Milk Pail Trials and Gathering with Gratitude

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May we gather faithfully and well.

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

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

What to Do with Goat Kids?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Snow Musings and a Poem

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Longest Stretch of Failed Electricity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Electricity: Will It Stay or Will It Go?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Providential Confluence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cows and Heifers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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