A Woman Can Hope

The fact that we have over a dozen chickens left on the homestead, and have not collected one single egg in over a month, must be living proof that we have made the right decision to leave the farm life behind. The old biddies have a good excuse to have slowed down on their production, after all, a chicken can only be expected to lay for so long. Lucky for them they are grandfathered in due to their good looks, but the new pullets are dangerously close to being labeled as free loaders. Six month old egg machines that don't lay eggs have begun to raise this retired farming wife's suspicions. Our hope is to bring the flock (preferably an egg laying flock), chicken coop and all, to the new place next Spring. Until then, it looks like fake, white store bought eggs for all.

If I Never

If I never have to chase another steer through the soybean field it will be too soon. These three have been training for the Olympics obviously and can now sail over every pasture fence we've worked so hard to install these past few years. They are banned to a dry lot with four foot high wooden fences and a hay bale until that truck and trailer can come to load them up later this week.

Oh Mercy!

 

We named the new Jersey heifer Mercy. No other name seemed to fit. It may have had something to do with the fact that I expect both of us will need quite a bit of extra mercy if the time ever does come to attempt to milk her on a daily basis. She has mostly just been enjoying her easy life of grazing on green pastures for the past couple of months since bringing her home, but the time came to gentle her if we were ever going to do it. Rather than me risking life and limb I called in the pros: two young nephews who have a reputation for being Cow Whisperers.

 Thankfully they were the first ones to rub her all over.

They even broke her to ride, in case, you know, I get the crazy idea to ride her after I'm done milking her.

She gave them a little run for their money, but all in all she proved to be just what we had hoped for with a Jersey: calm, sweet and docile.

Since Mercy proved to be so easy the boys decided to gentle Thomas the big steer. 

 

He now thinks he should get a hug from me every day, too. Every day until I eat you, Mr. Thomas.

 

The Busy Season

We wake up tired these days and go to bed even more tired yet. The sun starts shining earlier, and sets later, and our bodies believe that they have to keep up with it. As long as that orbiting ball of fire is making its trek across the sky we assume that there must still be time to finish one more project.

The last of the seven bottle calves are close to being weaned. The vast difference between the couple months of their births making the red and white steer appear tiny in contrast to its more mature counterparts. The Black Angus are dwarfed under the Holsteins tall, lanky forms, their growth appearing outward rather than up.

There are still five does milking, with a total of thirteen goats in all. Too many bucks make up the lot of them, with one Craigslist reply away from reducing our herd. Soon it will be weaning time for the kids as well, which puts another item on the never ending list: more goat fencing.

Our young replacement pullets are thriving, and the new clutch of Silkie chicks are protected well under the wings of their possessive momma. One little black fluff ball doesn't realize it is a Light Brahma mix  that was adopted into the Bantam family when we snuck some extra eggs under the broody hen. Soon it will tower over its siblings.

The garden is growing weeds faster than edible plants it seems, and if we don't catch up on our daily barrage we may just have to give up. Using all manual labor, busy hands digging deep in the sandy soil to remove pesky roots, makes for buff muscles and nice farmers tans.

Several new fruit trees are growing well- four peach and another pear, plus some Saskatoon blueberries that the deer seem to have acquired a taste for which continue to remind me that tree fencing needs to be wrote on that list as well. We are attempting blueberries yet again, hoping for a freezer full of them one year. There may be at least a taste for everybody in a few days if we can keep the birds away from them.

Overall, it's been another season of missing. Intensely missing my son. Longing for eternity to begin.

Almost too tired to even grieve, the pain still refuses to end. Flashbacks enjoy popping into my weary brain lately, attacking when I have little resolve to fight them off. The balance of living before the accident and after is continuous. Life goes on. A mother's heart doesn't want to. Joy is rarely ever bereft of the longing. Laughter only hides the scar, still too fresh to ignore. Somehow living here, longing to be there. Finding purpose in one more calf bottle, pulling one more weed, storing up one more treasure, praying one more prayer for all these young souls that surround me, hoping for hope, waiting for what is not yet.

I continue to be reminded that the year of the Lord's favor will come. He will:

"Provide for those who grieve in Zion-

to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes,

the oil of gladness in the morning,

and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.

They will be called oaks of righteousness,

a planting of the Lord for the display of His splendor."

Isaiah 61:3

1 Thessalonians 4:13-14 tells me to not grieve like those without hope, or even to grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope. I believe that Jesus died and rose again and also that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him. The familiar words almost become rote in my tired state. I have repeated them so often that it becomes hard to make them exciting lately. I pray for God to wake me up to the gospel again, remembering those same words being uttered just before the accident.

Eternity.

I stop and ponder the word again. Eternity. Going insane wondering what Trent is doing there, wondering why mine is taking so long to begin. Wondering what to do in the meantime. Begging that my children would all be found there in Heaven together.

Wisconsin Wood Ticks

Male wood ticks have "suspenders."

Female wood ticks have "aprons."

Farm life includes lots of creepy crawlies, and this time of year the most popular creepy crawly around our neck of the woods is the wood tick. Free ranging chickens help control them in the yard, but continuous body checks are still required. When our kiddos were little we stumbled across how to identify if the crawling buggers were male or female, which made the scream fests over picking them off a little easier to manage. Now, instead of freaking out at the sight of eight brown legs, everybody gathers around to look for suspenders or aprons before escorting the pests to their doom of the swirling toilet.

The Sovereignty of God as it Pertains to Calves and Farmwives

After pondering the deep truths of Scripture, watching an encouraging message via the worldwide web from titans of the Christian faith, talking to Alexis about my amazement over the intricacies of God's working through His sovereignty while mixing calf bottles and drinking one cup too much of coffee, I finally walked out the back door to start chores, only to discover the dry lot gate standing wide open.

With. not. one. young. bovine. in. sight.

The sinking feeling of despair was bolstered by my wise cracking teenage daughter who was quick to repeat her mother's wisdom, "Well, God's sovereign, right?"

Right.

Two months and too many bottle feedings flashed through my brain in an instant. I considered my options: crawl back into bed and wait for Rob to come home and deal with it, or humble myself before the neighbors who have already had to witness our horses in their yard this Spring and the whole herd of goats in the middle of the road last week. I chose the latter. Back up to the house to put on some mascara and some mud boots, then we grabbed the keys and hopped in the truck.

Being too early to eat crow pie we just made a quick jaunt down to the South neighbor, perusing the East neighbors field along the way, before we decided to turn around and check out the high grass beyond our own soybean field. The little buggers were found in the cool shade of the tree line, leaving their little cleft toed imprints in the soft dirt as a clear trail to follow.

Yep, God's sovereign alright. But sometimes I wonder what the benefit is of a forty year old farmwife running through the soybean field chasing after five black and white steers.

Homemade Dishwasher Detergent

Since we have loved our homemade goat's milk soap laundry detergent so much, I decided to try some homemade dishwasher detergent. I scoured the web for recipes, and settled on trying this easy, common one:

Homemade Dishwasher Detergent

 

1 Cup Borax

1 Cup Washing Soda

1/2 Cup Citric Acid

1/2 Cup Canning Salt

Mix all ingredients in a glass jar and shake well. Add 1 Tablespoon per load.

I had most of the ingredients already since we keep them on hand for making laundry detergent. There was even a canister of the Citric Acid in the cupboard left over from cheese making last summer (Citric Acid can be found in the canning section of most stores), so the only thing I had to buy was the canning salt.

Various sites suggested adding three drops of liquid dish soap on the door prior to starting the load, as well as some vinegar to the rinse cycle.  The dishwasher is running as I type with the first trial run - can't wait to see the results!

The Last of the Bunch

 

 Belle delivered twin bucks, the last of the bunch for this kidding season.
Oh my~ I do love those spots!

 

Redneck Farmers

 

You haven't truly lived until you've experienced the excitement of hauling two Black Angus bull calves two-and-a-half hours one way in the back of your minivan. For some reason the word "Redneck" keeps rolling through my brain.

The Problem With Farm Auctions

 The problem with farm auctions is that you get so caught up in the excitement and hand waving that you forget just what you went there for in the first place. Standing in the dusty Fair building next to the local farmers and wanna-be farmers watching one bovine after another traipse through the make-shift ring gets your adrenaline pumping and soon your dreams change shape right before your very eyes. I didn't even realize that I had dreams of raising a Jersey milk cow until tonight.

After the first group of beautiful heifers came through I started to think that a refrigerator full of unpasteurized, hand squeezed milk would be the next best thing, but their high price tag scared me off. Then, a few sales later, and with only a couple of stragglers left, the slim pickins got pretty cheap.

There she was, the skinniest most bedraggled red critter in the barn. When the auctioneer could barely get one hundred dollars to start the bid I nudged Rob and suggested she would make a perfect mother's day present. Up went his hand, then again and again, and number twenty-nine was the proud new owner of  our very own Jersey heifer. After finding a trailer to haul her home in we tucked her into her own dry lot and will patiently wait for the sun to come up in the morning to see what we really bought.

Now for a name: Daisy, Milly, Mercy, Petunia, Hamburger...

Spring Ducks

Farming must be genetic. Being raised on a catch-all farm with a collection of critters that did little more than to satisfy the beckoning of my father's soul of the need to have them surrounding him, the homesteading gene was passed along strongly. Of the five girls in our family only my sister and I inherited it, and in our home only one, possibly two, kiddos seem to have a knack and love for raising animals like their grandfather did.

Ever the farmer and business man, Cole ordered some ducklings from the local Co-op. They were purchased with the intent being for resale, although I've heard much begging to keep "just two." Nope, we've tried ducks over the years and there is just no place around here for them. Granted we have a pond, but being that pond freezes over in our cold Wisconsin winters means those same ducks have to house with the chickens in the below zero weather - a mess the chickens don't appreciate, either. So, we'll be content to enjoy their peeping and waddling antics for the next couple of days while they grace our basement with their cuteness.

Even if he doesn't make his fortunes on them the excitement, plus the memories made, were worth more than any green printed paper bills could ever pay for. What would the cost be to look in the rear view mirror and see all those smiling faces? Little girls wearing shorts and cowgirl boots, sneaking the favorite farm cat with for a van ride, giggling over baby ducks pecking your fingers, and being happy to do chores: priceless.

It All Washes Off

I don't think there is anything quite so sanctifying to a marriage as chasing pigs together. A dozen or more swine, a great big muddy pigpen with two huts to circle around a few times, a stick in each of your hands and a big hole in your barn boots: what could be better?

For several years we have been raising pigs over the summer to supplement our freezer and the freezers of a few friends. There isn't much that beats homegrown, juicy pork chops or all that good pork sausage and bacon, unless of course it's your own homegrown, pasture raised T-bone steaks ... Mmm-mmm!

We were able to get quite a deal on some young feeder pigs earlier this spring, but it meant driving two-and-a-half hours one way and buying sixteen of them, which was a few more than we needed. But, being the frugal farmers that we are with the hopes that this year {it has to be this year!} the farm will come ahead, we jumped in with both feet and brought home a truck full of porkers. After raising them for a few weeks we put adds in the local paper and on good ol' Craigslist and soon were fielding e-mails and phone calls and hoping so-and-so farmer would actually show up this time with enough cash in their hands.

Somehow I escaped the major part of the chase for the first prospective buyers, but I was hanging around too close to the barnyard during the nice weekend weather and was caught wearing mud boots which meant I was the perfect partner to waltz around the pig pen a few times. Very rarely do I ever hear Rob come close to uttering profanities, but his lips came pretty close to quivering some choice words on Saturday evening - probably more so at his other half who had some choice words of her own before it was all said and done.

We finally sorted out the four pigs that were asked for on the phone only to have the young gentleman show up and ask if he could take five. Yep, we're not turning down farm sales. Luckily, he brought two friends to help with the chase. I was wise and hid in the barn.

Just as we got in the house to sit down to a hot supper and began wondering what we would do with one lone pig for sale, lo-and-behold there was an email wondering if we would want to trade a pig for a Nubian buck. I'm always in the market for a new buck, even when there are four others in the barn, so out we went again to sort out that one last spotted porker. A very happy farm wife went home later that night with a smelly pig oinking in the hatchback of her minivan.

Later, Rob came to kiss me good night, but hesitated, which is very unusual for him. "Umm, honey," he said, "have you looked in the mirror yet?"

"It's okay honey, it all washes off," I told him.

Another Easter

Obviously, our plans are not God's plans. (Isaiah 55:8)

Our plans were to enjoy a big family Easter celebration at my sister's house. God's plans proved to be different. A wide spread cold bug rapidly blazed its way throughout their home and scared all the aunts, uncles and even grandma away lest we, too, get the phobie just when the sun is predicted to finally shine on our Wisconsin tundra. I try to look for the good in the alternative, often amused as I ponder the "other plans" that God brings us. No doubt He has a sense of humour, and no doubt He answers prayers.

After lamenting to that same sister about another holiday to get through without Trent, all the while knowing that I needed to be a mother for all my other little dumplings who are still here, she prayed a Traci prayer, suggested I eat my chocolate bunny plus Trent's, then petitioned God to give me "a sugar rush that lasts all week and has you giggling about all sorts of strange things!  Ha!"

God did not fail.

Easter morning began at our house with my serenading the sleepy children with the song "He Arose!" He arose, He arose, Hallelujah, Christ Arose! Which was followed by a very sincere, wise-cracking eight year old who must have mistook my lyrics since he replied "I don't have rolls. You have rolls!"

Giggles. About all sorts of strange things. Ha!

Watching videos of Easter songs at church, checking on a couple of very pregnant goats and an expecting momma bunny, then making a batch of soap for a customer filled my afternoon. Leftover T-bone steaks for supper with a grumpy card game followed by snuggling on the couch ended the night. It was reported throughout the day that there were a few missing chocolate Easter bunnies. If not the whole, at least their long ears had disappeared. All this joy, and yet the ache never leaves.

A few things I jotted down to keep myself sane:

Our satisfaction should always be sought in God- any other attempts to fulfill it here (feelings, people, material possessions, experiences, etc.) will fail. For the Christian, this is the time of suffering, as evidenced by Jesus' life. He was the example. But like Him, we should trust the Father as we walk this hard road and look to the joy beyond the cross, all the way to Heaven and eternity. Pain drives us to our knees, to the Christ who satisfies. So many other things used to satisfy, now they all pale in comparison.

God's timing is not our timing. To Him a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years like  a day. I content myself with knowing that not a single tear, or another long night or the ache of my heart will be without great glory that is yet to be revealed. Glory not even worth comparing to these trials. I force myself to embrace the reality of eternity, of Heaven, of this temporary life. I strive to work for the food that endures to eternal life.

I am weary in the battle. My mind feels numb, by body is on auto-pilot. Just where God wants me: weak so that He can be strong.

(Hebrews 12:2; Romans 8:18; Colossians 1:24; 1 Peter 1:3-9;2 Peter 3:8; John 6:27;2 Corinthians 12:10)

To Wrestle Like Jacob

Six below is the predicted high for the day here in Wisconsin. Which means that, at least twice a day, we get to bundle up and brave the elements to care for our menagerie of critters. Enduring a nearly eighty degree difference in temperature, and a frozen water spicket, all for the sake of having some home grown beef in our freezer. The thought of a little corner lot in town with a plastic goldfish floating in a bowl has become appealing and common dinner conversation as of late. Or at least goat farming in the Bahamas. There must be a need for handmade soaps and milking Nubian does somewhere in the Atlantic region.

To pass the time of these cold days we work on home school: adverbs and adjectives, transitive and intransitive verbs, algebra and phonics. Character and self-control are highest on our list of curriculum in four young souls (not to mention my own), and seems to be the subject that constantly demands the most attention. Two teenagers and two middle schoolers in one old farmhouse in January makes for many opportunities of growth, and throw in there the dog that constantly needs in and out, in and out, always just as you've settled nicely into the recliner. Each with our own weaknesses, as iron sharpens iron, we go on .....

Winter is also a time for quilting. Somehow, I have gotten four baby boy quilts behind in my gift giving this past year. Three tops are ready to be stretched and sewed together, with more quilt patterns running through my brain than I could attempt to sew all year long. It's been nearly two years since I could even think of quilting. I'm not sure if that's the first glimpse of the healing they say comes eventually in grief. If it is I think that's why I resist it so; I never want to be healed of missing my son and thinking this is normal. So I sew between the tears.

And cry over hatching chicks. Chicks that haven't hatched in an incubator in my dining room for nearly those same two years. The pipping hole found me crumpled on the cherry laminate next to the table while the house was quiet and the sun hadn't peeked out yet. Crying as I longed for feather legged chickens like the one's we picked up a week before the accident. Crying because there might not be feathered legs, crying because I'm tired of waiting for eternity to begin.

As I often do when I need solid encouragement of Scripture, I searched for the Desiring God blog, and found Jon Bloom's post on Jacob's time of wrestling with God to be so applicable.

"And what changed him from fearing man to trusting God’s word was prolonged and painful wrestling with God. Sometimes, in your battle with unbelief, your greatest Ally will wrestle you — he might even make you limp — until you’re desperate ... "

I have felt like Jacob lately, battling so hard and then struck where I am most vulnerable. Struck by rejection. Struck by pride. Struck by sick goats. Struck by grief, every morning being greeted with the fresh reality that my son is not here. Struck by complacency, and apathy, and the mind boggling, numbing, stuffing inability to discern what really matters. Struck where it hurts the most, because where it hurts the most is where I need to be sanctified the most.

There is so much of "me" left. The pain reveals where Christ is not yet ruling. Where I still expect something else to satisfy. Where I still refuse for Jesus to be enough.

After I've cried the tears, and realized the beauty of the battle is that the end result will eventually produce a harvest of righteousness and peace (Hebrews 12:11), I raise my hands in defeat. I can no longer struggle as Jacob did and demand more from God. My strength has been drained from the energy it has taken to resist Him thus far.

Instead, I accept the blessing that has already been given: the blessing of suffering.

Farming

Blogger is being a bugger. For some reason they won't let me upload any new pictures today, so I had to dig through the archives and use some old photos. I've read that others are having troubles recently, too.

 

Anybody have any advice???



 

 

Kidding season is fast approaching. In about two weeks we will officially be on "goat watch." Doing routine checks of back ends and udders and ligaments until it drives the girls and us crazy. My favorite time of the farming year: baby season. The delivery of goat kids ushers in milking time, which also means we get to look forward to raising bottle calves from all that rich milk. Jacob (on the left) is our main herd sire this year. He comes from Brenda's farm in Missouri.

 

Dreaming about lots more colorful kids like last February, except hoping for a girl year this time around. The little guy on the left is our second herd sire this year. Any locals looking for purebred Nubian goats let me know! 

 

Having all that good goats milk also means more soap making. This crazy soap dream has exploded into an obsession and a small income to help keep the farm running. There are a couple of soap making classes scheduled in the next two months, plus craft fairs and expo's to prepare for, but no milk in my freezer. I've been adding to my wish list of scents, colors and designs plus am excited to try out some new soap recipes~ now I just need some milk. And talking about soap, this was a sweet encouragement: Backyard Farming Guide.

 

In other farms news: we are anxiously waiting for chicks to hatch, both from the incubator and from Cole's Silkie hens who have decided that the middle of January would be a great time to set on some eggs. There are also 150 little pullet peepers on their way from the hatchery for resale this spring. Baby season is almost upon us~ I can't wait!

 

Craft Fair Projects

 The weeks after Thanksgiving seems to trigger a craftiness in our household. Maybe it's the cold and snow that force us to become house bound, yet there is still a lot of energy to figure out what to do with. After a successful day selling our goat's milk soap at the Women's Expo earlier this Fall, Alexis and I were excited to try a local craft fair. She was anxious to get ahead on raising funds for her upcoming missions trip, so she spent a day baking cookies and putting together cookies in a jar.

 

Using our favorite cookie recipe, she layered the ingredients into quart jars and adorned them with ribbons and material.

Chocolate Chip Cookies

1 cup soft butter

1 tsp. vanilla

2 eggs

1/4 cup sugar

3/4 cup brown sugar

1- 3 oz. pkg. instant vanilla pudding

2 1/4 cups flour

1 tsp. baking soda

Chocolate chips

****

Bake at 375* for 8- 10 minutes

 



 

Wreaths, dolls and other odds and ends of sewing projects.

Of course we also brought lots of goat's milk soap and laundry detergent, too. The common consensus of the day from the "regulars" was that it was a slow craft fair. We did alright~ Alexis earned nearly enough to pay for her passport, I got to sell and give away several books, and we sold enough soap to ensure keeping the goats on the farm for a few more months.

We made some yummy scents: Lemon Swirl, Sugar and Spice, Sweet Pea, Cucumber Melon, Moonlight Pomegranate, Lilac, and the ever popular Almond.

A Farm Catch-All

Today was pig loading day. More evidence that Summer really is winding down as we head into Fall. Our seven pigs that we purchased in April were a month bigger than we had hoped to raise them, but it only means more bacon for us and a few other families who help support our farming endeavors. We will all look forward to home grown pork in our freezers. Again, we prayed before the locker plant truck arrived, and again, the driver left smiling rather than cursing. They didn't walk single file into the trailer with no prodding like previous years, but there wasn't a fight either.

The garden is dwindling down for the season, and soon it will be retired to rest for the winter. We are already enjoying the harvest of canned pickles which we were desperately short of the last couple of seasons. The freezer has a nice supply of corn and green beans, besides all the veggies we ate throughout the summer. A few tomatoes are still clinging to the vines, but another picking should clean them out. Soon the pumpkins will be baked and frozen for all those yummy pumpkin bars and breads this winter. The goofy crossbred squash, and the zucchini that we couldn't come up with one more recipe for, is being enjoyed by the rabbits and the chickens.

The abundance of rogue sunflowers are being fed to the goats. Breeding season is upon us already, and we are beginning to dream of spotted doelings in February to make up for our buckling year this spring. Our last little buck is scheduled to be picked up and brought to his new home {Lord willing} by another happy Craigslist customer. This will be the first year in a long time that we don't have major projects to finish before the snow flies, and probably the first year that I am too tired in every way to even dream up extra projects... except possibly that screen porch that is still waiting for a roof...