Poultry Flock. I have eagerly read Ussery's articles in various magazines for several years, and the first chapter was just what I expected: elegant, informative, easy-to-read, persuasive.

He spoke of why chickens and eggs are so inexpensive, of the horrors of industrial production in America. It was helpful to hear that, even as an "expert," his chicken and eggs "cost me (considerably) more than I would pay for either equivalent in the supermarket." This has certainly proven true for us. Our feed and bird costs alone came to $4/lb., not counting infrastructure or time. To spend $3000 on broiler chickens felt like the height of ridiculousness, and I have had plenty of bitterness over that.

But Ussery makes the point that laying hens in commercial houses do not have space to stand up fully; that they are debeaked (mutilating and painful), fed GM waste materials, fed antibiotics every day of their life so they do not die, processed inhumanely and in filthy conditions. Two-thirds (yes, 66%) of supermarket chicken have salmonella, campylobacter, or both.

Foodborne illness costs about $1850 for each person who gets sick. My chickens started to not seem so expensive.

Ussery also mentions the moral dimension. If you eat a bird who has lived in horrific conditions from birth to death (and he details this much more extensively), he argues, "we are eating that anguish."

On a day that seemed dark, dreary and discouraging, I am encouraged to say that I did not eat that anguish.

And I will not grieve over the expense of my food again.

Homemade Rainbows

We spent this last week in Colorado, visiting family during Family Fun Week. We ran the boys pretty hard, until one night Joe fell asleep on the futon in a very odd position, striving to watch just a little more of It's a Wonderful Life.

One of the highlights for me was we went to see The Nutcracker. Isaiah's comment at the end was, "It wasn't as boring as I was expecting." I thought it was magical, to see people who move with what seems to be less than the normal amount of gravity. And during the dramatic Russian dance, two males dancers did leaps in which they touched their toes, in unison, seven or eight times. It gave me goosebumps.

I came home with a collection of beaded necklaces. My Mom had a collection of garage sale finds, mostly extremely ugly clunkers that needed a makeover. With my sister and sister-in-law, we spent several evenings exercising our creativity to create beautiful works of art perfectly suited to our own personalities and colors. My favorite, I think, was a recreation of either my dad's mother or grandmother's necklace. Although my grandmother died when I was in kindergarten, and my great-grandmother followed shortly afterward, I have vague memories of both. The light blue glass beads are, possibly, a century old.

And I made three suncatchers. My Mom has windows with dangling crystals that produce rainbows, and I was ready for some rainbows of my own (though her window does not have a guinea in the background, as does mine).

The sun came out this morning and produced the hoped-for rainbows. Very cheery.

The the charm on the bottom of the longest is a stained glass made by a friend of my mom. I like having the warming red at my window.

As we pulled in to the driveway close to 11pm last night, the stars shone bright in the moonless sky, and a hint of pleasant bovine smell wafted to me. Home again.

On rising, the bovine smell became more clear. The rain gauge showed 1.6" of rainfall during our week away.

The fourteen cows and six sheep had treaded multiple haybales and the resulting manure into what was our driveway. The standing water did not help the conditions in the dry lot, so Phil spent much of the morning forking hay over the deep manure so the cows would have a nicer place to rest.

I went to check on the bees. When I pulled out their tray, there was a faint buzz, so I know they are yet living, and hopefully doing well in this thus-far mild winter.

While away, I picked up a bag of worms from one of my sister's neighbors. This neighbor has raised worms for years, and had a simple and helpful set up: a rubbermaid with holes drilled in the sides and bottom. I took the worms out of their plastic bag (where they had gone through airport security without fatal consequences) and put them in a new box.

I was curious about my old box of worms, and was horrified to find that it was entirely moldy, with dehydrated worms. I could have figured that the cardboard would wick the innards dry, but I had been so focused on the joy of decent air movement, I had ignored the drying peril.

I plan to get Phil's drill tomorrow and make holes in a five gallon bucket, so the new batch of worms will live and thrive. No more dehydrated worms for me!