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.

One Less Booster Seat (Happy Birthday, Jadon!)

Eight years ago today, I gave birth for the first time. That smallest of my babies still has no fat on him, but has grown into a young man who is such a helper.

As we ate cake today, Phil and I talked about love languages. You've probably heard the theory: everyone has one of five primary ways that they give or receive love: acts of service (I made Phil coffee every day when we first got married); gifts (my Mom looks all year for gifts for her loved ones, to show us that she's thinking of us); physical touch (Abraham will give me a hug every half hour); quality time (let me talk to a friend for three hours a year, and I know we're good); words of affirmation (I'm not sure I know anyone with this one, but please say nice things).

With Abraham, his love language is blatantly obvious. He wants to hug his parents many times a day. Endearing and sweet.

While we laughed about how obvious Abraham's is, I realized that he's showing me love because he loves me. I think I'd always assumed that he was trying to fill his own needs, not that he was actually giving me love. What a joyful thought!

With that realization, the older boys' love languages suddenly clicked into focus. I will come into the trailer sometimes and find Jadon putting away the final three Little People figurines, after picking up the dozens we have, all by himself. Or the other night, Joe was pretending that he was tired, and Jadon pulled the sheet up for Joe, so he could lie in bed and act like he was sleeping. Out of water? Jadon will fetch it, often without even being asked.

So Jadon is an acts of service guy. And he loves me.

Isaiah is not an acts of service guy. (I'm not this type, either, so I can relate.) But if Phil wants company in moving the cows, or running to the hardware store, Isiaah's ready and willing. Or maybe I'm doing a bit of work in the afternoon: Isaiah will come and say, "Is there anything we can do together?"

He's clearly a quality time guy. And he loves me.

Phil wasn't feeling so good today, but he managed to run some errands, including all the laundry for the last two or three weeks. He had done it on Sunday evenings, but I think it's worth it to get a little less done around the farm and have a little more rest time on Sunday.

I fed the bees five times today, which means I picked up nine empty containers, buzzing with bees, dumped them out and let them swirl around me, crawl up my arms, land on my legs. For the desperately hungry bees that flew into the sugar water as I poured, I fished them out with a weed, and rescued them with a twig.

Sadly, a large bumble bee got caught in my shorts and stung my leg. I'm hoping I will be able to bend my knee tomorrow. And I should probably try to get an EpiPen, just in case I have a stronger allergic reaction one of these days.

The sheep are more friendly, as we move them daily. Most come right up to me now, and kiss me or let me touch them. I appreciate that. And where they've traveled, the orchard floor is fairly well cleared. And growing back again quickly.

The cows' area doesn't appear to be growing back quite so quickly, but Phil did see dung beetles the other day. Awesome!

Secondhand Gator?

We drove four hours round trip today to look at a used Gator. I had hoped for clarity, but came away confused: it's not precisely what we want, and nine years old with over 1100 hours on the machine. But it's half the price of a new one, and would probably be sufficient for our current needs. But future needs? Who knows. Is it worth spending more of our quickly-shrinking savings? Who knows? ("God knows," the boys would say.)

And mechanical things confound us. We've brought the chipper in for repairs twice already, and it's ready to go in a third time. Phil says its a design issue with the motor itself.

I suppose that beating myself up for a purchase that hasn't worked as smoothly as I would hope, I should remind myself that we purchased it (like the babydoll sheep) for a specific reason, and, based on our research, it was the best choice we could find.

Which leads back to the Gator—is this the Gator for us?

The bees slowed their incredible consumption, though they still finished off almost another ten pounds. I'm thankful that, as many times as I've had to replenish their feeders with hundreds of circling bees, I haven't been stung, or even threatened. They crawl on my arms and tickle me! (And give me the heebie-jeebies!)

Today is my last day as the mother of four under eight. I realized today that, though after Joe's birthday on 8/8, we'll have boys aged 2-4-6-8, it is mathematically impossible (assuming a full-term birth), even if I were to get pregnant this month, for me to ever have boys ages 2-4-6-8-10. And the Lykoshes will finally have an even-numbered year without a family member added.

We made three types of pork sausage today. The boys and Phil helped cut the scraps and run them through the meat grinder.

All three types were good.