Life Goes Back to Normal (Mostly)

It is SO nice to feel mostly normal again. A bit more clunky on my feet, perhaps, and as I walk around I think, "Her belly thrust pugnaciously before her" (and I realize that with a 10oz baby inside, I have another 8lbs of baby weight to add, so I haven't really begun to grow yet). It seems a very literary thought to cheer me in my reduced maneuverability. (What does it mean to have a pugnacious belly? I don't really know.)

I am getting through the accumulated debris that has clogged my desk and floor and coffee table and life for the the past four months. The three little white ropes were Phil's, and they go to summer cow fencing. The bottle caps were saved as a memory of fun treats with Dad, but those memories will live on in the boys' hearts, as the caps are in the trash. I came across some Valentine's Day candy bars, and the boys were gratified.

Phil finally finished up the engineering work on the last day that it was in the 70s. Now we're in the 90s, and since we had had only a few scattered hot days thus far, and mostly those were indoor days for him, I think he feels he is melting away.

I went to check the bees (they are still not building in their supers for some reason), and then pulled some garlic scapes from my much overgrown garlic patch (so overgrown, indeed, that I couldn't see the garlic for the weeds!). I was out for about a half hour, and thought, "This really isn't terribly bad. This heat is manageable." And then I stepped inside to our 76 degree climate controlled space and realized just how hot I was. And a half hour is not all day.

It is too bad that we couldn't plan everything precisely perfectly. In retrospect, to be able to get the engineering done when the weather was too cold and then too rainy, and to have been able to work outside the last month ... that would have been ideal. But the engineering projects weren't good to go in the cold and rainy weather, so my wish is not a failure to plan so much as a pipe dream of perfect efficiency.

As I feel better, I remember more about efficiency. There is something very soothing about feeling so sick you don't care about anything except survival. More energy and physical well-being also gives room for questions such as: is it worth my time to milk twice a day, since I often just give Elle the entire milking? That one definitely threw me yesterday, as I tried to rid my refrigerator of gallons of older milk. I finally decided I would give it to Einstein, give it to Elle, anything to just clear some space.

But that meant cleaning jars, heating milk on the stove (but not too hot lest it curdle and clog the milk bucket!), and generally driving myself crazy.

When sick, I tried to just do the next thing. Now that I feel better, the question becomes What is the next thing? And that is harder to answer.

Big and Beautiful Bugs

Isaiah found a bug on a window screen.

"It's a moth," he said. "See how the antennae are fern-like?"

I had forgotten that that is a defining characteristic of moths, but I'm glad he remembered.

In a slightly more heart-pounding moment, I was doing dishes last week (left over from the night before) when a large spider appeared from behind a glass.

It was one of the largest spiders I'd seen outside of bug museums. I had had a ghostly glimpse of (what I hope was) the same spider the day before. I had just entered the RV and what looked like a big bug skittered under the fridge. So I wasn't entirely unprepared for this big spider, but still.

Even knowing that it probably wasn't poisonous didn't make me want to pick it up. There's a threshold of what seems feasible and what doesn't, you know?

In the end, I avoided the spider and it avoided me, but it eventually expired. I think it was a nursery web spider, called the cheetah of the spider world because they pounce on their prey rather than make a web to trap their food. That would explain the speedy hiding.

In non-bug news, I think I have fully turned the corner, now at 20 weeks. I went to church and, though I ate almonds through service to keep nausea at bay, I didn't suffer four days of ill effects as I had a month ago. I am gradually trying to work my way through four months of accumulated debris and random papers. I figure if I do an hour or two a day, eventually I will have a clean space. Perhaps that's delusional. And we went to a friends' house on Memorial Day and I had no horizontal time for the whole nine hours, and even did the driving each way.

I did the driving because Phil had taken a nap all morning. I didn't think much about it. He doesn't usually take three or four hour naps, but I figured he was extra tired from late nights of work. He got up about noon and went outside almost immediately. He felt the world spin a bit and put his hand on the chicken plucker. Next thing he knew, he was on the ground, chicken plucker pulled over. He had passed out. So when we left a bit later, I did the driving.

At our friends', Phil grew more and more out of it. "Maybe I ate something," he said, and sure enough ... he had gone to a pot luck the day before without me there to remind him that salad dressings almost always contain MSG. (The pot luck was hosted by a family with similar clean eating to ours, and he was lulled into a false sense of security, forgetting that not all food was provided by the host family.)

Happily, as he spiraled down, he was able to enjoy their bathtub. As I drove home, he filled a gallon Ziploc with the most unbelievable quantity of stomach contents.

That must have been the key: his stomach had saved the poison and kept it from moving through his body. Because rather than the standard three day migraine, he felt a bit woozy, but mostly okay today.

And today the boys and I read for many hours from our beloved Seven Daughters and Seven Sons, one of the best books in the world. Set in the Middle East: an adventure story, a coming of age, a lesson in business, some sweet and less sweet family relations, the world's best romance, all from a story passed down in Iraq for over a thousand years.

Impulse Purchase?

I received an email from Swan Island Dahlias that they are having their clearance sale. So I decided I could have about $25 to splurge. If they take, planting five tubers should be doable. And if they burn up or something sad like that, I'm not out too much money. And since I'll need to lift them this winter anyway, I can plant them almost anywhere and enjoy them and move on. (Not to mention that my grandiose ideas of January were completely squashed by three months of feeling crummy. Perhaps its just as well. Moderation in all things, even dahlias.)

I had a funny milking experience. Yesterday evening, I was milking away and suddenly a calf nose poked through the cattle panel and went searching for a teat. I think Elle had managed to actually lick a front teat before I realized what was happening. I started to milk the front teats right away, and she sucked on my hand with her rough little mouth and made my milking go awry. For a while it went squirt, squirt, push nose away. Squirt, squirt, push. Then she tried to lick the milk out of the pail as I was milking. What a rascal! I think she pushed her head out a bit too far then, as she rather gave up, although she later needed no aid to extract her head.

I had a nasty milking experience. Belle was reclining this morning when I came to get her. Perhaps she needed to void in the night and didn't feel like standing up, or perhaps she was just extra unfortunate in her choice of resting places. In either case, it was the first time I've dealt with a manure-caked udder and teats. I tried not to think about it while cleaning her off, and just gave all the milk to Elle. I figured, if Elle was nursing, she would have gotten some of that manure anyway (ewww!).

Homemade Cheesecake

One of the things I craved some weeks ago was a cheesecake. But that was more or less a pipe dream, and life, and cravings, moved on.

In my milking, I had about a gallon of milk that I pulled from the fridge in the morning to prepare for the evening milking. By evening, it had separated into curds and whey, and I haven't had inspiration on what is best to do with it.

Then I remembered (after reading in my beloved Nourishing Traditions) that curds are basically cream cheese, and a simple draining would be enough to extract it. The soured cream on the top was—wait for it—sour cream (!).

My gallon of milk yielded enough sour cream and cream cheese to make a cheesecake (sans graham cracker crust, as I haven't found a reasonable recipe that uses bread crumbs, and I haven't found a good source of gluten-free graham crackers locally).

The very fact that I considered baking shows that today was a very good day for me. So good that I actually found myself sitting up with the computer for a time. This was truly outstanding, as just last week I thought, "Wow. I used to sit up to do my work! I can hardly imagine what that must have felt like." (I tanked at 4:30 and am still trying to gain the strength to milk the cow, but until 4:30, I didn't even have morning dry heaves! It was a mini-miracle!)

So my homemade cheesecake was a bit of a disappointment. I must have broken one of the six eggs, or maybe the pan we were whipping the whites in was a bit greasy, as the whites refused to form stiff peaks. The cream cheese mixture sort of curdled in cooking (or maybe I needed to let it sit a LOT longer before cutting into it, but Isaiah was eager). And, although I realize that Rapadura is a healthier form of sugar, it tends to yield grainy, strong flavored baked goods. The end product is mostly edible, I suppose, but not terribly cheesecake-y.

Wet Hair Inside

My family came to visit last Memorial Day. It had been beautiful weather last spring, and then they came and it was 90 and humid and felt like the world was melting.

Well, it is almost Memorial Day again. Yesterday we were tempted to put the A/C in, but there's something so wussy about using the A/C in May. I mean, for thousands of years people lived without air conditioning, and had wool or heavy cotton clothes as well.

I was reading to the older boys this morning, fan blowing in my face, when Abraham and Joe, who had been playing cars or something in the room next door came to show me something. I looked at them and they appeared to have showered. Their heads were wet; so wet, I asked if they had been putting ice cubes or something on their heads. "No, we're just sweating."

Well, that seemed a bit too extreme. So Phil put in the A/C and we ran it for a few hours until temperatures in and out equalized. I am thankful we have that option: I have grown more grumpy over the years with the heat, and the idea of sweltering with ever enlarging belly—I could say that the whole family is thankful that I have air conditioning.

There is little to report around the farm. Phil continues to work on engineering projects and does the daily necessary tasks, like moving cows, but nothing extra.

Belle yesterday annoyed me by both peeing and then pooping while I was milking, entirely fouling her area. Especially because she stands mostly still, but still moves enough that I could see that the cow pie was going to be my sitting place.

I tied her to another post, and she danced more than ever, but we finally finished.

The milk splashes a bit as I get towards the end, covering my legs with a bit of milk flecks. Yesterday a fly found this irresistible, and came to drink. I watched as he extended his tongue and sucked that milk fleck dry. Then he moved to another fleck, until that one, too, vanished. I've never felt like a fly soda dispenser, but it amused (or should we say tickled?) me.

The 17-year cicada chorus has begun. One magazine said it could get up to 90 decibels; happily, it's not that loud yet. We find a few of those red-eyed bugs around. Joe asked me about a bug on the ground and I called from indoors that it was a cicada. "I don't think so," he replied. "I think it's a dragonfly."

And when I went to look, sure enough, there was a dead dragonfly, its beautiful wings outspread. Joe is pleased with his farming expertise.

Boy Names Part Two

After I had Abraham, I was so euphoric over having three sons, I hoped we could have a dozen children. (The reality of three months morning sicknesses, though, makes that less realistic; with more children, and older children, the longer break in regular life becomes more costly each time.)

Our small hippie church was going through Psalms at the time, and the teaching elder waxed eloquent on poet Asaph: his elegant writing, his godly children—"Why don't we have more children named Asaph?"

And from the back, where I was nursing, I called out, "Consider it done!" which was well received by the amused congregation.

But though the congregation thought that was a joke, I was serious. There seemed to be so few godly fathers who had godly children in the Bible; that name inspired me.

Some years later, again expecting, I was sitting in church again, entirely lacking inspiration for a fourth name, and suddenly felt shaky. Not scary sick shaky, but holy experience shaky. I vaguely remembered a story I had heard somewhere about a man who God really commends in Jeremiah, but couldn't remember much about it. Zoning out from the sermon, I flipped through Jeremiah until I reached chapter 35.

God told Jeremiah to invite the family of Jonadab, son of Rechab, to the house of the Lord and serve them wine. So the family came, but when offered the wine, they said, "Our father told us to drink no wine and build no houses, but to live in tents, and we've obeyed him."

Then the word of the Lord came to Jeremiah and basically said that the family of Jonadab obeyed him, but God's own children wouldn't harken to him. Judgment was coming, but for the family of Jonadab, they would not want a man to stand before God forever.

This is an awesome story, made even more awesome by the realization that father Jonadab lived at the time of Ahab, about 250 years before Jeremiah. His family had obeyed him, generation after generation. Incredible.

And it had the needed J initial, and it felt really appropriate as we prepared to move to unimproved land. We lived in tents for a few weeks even! (We call him "Joe," and there are three generations of Joes in Phil's family, though from the more traditional "Joseph.")

It wasn't until recently that I looked up the meaning of those names. Jonadab means "Yahweh is bounteous" or "The Lord gave spontaneously," and Asaph means "collector, gatherer." I love the idea, as a farmer, that God gives his bounty and we collect it.

So we have four awesome boy names, and I had no inspiration for another.

The day I posted that I had no inspiration, the day I had started an email asking for prayer because I was just sad to be so uninspired, Phil had actually come to me and said, "I've been thinking about boy names, and I think I have one."

Caleb! Middle name: Enoch.

There are no Js, but then, we're really in a new period in life. This baby will not have an even year birthday; it won't have a brother about two years apart; it won't be born in my twenties; it will be a native Virginian and not a Coloradan. So why not really shake things up and go with all unique initials?

We both love the story of Caleb, who, as a younger man stood up to peer pressure and encouraged faithfulness of the people. When voted down, God preserved him, and so, as an octogenarian (!) asked Joshua for a mountain full of Anakim that he would take. And he took it, and it was his inheritance.

I resonate with saying, "Give me that mountain." I resonate with living well and finishing well, with going against the easy way of the culture, with having faith that what God says he is able to accomplish.

Not to mention that the /k/ and /l/ sounds mesh well with the /l/ and /k/ sounds of our last name.

And since high school I've liked Enoch. What could be better than that a man walk with God? It's probably not best as a first name, but as a middle name: perfect (with a /k/ sounds, too).

The crazy thing about this is that the day after Phil suggested Caleb, his aunt emailed to suggest a name: Caleb! "I love the name and his character in scripture is stellar." How fun!

So now this baby can come and have a name right away, whether boy or girl. And that is something to celebrate!

Three Boy Names

A few days ago, I posted a baby update. My sons were urging me to finish writing so I could read to them, so I neglected to finish the story.

We have loved choosing our boys' names. My mother's maiden name is dying out in her generation (no male offspring to carry on), and I had decided back in college that my first son's middle name would be her maiden name, carrying on the name one more generation. My grandpa was a master craftsman, doing amazing things with wood. He reminded me of the verse that says, "Make it your ambition to lead a quiet life, to mind your own business and to work with your hands."

We didn't find it easy to think of a first name to fit with "Lykosh." I happen to love the name Pierre, but that doesn't work. Phil didn't want any juniors named after him. So when we were waiting for the ultrasound, there was a book in the waiting room of baby names. We read through some A's before deciding that the /j/ sound was better. "Jadon" comes pretty early in the J's, happily. Phil was driving through the mountains later that day and said to himself, "His name is Jadon."

At the time, I thought that meant "God has heard," and I would like a man of prayer. And Jadon is mentioned in a list in Nehemiah, as one of those who rebuilt the wall of Jerusalem.

Last week I found perhaps a more accurate website that deals with Bible names. That translated "Jadon" as "He judges." And that might be more accurate for Jadon at this stage in life: he loves and longs for justice and righteousness.

Jadon worked well, too, because both Phil and I have J as a middle initial. So Jadon got a J initial, too.

With Isaiah, his whole name means Yahweh is salvation; He is exalted (or Let God be praised, depending on translation). As an English major, I really love the language and imagery in Isaiah; it's a powerful, beautiful book, with so many prophecies of the coming King. And Phil has always loved the book of Jude (such an ending: "Now to him who is able to keep you from falling, and to present you before his glorious presence, without fault and with great joy: to the only God our Savior be glory and majesty and power and authority, through Jesus Christ our Lord").

Abraham came shortly after we had listened to a lecturer speak about the broken family of Abraham, how the Christians have Isaac and the Muslims have Ishmael, and how God longs to restore that broken family.

And Abraham was called God's friend. I can think of little better than that.

We thought Abraham meant "Father of Nations," and his middle name, Josiah, meant "God has healed." So to have a son who would work with God to heal the nations ... we liked it.

Not to mention that Josiah is mentioned as a king who followed God with his whole heart, in a way that no king, before or after, did.

The recent website has a different translation of "Abraham." I am no Hebrew expert, but they make the argument that Abraham's name, given after the covenant with God, has embedded in the meaning "to cut a covenant," and the meaning of "they will fly." Which seems strange, except God is pictured as having wings, and the idea that we can follow God because of the covenant (and, combined with the middle name, have God's healing): I like that meaning, too.

After Abraham's birth, a friend pointed out that Abraham was known to follow God as an old man, and Josiah is known to follow God as a young man, so we had the spectrum covered.

Phew! Just writing all that has wiped me out. (After several pretty good days, today was a much less good day.) More on this subject to come....

Phil's Insomnia

Phil has reached full-blown adrenal failure. He has had a few nights this week with insomnia until 3am or 5am. And since I am up no later than 7:30, and the boys are up and playing a short time later, he was getting more and more run down.

The engineering work he's still trying to finish from his trip last month is a constant stressor. I always wish work on the block building was going more quickly, and he senses that. Plus the occasional need for him to make sausages for dinner, to manage the cows (and knowing every day that we need to de-stock (sell some of our herd), but without the infrastructure or time to do so) ... I've been plenty miserable physically, but I'm not dealing with big picture stresses.

He spent a little time laying block yesterday, but most of his time is spent in his office.

The boys and I have been reading together a good deal. The last two evenings Isaiah has come out to milk with me. He squirts milk directly into his mouth, which tickles and tastes good.

The boys head into the woods, too. Jadon went into a different patch of grass this afternoon, and shortly after had a horrific histamine reaction. I thought maybe he had been bitten all over by mosquitoes, so I sent him to shower. By the time he was done, he was sobbing and clawing at his face. The "bug bites" were actually hives, and his eyes had swollen out until it looked like he had been stung on the nose: red, shiny, puffy slits.

Happily, he wasn't having a hard time breathing, but anyone in that much misery is so upsetting to see. I tried a few homeopathic remedies, but either I chose poorly or he needed a stronger dose, so we went to Benadryl. The horrible itching and the redness ended, but the swelling hasn't diminished as we head to bed.

The Oddity of Milk

The more you think about things, the weirder they seem.
Take this milk. Why do we drink cow milk??
Who was the guy who first looked at a cow and said, "I think I'll drink whatever comes out of these things when I squeeze 'em!"?
Isn't that weird?

I think conversation should be kept to a minimum until afternoon.

Jadon was reading Calvin and Hobbes to his brothers this evening when that gem made us laugh hysterically.

I not only made hummus today when Abraham asked, but I made nettle pestofrom my nettle patch. I used powdered garlic from last year, as the garlic harvest this year isn't quite ready yet. It tasted like pesto, which surprised me because the nettles themselves, after being cooked, didn't have much flavor.

It was a mellow, normal day. I like that.

Baby Update: 18 Weeks

Have you heard of the way to tell the gender of a plant? Tie a magnet on a string and hold it over a plant. If the magnet swings in circles, it's a female; if it swings back and forth, it's a male. This can be helpful in a plant nursery where a person needs a male kiwi plant to pollinate female kiwi plants, for example.

It can also be a fun way to tell what gender of baby you are having: hold the magnet over a pregnant belly. I had had 100% accuracy until I tried the magnet test on a friend from church, about nine weeks along. The magnet swung in circles, but she had a boy.

So my scientific experiment this pregnancy has been to see if there is a point when the circles that I, as a female, give off are overruled by back and forth of boy baby. (Of course, the experiment necessitates that I have a boy; if I'm having a girl, the magnet would always swing in circles.)

Every few weeks, I've tried this. Girl, girl, girl. At 16.5 weeks: girl. At 17.5 weeks: boy.

This was interesting to me, especially when I read that 18 weeks is the time that gender parts are finalized in some way. Amazing that a baby as tall as a bell pepper and weighing less than a cup of butter has such well-developed male parts.

Am I sure this baby is boy? No, of course not. But the likelihood is pretty high. We've had our girl's name picked out for about twelve years: Genevieve Lucille, for Phil's grandmothers (a little Lucy Lykosh as a girl; a sophisticated Viv as a teen). Meaning: humble light. It's a great name.

But we have been totally uninspired about a boy name. Years ago, Isaiah had written a note that I found recently: It said, "Jadon J Lykosh [which isn't Jadon's middle initial] Isaiah J Lykosh Timothy J Lykosh." At the time, I asked Isaiah who this Timothy was supposed to be, and he just smiled. And Isaiah is named for a prophet. And Timmy is cute, and Timothy is a wonderful name. But I don't LOVE it.

I had my first midwife appointment since week 5 today. (Since this is my fifth baby, I asked that I be allowed to convalesce, as I have little need of education on the stages of labor or proper eating or the changes that may be happening in my body.) The appointment was super fun: my midwife graciously drew blood, saving me a trip to the lab. I heard the baby's heartbeat, a good 140 or so beats a minute. And I weighed myself.

I have been feeling a bit like a puff ball lately, or a Peter Paul Rubens model. And although I remember the watermelon belly of babies past, I don't remember the squishy feeling of all my other parts. No wonder—I've always gone in to labor at the exact same weight, whether at 39 weeks or 41.5 weeks. I am only 7 pounds away from that weight now, meaning that I weigh as much at 18 weeks as I always have in the past at 34 weeks.

I'm surprised how distressing that was for me. I think of myself as pretty low key about pregnancy weight gain usually, but I'm not feeling like that at the moment.

But lovely to have the healthy sound of a heartbeat. The baby becomes more real with every little kick!

Flowers and Concrete

We've had nice, cool weather. Phil started work on Tuesday with only a few more levels to go.

He had forgotten how exhausting the top levels are, hauling the concrete blocks up and up, and getting the mortar up and up. Progress feels excruciating slow to me, with nothing more physical to do than walk down to take photos.

I am done trying to predict how much longer until it will be until the walls are finished. I hope our sand pile, now much diminished, lasts until the end.

I was pleased to see some flowers poke their way back. I took photos of them all, so this is a comprehensive sample of all that's in bloom. Wild poppies.

A nice single pink flower with white speckles.

A cluster of purplish blooms.

And a pink cluster.

My one returning allium.

And is this a ubiquitous daisy? I'm happy for it.

We also had a day with some new experiences. My arms and hands are still trying to acclimate to the three gallons (almost) I milk by hand. In case I am ever away from the farm, we tried out a milker. Belle wasn't thrilled with it, but in the end, she stood and dealt with yet another unexpected experience. Good for her.

The clean up time, though, is a good deal longer than a milk pail, so I think we'll mostly stick with hand milking. And Belle is so well trained to the lead rope now, I can get her and gently bring her where I want her to go.

The other new experience was that Isaiah made baking powder biscuits yesterday, using our milk and our lard. They were tasty!

A Birthday Boy

Abraham celebrated his birthday a few days back. He had a birthday card arrive the day before and he slept with it, not done fidgeting until after 11pm. At 7:30 I woke to find Abraham holding his card in front of my face. "Happy Mother's Day! Can I open my card?"

As soon as we were done milking, we let him open his presents. I love the excited, happy look that a simple gift can give.

Jadon not only made his birthday dinner pizza, he also whipped the whipped cream for the cake topping, and decorated the cakes.

He used a massive number of "healthy" M&Ms and Isaiah put "healthy" jelly beans on in the shape of a 7.

It's always a joy to celebrate a birthday!

Phil's Workshop with Our Orchard Hero

Friday was over 80. After much of a week of rain, the humidity was unpleasant. I am thankful it's not like that often.

And the flies came out in force for the first time. After months of leaving fried rice uncovered from breakfast to lunch, it was a jolt to remember that, no, that isn't a prudent idea in the warm months of the year. Little fly eggs are recognizable and too disgusting to contemplate.

Thankfully, I had a pretty good evening, and had the energy to clean the kitchen. Ha! There's not much for flies to eat in a clean kitchen.

Phil has been burning the midnight (or 2am) oil on various engineering projects, which means he needs to catch up on sleep during the day. Nevertheless, he laid two courses of blocks on Friday. He has something like eight corners to do each time, with the various window and door openings, so none of the block laying is quick. He's hopeful that another two or three days will finish those final six courses and get the lintels placed.

Friday night, a freak gust of wind came out of nowhere. It was uncanny, to be washing dishes in quiet and peace and suddenly have a gust shake the RV and knock down the awning. Usually there's some prelude to such violence, but not this time.

Saturday night we were getting ready to go and milk, watching storm clouds head our way. The storm broke right as we headed out, and it made me laugh to see how much smarter the calves are now. When they were born, they stood in the rain, drenched, while their little covered corner went unused. Today, I brought out the milk and neither calf made any move to come and drink. They stayed under their covered pen and stared at me like I was insane. "Who cares if it's time to eat? We want to be dry, unlike you, crazy lady." (The rain did taper off shortly, so I could have waited and spared myself the trouble.)

But the exciting news was that Phil went to a workshop at a local apple orchard that had brought in our apple orchard hero, Michael Phillips, author of The Holistic Orchard, The Apple Grower, and, with his wife, The Herbalist's Way. Farmers who do apples and herbs: I want to be them. (Of course, I also want to be Doug Flack of Vermont, who does milk and Milking Devons and fermented vegetables. And I wouldn't have minded being Joel Salatin, with his cow/chicken/rabbit/egg operation. Or Mark Shepard and his large scale permaculture farm.)

After numerous workshops where Phil comes home to say, "Well, that was okay," it was fabulous to have him come home and say, "That was worth it. I'm glad I went." He enjoyed meeting some of the other class participants and enjoyed the time in the field. He came away quite encouraged that we are doing well thus far, and with ideas to both improve and just to carry on for the future.

One of the amazing things: Michael Phillips loves comfrey and stinging nettles (both of which I have now!). He plants them at year two or three. In those early years, he heaps on hay and ramial wood chips (those made from small diameter branches, and so vibrant with recent life, unlike larger trees with more woody matter). When it's time to plant, he simply pushes the earth aside and drops in the comfrey root.

Having planted 10,000 daffodils in hard clay, the idea of planting so simply and easily both inspires and makes me gnash my teeth. How simple we could have made it for ourselves! (Maybe.)

Phil's favorite part: if the nutrition in the orchard is high, orchard pests are not a problem. We haven't read much in Michael Phillips books about orchard pests. The workshop covered them in greater depth, but it was hopeful to see that it might not be a problem, as long as we keep increasing fertility.

I had considered going, but am glad, on balance, that I didn't. Abraham wasn't feeling well, and I took an unexpected three hour nap in the afternoon. Pregnancy continues to wipe me out.

Rain Keeps Falling

We are thankful for our well cut-off switch. Someone who shall remain nameless forgot to turn off the water to the cows one night. The next morning I commented that we had horrible water pressure. The well had run almost dry and, as it should, cut off. Then it had the chance to recharge so by the time we turned off the hydrant, the well was ready to go again.

Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday it rained intermittently, sometimes heavily. Happily we only had to milk once in the rain. We pulled Belle into the big blue barn. She was not happy with the drum of the rain on the roof; she was not happy being tied to the concrete mixer. After ten minutes of fighting a dancing cow, Phil pulled her head right up to his chest and held her like that until I was done. Horns two inches from his face: a bit of an intense time.

Phil spent some time cutting down the rye. The boys put some of the cut rye into the calves' pen, and today Elle gummed some of it. She didn't swallow anything, just chewed it well and spit it back out. So cute!

What was less cute was my milking experience this morning. Belle had spent the night grazing the regrowth of the rye, all flush, green growth. Cows love this, but it gives them the runs.

Whether Belle couldn't quite get her tail out of the way, or because she spent the night resting in an old cow pie, or because the rain had left everything rather sopping, I eyed askance her soggy green tail end, usually a beautiful blonde.

I was right to be disgusted. Perhaps she decided to enjoy cow revenge, or perhaps the flies were biting especially early today, but for whatever reason, the tail hit the back of my head again and again. (Never had that happen before.) And right at the end she improved her aim and hit my face a few times for good measure.

I showered after I was done.

Today, with the sun out, he spent hours trying to finalize the purchase for flooring and ceiling materials. Once finished, he headed out to lay block, and finished the fourth corner. No more corners to do!

Our bull has decided to join an opera. He has been bellowing (what feels like) around the clock for the last three days. He looks fabulous; nothing appears to be wrong with him—he just feels the need to express himself. Loudly. Constantly.

The Episode of the Millipede

I had cleaned the bedroom yesterday and I left a pile of detritus on the table. The pile included the fly swatter, hidden away.

That night, I was eating a second or third dinner. Phil and Isaiah suddenly saw a millipede emerge from under the light fixture on the bedroom ceiling. They couldn't find the fly swatter. Bummer.

When I came back, Isaiah told me about the horror. "I don't think I'm going to sleep very well tonight. What if it comes out?"

A bit later: "Mom! It's emerging!" But when I shined my headlamp up, "If you do that, it will go back under the light! It freaks out when it sees the light."

So I went to find the flyswatter while the millipede started to scoot back. I steeled my nerves and whacked that bug!

It had a full-sized mattress to fall on. Unfortunately, it fell in the one worst possible place: the small area of sheets right next to sleeping Joe's gaping sleeve. It headed right up Joe's shirt!

Now I know that there are poisonous centipede/millipede bugs somewhere in the world. I was pretty sure that I would have heard about killer centipedes (I mean, I know about black widows and brown recluses, but not deathly centipedes); nonetheless, the idea that any multi-legged bug might be crawling around my son's shirt: ugh.

I pulled Joe up and grabbed that bug. Happily, Joe sleeps heavily. In that split second it started to pinch my finger, so I threw the bug across the room, and it landed in an open book. Should I smoosh it?

Then Isaiah yelled, "It's getting away!" There it headed under the dresser.

Whack, whack, whack. Finally it died.

"I still don't think I'm going to sleep well tonight," said Isaiah. "How did that thing get inside?!"

And Then Something Went Pop!

While I continue to spent most of my time convalescing (not a single good day this week, after five a week ago!), Phil has had two good days of block laying.

He came within three blocks of finishing the fourth corner this evening before he ran out of mortar. And since Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday look like rain, it might be a while yet before he finishes.

Abraham and Isaiah made a huge batch of chocolate chip cookies a few days ago. They got sick of baking them, so I wrapped the dough in parchment paper, put it in a plastic bag, and put it in the freezer.

Abraham asked if we could thaw it, so I pulled it out and left it on the table. When I came in this morning, the bag was open with some suspicious looking spoonfuls of dough out of the top. "Isaiah, did you like the dough?" He readily agreed that he did, but then said, "But I didn't have any today!"

So I looked at Abraham, who gave such a sweet, guilty, happy smile, Phil and I burst into laughter. There is something about a baby-faced blonde boy with a wide grin that is so irresistible.

Abraham made a batch of cookies and overcame his fear of turning on the toaster oven (turn past 40 minutes to activate, then set).

Later I noticed that my roll of parchment paper looked like it had been crumpled. I picked it up and it was dripping! Too weird! Abraham said, "Well, I dropped it outside. Then I had to wash it off because it was dirty!" (This might sound odd, but it makes sense: he must have been using it on the kitchen table right next to the RV door, and lost his grip, since the paper is longer than his arm, when it rolled down the steps and outside.)

Perhaps that's not exactly how I would have dealt with it, but I appreciate his initiative and desire to make things right.

Speaking of making things right ... Phil's finger has never been right since his ligament damage last November. He never regained full range of motion; the joint, though not swollen, was significantly misshapen, and he couldn't put his hand flat.

When he brought the tractor in for the evening, he banged his hand and something went Pop! That's not usually a good sound as related to the body, but in this case, it restored full range of motion, allows him to lay his hand flat, and reshaped the finger so it looks as it should.

Apparently the doctor missed a slight dislocation. The idea of bopping the finger into place at the time of the accident was inconceivable due to pain, but how nice that the finger is restored now with a simple bang.

Improved Biology!

Last week, when we had the first dozen small bantam eggs, Isaiah asked if he could make deviled eggs. His Grandma had showed him how, and he loved them enough to attempt them solo. He hard boiled the eggs alone, peeled those tiny, fresh eggs alone, mixed the ingredients, and brought me a plate of them when he was finished.

It's hard to give a sense of how tiny these birds really are.

They are almost like well-feathered pigeons in size, and their eggs, when cracked, are mostly yolk with a bit of white.

We like having the different colors, though we have mostly the reddish-orange birds, with a few white and a few black (with specks of color here and there).

Joe fetched the two eggs out of the nesting box and carried them with him as we explored the farm together.

Abraham helped demonstrate the eggs' size.

Without a full-size egg for comparison, though, there's not enough contrast.

As we walked, Joe dropped an egg a few times. He fell a few times. And once he dropped the egg in the orchard and, despite knowing where he was standing, and looking for an off-white egg in tall green grass, we spent several minutes searching. We could not find it, and we didn't want to walk too far. Finally Abraham spotted it. The grass is a lot taller than it looks, and the egg had nestled down in the vegetation, almost like in a nest. The egg eventually made it back, with only a small dent.

Joe reminded me that I should use "all the dented ones" first, before getting started on the whole ones.

After milking this morning, Phil moved Belle out of her rye patch and up above the apple orchard, next to the road. She was ecstatic. The mooing she had done, grumpily, off and on all day yesterday ceased. And when we went up to see her after a day of grazing, the area looked untouched. She has a few more days there.

Phil brought her down for milking, and back up when the milking was done.

After 24 hours in the first paddock, Phil moved the cows to the next. We went over to see this fabulous pasture Phil mentioned. The grass looked good, as little Elvis, firstborn this year, showed off his new hornbuds.

Charlemagne was ready to mount Fern, though she wasn't ready for such attention. (Phil also noticed him wishing and hoping with Catherine yesterday, and Clover was wishing and hoping with Charity today.) Spring is in the air!

A straight-down photo of the previous paddock shows that they did a good job grazing, but there is enough grass to hopefully grow back quickly. That's known as "stockpiling," and Phil is getting a better eye for what that means.

And while I'm talking cows, I could mention that the calves we have penned are so friendly and fun.

No longer the size of Shadow, they are growing well.

Shadow is a good dog. We tie her up before milking, but she still willingly comes when we call, knowing that she will be restricted in movement for 20 minutes or so.

One of the more disgusting things we found on our stroll around the farm was a web that we hadn't seen here before.

It took me a bit to realize that the leaves on that tree had been completely defoliated.

The eastern tent caterpillars had taken over. We clawed open their tent with sticks, and smooshed the caterpillars we could get. Disgusting!

A regular spider web is quite different.

The biggest amazement here, though, is the growth. Not so much in construction, though Phil did do a full batch today for the first time in a few weeks.

The biology is growing. It feels, really, like it's exploding. That's what most of my photos were about today.
The comfrey in the greenhouse, en masse and humming with bees.

And close up, beautifully flowered.

My comfrey patch in the orchard.

The boys enjoyed flipping from the person-less comfrey photo to the one with Abraham. Pop! There he is!

Looking very handsome.

And in the next row up, such a lush carpet of my beloved crimson clover.

And a bit above that, the lush carpet of grass and clover, where Joe lost his egg.

Down from there, in the lane of orchard that has plenty of broom grass and where I've noticed the last holdouts of the previously pervasive poison ivy, there is no poison ivy to be seen.

But there are little wild strawberry blossoms!

The baby apples are smaller than peas.

Some trees have quite a few coming.

And a couple trees are just now flowering!

In a different sort of fruitfulness, the rye that Belle finally gave up grazing is fully headed out now, and grew amazingly tall, four feet and more.

In one section, you can see how the rye overshadows the peach trees in the foreground. Those trees have been transplanted at least once in their three years on the farm, but that rye looms large behind them.

I think Phil plans to scythe the rye down. (He mentioned today, though, that as much as he loves the scythe, he's eying a weed whacker.)

I love how grain catches the setting sun and glows luminous.

I was thrilled today to spot a few young comfrey plants poking up near the apples we planted last fall. We had tried to do a small guild, with daffodils and comfrey and peastone around the tree, but I hadn't seen any sign of the comfrey until today.

And the last fruitfulness: asparagus, which I haven't harvested at all. I was so eager, and I pulled a stalk or two, but the idea of odd-smelling urine was a bit too much for my pregnant nose and brain to deal with.

So much fun on the farm!