Life Is Good: Breakfast in Bed? No, Thanks.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!


I know my blog appeals to women and mothers in addition to others that are interested in the Rural Arts, so I'm going to step off topic a little today, if you will indulge me. The tradition of serving dear old Mom breakfast in bed on Mother's Day is sweet and quaint. The idea behind it, I suppose, is that Mom probably makes breakfast (or at least coffee) for everyone in the house every day for a large number of years. Therefore, on her special day, she should be treated not only to a breakfast that she did not prepare, nor needs to clean up, but that she should not even need to tidy up her appearance or even so much as get out of bed to enjoy it.

But wait- Shouldn't I enjoy it? Shouldn't I be pleased that I get to eat a hot breakfast on a Sunday morning? Shouldn't I be overjoyed that I get to sleep in a little and still eat breakfast long before noon? After all, if I wanted to make a hot breakfast on a Sunday morning I would first have to clean up the kitchen, wash up and get dressed, deal with whatever drama the kids could create during that time, and then feed everyone else their hot breakfast before I could eat mine. This is the reality of Sunday Morning Hot Breakfast on any of the other 51 of the year. The reality of Mother's Day Breakfast in Bed is a little different.

Mother's Day morning, on more than one occasion, I have been awakened by the well-meaning giggles of little children. It doesn't take long to figure out what they are up to, so I stay in bed. I can't sleep well, since it is somewhat late in the morning already and there is much clinking of glasses and banging of pots and pans, but I stay put. I strain to hear what is going on- desperate to discern something that assures me that there is adult supervision in that kitchen. I doze off a little, wait a little, and doze off for a while longer. Then, when the meal and small, darling, hand-made gifts arrive, everyone wishes me a Happy Mother's Day...

AND LEAVES.

Suddenly I am alone. Father and the children eat their breakfast at the dining table, quietly so as not to disturb me. I have adorable little cards or paper cups with precious little sprouted pea plants in them, a hot breakfast, a steaming cup of tea, and no one to enjoy it with!

Many years ago I explained this to my family. I made them bring their breakfasts along and we all had a picnic in my bed. On Mother's Day, the last thing I want is to be alone. Before my daughter was born, I was so excited for my "day off." I couldn't wait for that day in the hospital where the nurses would take care of the 2nd child, my parents would take care of the first, and I would sit back, enjoy the quiet, and rest. By 10 am that morning I was crazy with loneliness and boredom. I wanted my crazy toddler to chase around! Having a day off on a day when the kids are in school is the same: If Mr. Farmer is out and about, it isn't long before the empty house seems... well... empty.

So children young and old I implore you: DO NOT abandon your mother in her bed alone with a tray of food on Mother's Day. Eat quietly with her. Tell her happy stories about how you made the breakfast or the paper-doily greeting card. Joke and laugh and say kind things to your siblings in front of her so she feels like she brought you up right.

Then do the dishes.

Homemade English Muffin and Tea

UPDATE: The kids did great. I got my breakfast in bed, with company. Little Miss Farmer was her usual clever self, Young Master Farmer did the cooking, and they both (via Mr. Farmer) got me a beautiful flower to plant. I had a blast playing in the dirt and making the bed at the end of the driveway beautiful. What a perfect Mother's Day!

In Memoriam

I actually knew my brother-in-law before I ever met Mr. Farmer. For most of my young life he was head cook at a ten-table, Mom & Pop pizzeria a few miles from where I grew up. Every time we would go there to eat, we would see him come out of the kitchen for a break. As soon as he was out of earshot my mother would say, "He broke his back, you know. He fell off a roof. That's why he comes out and leans- to stretch his back." She told that story on every visit, without fail, as if it was news we had never heard.


Back in January, Mr. Farmer's brother went into the hospital for a very serious illness. The usual tests ensued and all seemed to point to liver trouble. It was nearly a month before the cancer was confirmed, the treatment planned, and the paperwork handled. In late March, however, after a few hospital stays, his health took a quick and irreversible turn for the worse. My enabling brother-in-law passed away quietly, in his sleep, with his teddy bear, his closest brother, and his youngest son at his side.

SPRING IS GOING TO BE DIFFERENT


This year I will have to plan my garden based on past years' experiences, not what was on sale when Mr. Farmer's brother took his lunch break at the flea market. Mr. Farmer and I will have to decide what plants we want and when to plant them on our own. Of course we are capable of doing that, but seeing what was going to arrive unexpectedly at our door was part of the fun of spring. This year, there will be no such surprises.

SUMMER IS GOING TO BE DIFFERENT


Our garden rarely produces enough to be preserved. Most of our home-grown preservation is of meat and eggs. My skills in canning and freezing are largely due to gifts of produce past its prime, rescued from destruction by The Enabler. This year there will be no boxes of bell peppers: half good, half rotted. There will be no flats of strawberries or cucumbers. There will be no two-dollar heads of cabbage the size of basketballs with just one or two bad leaves.


FALL IS GOING TO BE DIFFERENT

My brother-in-law loved his backpack leaf blower from work. He used to come up on fall weekends just to clear my driveway, my neighbor's driveway, and even the whole street! He napped on the floor in front of the woodstove, and when he got chilly, he would wake up and add wood to the fire. And perhaps most importantly, he kept Mr. Farmer company while he did outside chores on cold evenings when I would rather stay inside where it's cozy. The leaves that are just now budding on the trees will eventually fall, and we will have to remove them ourselves. It will be a chore rather than a source of joy.


EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE DIFFERENT


Mr. Farmer's older brother lived with us for 3 years. He helped us remodel the bathroom. He kept an eye on the children when we wanted to get away for the evening. He bought fencing for the pigs when we were short on cash. We cremated his dog here. He moved out a while ago but his visits were still frequent. I will miss those visits. I will miss his little surprises. I already miss him.

My Brother-In-Law (1959-2012)
Doing the Plumbing on my Bathtub
(in 2006)

Life is Good: Sunshine?

No one can argue it anymore... Punxsutawney Phil was WRONG.

Like all good fortune-tellers, Phil's predictions are just vague enough to be accurate regardless of the outcome. If he sees his shadow, as he usually does, there is to be "6 more weeks of winter." Since Spring doesn't officially begin until late March, there are ALWAYS at least 6 more weeks of "winter," regardless of the weather. If Phil does NOT see his shadow, then "Spring is right around the corner." In a 52 week year, certainly anything between 2 and 8 weeks could be considered "right around the corner," couldn't it? He can't be wrong!

Most people, however, take Phil's prognostications to be an indication of a greater prevailing weather pattern for the next 6-8 weeks. If you take that view, and if you live in his home state of Pennsylvania like I do, then he was wrong. Dead wrong. The sun is shining. The trees are budding. My spring allergies are a full 2 months early. The garlic is sprouting. The songbirds are raucous in their singing and the hawks are screaming overhead. Canada geese are stopping by a bit early on their way back North.

All this sunshine means that we are walking a bit slower between cars and houses. I've been noticing the toll that the warm winter's cycle of freeze and thaw has taken on my stone walls. I'm starting to daydream about how I want to set up the yard for the summer. Where will the fire pit go? When will I find the time and energy to start picking up the many rocks that the pigs dug up? Is that grass seed that Mr. Farmer brought home the other day? I had better hurry. Wow. It is barely March and I am already starting to hurry. There is still sausage to pack up and freeze. There are still pigs to slaughter and preserve. There is much inside work that isn't finished yet, but still...

Outside is calling...

Our only REAL snow this season... October 2011

Merry Christmas!

From my family to yours, a very Merry Christmas.  Thank you for your support and kind comments through the year. All the best to you.

Peace and Joy,
Mrs. Farmer
Mr. Farmer
Young Master Farmer
Little Miss Farmer

Pigs: You've Come a Long Way, Baby

Late last fall, when we purchased a number of pigs for a very low price, I had no idea what was to come. Of course Mr. Farmer said that some would be bred and some would be slaughtered for food. Naturally, some would be for our consumption, some for our Pig-Partner and his family, and perhaps some would be sold. But who would have guessed that we would do so many new things in such a short time?

(Author's Note: Most of these things are not technically "new" to Mr. Farmer. They were for me, though!)

When the new pigs came to live with us, a more spacious pen had to be build to accommodate the little darlings. Food and water troughs were built out of plastic 55 gallon drums, cut in half lengthwise. And naturally, the pigs ended up with names, whether we meant to name them or not.

Tiffany (front), Wilma(rear), and Mamas (right)

With this many pigs to process, we had to upgrade our equipment a bit. A metal frame for hanging hogs, sitting on the ground above a rock, was replaced with a huge tree-trunk cross member and a larger capacity pulley system.



Out With The Old





In with the New


Before we knew it, however, the Man caught up with us. We didn't know it at the time, but Mamas and Wilma were expecting. Tiffany: Prince of Darkness was nearing 400 pounds. Still, we had to move them to a larger property because township regulations did not allow us to keep them on so small a plot of land. It was no small feat to move them from their lifelong home.

This big boy did NOT want to leave his turf.

 Once again, we were fence-building. This time we even installed electrified lines for more security for our precious "piggers". Then, one morning, not long after we had begun to have suspicions that the ladies were expecting... Surprise! Piglets!

Wilma's First Litter

A mere six days later we were able to watch Mamas give birth to her first litter. We even got to assist in the removal of a breach. Mamas had five babies while we watched, and another after we had gone!

This is one of my favorite pictures EVER.

The piglets thrived, and before long, it came time to neuter the males. I tried my best to assist with them by holding the squirmy little guys so Mr. Farmer could stay clean. It worked. We got the job done, he stayed clean, and all the piglets remained infection free.

I got a little dirty, though.

So there you have it: a year (almost) in the life of a pig farmer and his novice wife. But let's not forget Little Miss Farmer, who never shies away from even the somewhat distasteful tasks of slaughtering and butchering (even if she is too young to do them herself yet), and my other hero, Young Master Farmer, who hauls water up this unforgiving hill almost every single day for the pigs.

I STILL don't know how he stays upright.

Who knows what our next adventure will be? I have many reasons to love Mr. Farmer, but one is that he feeds my love of learning by constantly bringing new experiences into my life. I don't know what I will learn next, but I just can't wait!

SNOW?!?!?!

There is panic in the mountains of Pennsylvania today. News reporters on the radio and television are repeating a certain four-letter word beginning with an “S” with every rotation and before every commercial break. They are doing it in spite of who might be listening. They are saying it in October, before Halloween, in the presence of school children, the elderly, and anyone else who can hear….

* * * *

*  * *  SNOW * *  *

* * * *

Even Mr. Farmer was almost swept into the pre-storm panic. How can your mind help but rush back to the things that should have been done earlier in the week? How many times did Young Master Farmer promise that he would get to splitting that woodpile tomorrow? Why oh why didn’t we move one of the pig huts into the adult section of the enclosure sooner? How did the supply of straw for pig bedding get so low?

After setting all the pre-storm tasks on paper, however, he regained his composure and got to work. We put our heads together as he drove me to work and ran through the plan for the day. He could pick up additional straw right away in the morning. Rather than take the hut to the adult pigs, he could take the adult pigs to the hut. After all, the “babies” are fully weaned and large enough to hold their own against giant-boar Tiffany for a couple days. He split a fair amount of wood, and Little Miss Farmer brought it in the house to dry. A quick trip to the store for the items we had intended to purchase on Saturday, which is now Storm Day, and everything is settled for a long, cold weekend.

After the boy finishes spitting the rest of that firewood, of course….

Here we go again...

Life Is Good: Ouch

"Many Hands Make Light Work." -Proverb

Fall is creeping up on us- and not too subtly, either. We have had several chilly nights already, and the wood stove is keeping us cozy.The humidity-eradicating side effect of the wood stove, cursed in previous years, is helping to ease the fall mold allergies that we all suffer from. The wood fire is driving the dampness out of the house, and the mold from this overly wet summer is dying off quickly- at least inside the house.

Of course wood fires need firewood, so the work begins. Big, strong, healthy Young Master Farmer can wield an ax or maul better than even his father or the very athletic neighbor next door. He mows through piles of wood like a scythe through grass. I loaded the wheel barrow with cut wood and moved it from one side of the yard to the other. Little Miss Farmer helped me stack the split wood and broke the dead treetop at the end of the street into kindling. The three of us had a very industrious operation going on, and we were very productive in just an hour and a half of work.

The Start of the Woodpile

Sadly, even an eight hour day of work for me usually means sitting at a desk and taking two to four short walks to the bathroom and perhaps three or four more to the printer or a co-worker's desk. That means that an hour and a half of bending, lifting, stacking, and breaking wood is a more than my soft body is used to. Ouch! It is a satisfying kind of ache, however. I earned it. There is a nice stack of drying wood and several buckets of kindling to show for it, and a cozy cabin to relax in afterwards.

Chickens: Lazarus

Starting off with any animal project is going to be a chance for learning. It is one of my favorite things about raising animals or growing plants or learning a new food preservation technique. The correct amount and timing of food and water needs to be determined. Heat and cold must be accounted for. And all animals must somehow be contained so as not to be a nuisance, or destructive. We struggle with that last one from time to time.

One of our first sets of young chickens would rush the door to the brooder (a dog crate, reinforced with chicken and rat wire, perched on a wooden stand) when Young Master Farmer came to feed and water the little darlings. Alternately, perhaps he failed to close the door properly. One way or another, a young chicken had escaped, and we were worried for its safety. Mr. Farmer and I had to go out, so we left Young Master Farmer in charge of locating the loose chicken and returning it to the safety of the brooder while we were away. When we returned, we heard how the chicken had been killed by some animal, was removed from the back shed where it had tried to hide, and deposited in the trash. It was a somber dinner, and we were sad.

After dinner, Mr. Farmer went to look in on the chickens and replenish their water. When he approached the cage, he was surprised to see a chicken on the ground eating spilled feed! He counted the chickens in the cage, since he had secured the door himself the last time, and they were all accounted for ... the loose chicken had returned to life! He came into the house and told us all the story of Lazarus: The Chicken That Had Risen From the Dead.

Naturally it did not take long before Young Master Farmer confessed to his little white lie. Young chickens are very fast, and even when he had cornered it in the shed, he still could not catch it. He had grown tired of the chase, so he thought up the story of the dead chicken, figuring it would be the natural end for a ground bird so close to the edge of the woods. Lazarus blew the story when he came out and started hanging out under the brooder. Kids!

I don't remember which chicken was "Lazarus",
but this Bantam hen sure is pretty, right?

Life Is Good: Cucumber Salad

It is the simple things in life that make me happy. A sunny day after a week of rain is a joy. A rainy afternoon after a heat wave is bliss. A salad made from cucumbers, tomatoes, and chives from my garden (with salt as the only dressing) is a summer treat beyond any other.

Yummy!

That’s right: the late summer harvest is upon us. It is cucumber and tomato time. Rhubarb pie dreams and died-herb fantasies will soon become reality. I’ve traded fresh eggs for a pile of fresh eggplant from a friend who lives farther down the mountain. The green peppers are small and thin-fleshed, but they are plentiful beyond our expectations. So far it doesn’t look like I will have enough cucumbers come ready at once to put up pickles this year, but there are more than enough for salads, snacks and sandwiches all August long!

Joy!

I can't look at that picture without starting to sing the opening theme to "Veggie Tales." I hope your gardens are bringing you as much joy as mine are!

Gardening: Birthday Lilies

It just so happens that my favorite flowers are tiger lilies. These bright orange beauties have been a part of my life as long as I can remember. Tall, wild bunches of almost blindingly bright flowers explode open on country highways and side roads. The many giant blossoms are reminiscent of summer fireworks in the night sky. Best of all, there are new flowers every morning, so even though these flowers- also called "day lilies" because of this trait- die every night, there is always a new bunch every morning.

To those who know me personally, my other online persona might be a bit misleading. Daffodils are actually my second favorite flower. As much as I enjoy these spring beauties, they can't stand up to the wild and wonderful tiger lily. However, when setting up my very first email address all those years back, "tiger lily" just seemed too long to be practical. So, daffodils it was.

I must not dismiss, however, the possibility that the reason I enjoy tiger lilies so much is because of my summer birthday (today). I don't know if that's just a coincidence, or if it's emotional. My dream, however, has been to wake up on the morning of my birthday, go outside, gaze upon my very own patch of orange and green jungle, and cut a few for my table. Thanks to my boss last fall (who moved on from that position a few months back), this year is the first that I am able to actually do it.

Tiger Lily From My Bulb Garden

Oh, what are those lovely yellow lilies in the background, you ask? They were a gift from my brother-in-law, who loves me and who meant well when he brought them, thinking they were orange, not yellow. I like them, too. They smell heavenly.

Yellow Lily from my Brother-In-Law

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!!

Pigs: My Son, MacGyver

Those slippery feeder pigs escaped again! (Click here to read what happened last time.) We recently moved the feeders to their bigger pen adjoining the breeder pigs at the Beta Site. We kept them separate from the huge breeders for their protection and to give them feed appropriate for their purpose. So imagine my surprise when I went to feed them the other day and found all the pigs in one enclosure!

They are MUCH Happier Loose!

The problem was discovered very quickly: the electric fence was malfunctioning. It took us several minutes to find the fault. The pigs seem to have pulled or knocked out one of the insulators, and the electric wire was sitting against a tree, grounding out the whole system. With no extra insulators on hand, we had to improvise. Mr. Farmer was not with us, and we were using my car, not the tool-and-part-filled van. We opened the trunk and dug around to see what we could use.

Young Master Farmer fashioned a new insulator out of 2 plastic forks and some foil from our "party box" (a case full of paper goods, salt & pepper, and all the other little things needed for a picnic on the fly). He used the foil to hold the two forks together, intertwined the tines, and put the wire between the tines. The fork kept the wire off the tree, and the zap returned to the electric fence.

I'm proud of Young Master Farmer MacGyver. He chased the escape-artist feeder pigs back into their part of the enclosure where they could eat in peace, and I tested the fence for my self for the first time (it doesn't hurt much). So long as the breeders leave those forks alone, the homemade insulator should hold until Mr. Farmer gets back from the store with a proper replacement. Who has a son who knows how to fix an electric fence? I do!

Gardening: Early Harvest

Ah, the first fruits of our Spring labor! There's something about those first couple garden items that keep the hope going into summer. I mean, the fun part of the gardening is done. The dirt and mulch have been hauled. The rows have been cut in. The garden has been planned, laid out, and watered. Now, all that's left is weeding and protecting against bugs and critters. What fun would that be if not for:

The First Radish

AND....

An Almost Unending Supply of Fresh Herbs for Cooking

AND

Hope for the Future
(Garlic)

Admittedly, I do look forward to an August of being up to my eyeballs in tomatoes and green peppers. Making pickles and cucumber salad will be so wonderful when the time comes. But for now, I am happy with the herbs. I am overjoyed with the 2 small green peppers and 2 tiny heads of garlic. I am very pleased, most of all, with the huge bunch of garlic sets above - 2 years in the making -  that prove that I can grow garlic in my garden; I just need some patience. I'm excited about putting my many rows of garlic into the ground in October and perhaps being independent of the grocery store for garlic next summer. I can't wait!

Pocono Tree Rat

Sure, I can hear you saying it, "Aww... look at the cute little 'possum!" In his cage he looks innocent enough- perhaps even fuzzy and cuddly? I think not.

This little guy and his cohorts have been terrorizing my property for the past few days. First the dog started barking like the house was under attack. I went to the window to see a fat skunk waddling away from my herb garden. We warned the neighbor to keep an eye on his dog, who routinely runs without a leash, so that he could avoid disaster. The following evening we hear what sounded like a large rodent in the attic (ok, it's a crawlspace). We couldn't catch it in action, but it sounded much to big to be a mouse. When the sound changed to something that sounded like someone was moving furniture upstairs (we don't have an upstairs!), Mr. Farmer decided to set a live-catch trap in the yard.

I was a little surprised to see the opossum in the trap and not the skunk. After all, I knew the skunk was out there. He probably still is. It makes sense, however, that the noises overhead could be cause by the Pocono Tree Rat. For one, skunks don't climb. Secondly, 'possums are BIG, and they do climb. He was probably never in the house, just having a grand old time on the roof. They are rodents, and have the scratchy nails like mice and rats, so the scratching noises and the bumping noises all make sense.

Of course, that skunk is still out there somewhere....

*bites nails nervously*

Unwelcome Visitor

Last month, while Mr. Farmer and I toiled away at making scrapple, there was an unexpected knock at the door. I peeked out the kitchen window and saw an unfamiliar white pickup truck with a vaguely familiar green tree painted on the door. I described it to Mr. Farmer, who is good at recognizing people by the vehicles that they drive, and he lowered his voice and said, "It's the township." I immediately remembered what the tree logo was, and I knew instantly why this person was making this not-so-social call. It was a time for quick thinking.

Johnny Law was persistant, unfortunately, and knocked a second time. It was louder this time, and with our tiny cabin, there was no way we could claim we hadn't heard, short of being passed-out drunk at 1 in the afternoon on a weekday (which has never happened).  I decided to greet him (I am calmer than Mr. Farmer, even if I am not as fast a thinker under stress), try to read him, and chose whether to play dumb or be very compliant.

Johnny sounded like he was a combination of being a little annoyed that he had to take time out of his busy day to see me with just a pinch of man I hope this crazy hillbilly chick doesn't pull a shotgun on me on the side, so I chose the compliant approach. When he told me in a well-rehearsed, matter-of-fact tone that the animals must go, I replied that we weren't looking to upset anyone; we are just trying to feed ourselves. "They must go, just the same," he said, so I replied (with as little evil glint in my eye and as much wide-eyed, mountain-girl innocence as I could muster), "Well, we raise them to eat, so I know how to get rid of them." The look on his face when I said that let me know in an instant that I had handled him properly. He did NOT want any details on how they would be disposed of. I think his crisp, white, oxford shirt became suddenly crisper.

At that point, part of me was wishing I hadn't removed my apron to answer the door. That would have solidified the issue in his mind, I'm sure, just from the look of me. At any rate, after an intense call from the home office that made him seem even more annoyed to be dealing a trifling matter like li'l old me, he took my information and said he would send me something in the mail.

More than a month passed and neither official recognition of the visit, nor threatening letter, nor pamphlet, nor printout of the zoning code has arrived in my mailbox. Maybe I read him right, and he really didn't care about what we were doing. Maybe our small farm was super-low on his list of priorities. Maybe he assumed that when I said, "I know how to get rid of them," that I surely would, without further influence from his office. Like I told Johnny Law, we are prepared at any time to dispose of our animals, and not to waste them.

Our relief was short-lived, however, as another official has since approached the property. Young Master Farmer greeted him since neither of us were home. Apparently "They" mean business. So, we are in the process of relocating the animals to a farm that is, sadly, an inconvenient distance away. The landowner is willing to take meat in barter for use of his land, so long as we pay all the expenses of building the fences, bringing in the feed, etc. It is going to be an almost epic move, but the alternative of putting down all the animals and abandoning our hopes of trying to breed the pigs is just too painful to consider. Wish us luck!

Apparently, THIS didn't work.

Life Is Good: The Antique Store Years

Back in the late nineties, I used to run an antique store in rural Maryland. We rented the apartment upstairs and in return for cleaning and setting up the store, I got a commission off all the sales I made. It wasn't much money, but setting up the store was a great project for me. I was a young mother of a toddler at the time, and out of school for a while, so I was feeling that I was stagnating and not learning anything new, except perhaps new and creative ways to get a 2 year old to take a nap. Moving into that antique store was the beginning of a great renaissance for me and a foreshadowing of how Mr. Farmer and I would choose to live our lives once we owned our own place.

When we moved in, the entire house was more or less unlivable. The two front sitting rooms in the old farm house had served as an antique store in years past, but they had turned into a jumbled mess of dusty antique storage. The yellow and green, vertical-striped wallpaper in the stairwell was peeling. The huge staircase railing was covered with dust and fine mold. This place was perfect.

We set to work quickly, moving the furniture around and peeling off the ugly wallpaper. We made the house a home by hanging photos and finally putting out the fancy towels we had received as wedding gifts. I spent day after day dusting and polishing small antique pieces and arranging them for display. Every day was an adventure of discovery and an experience in learning to organize a large amount of stuff into a small amount of space.

In the process of this cleanup I made a discovery that would change me forever. In the large hall closet was a heavy box. In that box were hundreds of taper candle stubs, mostly 3-4 inches long and in every color imaginable. From that box, a hobby that bordered on obsession was born. I started by melting down candles of a single color in a small pan that I bought at a yard sale. I removed the wicks with a fork and set them aside to cool for recycling. My very first candles were made by hanging a long wick into a beer bottle, carefully filling the bottle with wax in alternating layers of color, then allowing the wax to cool and breaking the glass off the candle. The results were fantastic, and I was hooked!

The outdoor cleanup lead to my first adventure in the kitchen. A large grape arbor stood overrun in the back yard, neglected for many years. But Mr. Farmer, being how he is, recognized that among the weeds a good, strong grapevine persisted. He cut the whole thing back so far that I was certain it would never recover. It did, however, and before I knew it we had so many concord grapes that we just had to find some way to preserve them. I pulled out the old cookbooks and the inserts from the mason jar boxes and decided to make both jelly and jam. I spent hours upon hours popping grapes out of their skins, cooking, straining, mixing and canning. The jelly didn't set, but it made wonderful pancake syrup, and the jam was perfect. We gave it away at Christmas and still had more than enough for our own use.

We only lived in the antique store for about a year, but what a year it was! We turned a house into a home. We turned antique storage into an antique store. We turned scrap candles into new candles and grapes into wine, syrup, and jam. We even turned our family of three into a family of four (almost, Little Miss Farmer ended up being born back home in PA, even though I carried her mostly in MD). It was a very productive year, with many memories that I will cherish.

"The Antique Store"
by Laurie Basham
Local artist who chose "my" antique store as a subject.
How cool is that?

Life Is Good: 'Tis the Promise

When I was young, I went to summer camp at Camp Sankanac in Spring City, PA. At dinner we sang for our supper; that is, we sang grace instead of saying it. Each evening we sang, to the tune of "Channels Only":

'Tis the promise of the Savior
Lions' young do suffer need
But His children who receive* Him
He Himself will ever feed.

Thank you, Savior,
For this bounty
Sweet provisions from above
Gratefully** we now receive this
Token of Thy endless love!

Upon finding myself in dire financial straits recently, I really needed this song today. For the past few days I have been struggling to make ends meet, as spring turns to summer and new clothes are needed, end-of-the-school-year field trips and parties require extra funds, and the usual bills still keep coming. I have taken comfort in knowing that the pantry is full, and even if I could not buy food for days or weeks, my children would not go hungry. The freezer is packed with meat. The canned and dry goods are holding up. The chickens keep laying, and since it is spring, we can feed them and the pigs scraps if the corn runs out. Mr. Farmer can bake bread. There's no need to fear.

Even as we stretch for every penny, collecting up coins for gas money and passing on some of the nicer things we would like to splurge on, God is taking care of us. The bills are getting paid (if at the last moment), the tarp on the roof is holding, and we are fed. Each of these are tokens of His endless love, and I am thankful.

  *  Possibly "believe" - I am doing this from memory, and an Internet search did not help.
**  Or "thankfully" - Maybe my sister knows for sure?

Life Is Good: Mr. Farmer's Rust-Colored Wheelbarrow

I bought Mr. Farmer a rust-colored wheelbarow for his 50th birthday this year. While women don't usually care for gifts that could be construed as "work" (blenders, vacuum cleaners, etc.), men love getting tools as gifts. Mr. Farmer specifically asked for a wheelbarrow for his birthday, and I knew that it really would make the spring easier. So I somehow managed to buy it, keep it concealed, and present it to him on the afternoon of his birthday - in the hands of a snowman that I made just for him. He was very pleased.

I don't understand why they bother to put pretty paintjobs on functional, hardworking pieces of equipment like wheelbarrows. Our old dirt-hauler has not a speck of paint left on it. I couldn't guess what color it was when it was shiny and new. The birthday 'barrow was a shiny orange-rust color. I felt bad about loading it up with rocks and dirt. I hate to be the one to mess up his new tool. So far the paint is holding up, aside for some scratches and such.

Mr. Farmer scoffs at the idea that I use his wheelbarrow more than he does, but it surely feels like it to me. I have relocated rocks with it. I have cleaned up woodchips with it. I have hauled endless loads of soil. But, from what he tells me, this gift is one that he uses every single day.

Personally, I like the gift I use every single day (my remote car starter) an awful lot better. But to each his own, right?

Busy Day in the Herb Garden

Gardening: Barb's Hostas

I first heard Barb's name shortly after we moved here. I was an Avon Lady back then, so naturally I asked a new friend and neighbor if she wanted to see a catalogue. She told me that her friend, Barb from across the street, sold Avon. I knew the protocol was to leave other reps clientele alone, so I did not mention it again. One doesn't always think about the first time she hears a person's name unless that person really changes her - and Barb did just that.

The next spring Barb's husband was doing some cleanup around the yard while Mr. Farmer was visiting across the street. He was thinning and removing some overwhelming hostas, and he asked if we wanted them. Mr. Farmer brought home a huge, root-bound clump of them and set them in the side yard. When fall came and we had not yet found a home for the monstrosity, he dumped it unceremoniously into one of my annual beds. It stayed there for a few years.

In the winter of 2008, I was assigned as the emergency chairperson of a community activities committee. I have always been more of a natural workhorse than a leader (though I am working on those skills), and I really did not want the position. Barb, however, did. She came in and took over quickly. She poured her heart and soul into that committee and the two of us became inseparable. The group was in trouble, and we felt like it was us against the world, but she kept me motivated day after day, week after week, as we made the best of a bad situation and smiled through it all. We worked together, we suffered together, and we even worked out together.

But Barb was fighting a personal battle as well. In addition to some issues resulting from her recent hysterectomy, she had migraines that no doctor seemed to be able to cure or even help. She was missing a lot of work. She gave up her Avon business to focus on her health and her community duties. She even spent some time in the hospital, desperate for answers to why the migraines would not improve. One night in November 2009 she confused her many medicines prescribed by several different doctors and took too many. She did not wake up the following morning.

***

I am not the kind of person to get sentimental over a plant, especially a hosta. After all, these things grew up by the roadside where I grew up. They needed no tending or care. They almost seemed to appear here and there out of nowhere, and I've never been particularly fond of them. When they removed the big, dead tree from my best friend's yard when I was a girl, I mourned the tree and its shade (briefly), but not the beautiful, full ring of hostas that surrounded it like a halo.

Barb's hostas are different. Barb was the first friend I ever lost, and she was only 45. We became close so quickly, and she was gone so suddenly. The hosta that was carelessly tossed into my annual bed and cursed year after year that I didn't move it became my personal shrine for her. It's a living shrine, and it means more to me than any of my other plants.

So, late last summer, I rebuilt the wall running down my driveway. I dug up the hosta and carefully washed the tangled roots. I separated it into 5 manageable sized plants, and replanted them behind that wall. I moved load after load of dirt to cover them, but ran out of steam before they were fully covered. So I buried them in the last of our mulch and prayed they lasted the winter. They became covered with snow and the chips and sawdust from the winter's fire wood cutting. I removed all the wood two weeks ago, but I still wasn't sure if they survived.

I found Barb's hostas this week. They were popping up green shoots just above the ground, and I was elated. I rebuilt the rock wall (again). I started a back wall to make a bed for them, as Mr. Farmer suggested. And, once again, I moved load after load of dirt to fill in and make a proper bed. I even added a stone path (also Mr. Farmer's idea) so that the bed won't be desecrated by children and dogs seeking access to the side yard.

There is much left to do. The rear wall is only half finished, as is the fill. The entire bed needs mulch. I will no doubt need to tend it all summer, and in future years I will surely need to thin them again. This garden, however, is not a matter of pride or pleasure. It is a labor of love.

The Hosta Garden So Far

Life Is Good: Inspiration

I spent most of the day today nursing a sick dog. It would seem that he got into some (possibly spoiled) trash, and his digestion was suffering for it. The weather was cloudy, cool, and dreary, and any possible hope of doing any outside work was dashed to pieces by the whining of my poor doggie. So, between the emergency runs outside and the cleanup of the accidents inside, I sat at the computer and tried desperately to put to words the many ideas I have come up with over the past few days. The words just would not come. The interruptions were just too great a distraction. So, at 1 pm when the 8 hours of constant doggie-rhea finally ended, instead of writing I took a nap.

When I woke up and went out to fetch the children from the school bus, the sun had come out. It was still a bit chilly outside, but it was nicer. The dog was feeling better; the kids were home and about their chores, and Mr. Farmer was able to coax me outside.

It was a refreshing afternoon. I put on my work gloves, moved some stones for garden walls, and before I knew it I was tying my hair back, taking my sweatshirt off, and really getting down to work. I hauled stone. I hauled soil. I raked up wood chips from the winter wood splitting. I enlisted the help of the bored neighbor boy to haul the chips away. I worked until my back got tired and I could take the hunger no longer. It felt so good!

While I toiled away in the yard, my brain finally woke up. All the ideas I had been working on started coming together. One idea that I had last summer came back to me as I worked on the project I started way back then. I had ideas for new blog posts that almost create a story line.  I started planning the order that I would put my ideas into words and what order I would put them out for everyone to see. I was enjoying the work, and I was looking forward to putting my plans into action.

I suppose I should not be surprised that working outdoors inspired me. This entire blog has been the result of our outdoor lifestyle and our appreciation for hard work. The fresh air and heavy lifting got my blood flowing and my mind alert. In spite of all else, today was a good day.

My Neighbor's GORGEOUS Red Tulips

Life Is Good: Getting Dirty

Dirty Jobs on the Discovery Channel is one of my favorite shows. The people who make that show share many of the same beliefs we have regarding the value of hard work and knowing where your food comes from. Mike Rowe's rugged good looks, soothing voice, and everyman manner don't hurt either. Mr. Farmer, however, sees the show as a challenge. Having worked many dirty jobs in his lifetime, Mr. Farmer likes to watch the show with me and repeat "I've done that!" over and over. It occurs to me that I get dirty every now and then myself.

Dirty jobs come in various types. Some are literally dirty- where your clothes get soiled and you end the day with mud under your nails. Others jobs are smelly or distasteful. Many tasks are just plain hard, backbreaking, sweaty work. And of course there are the jobs that many people don't even think about that "make civilized life possible for the rest of us." We do a lot of those thing here on our little suburban farm.

***Dirty***

Planting the garden each year is dirty work. Raking the leaves away and shoveling soil and mulch is sweaty work, but the earth is the main mess. To do it right, it is best to get down on your knees and start digging in with your hands. I have tried using gardening gloves. I have tried using rubber gloves. I have tried using gardening gloves on top of rubber gloves. However, without fail, I end up with dirt under my nails and behind my ears (from pushing my hair back).

Feeding the pigs can be dirty, too. Pig water and slop have the amazing ability to splash up and get on your clothes, even when you pour carefully. I recently got some pig mud (I'm going to keep telling myself it was mud)  in my eye when feeding eggs to the females. Fortunately, pig feeding is not one of my usual chores.

Dirty Chickens
After Several Straight Days of Rain

*** Distasteful***

Putting down animals is not a pleasant task, but if we are to eat meat, someone has to do it. Usually that means a shot to the head, the cutting of a vein, or both. The animal must then be dressed (opened and entrails removed). The process involves death and blood and occasionally a bad smell if an intestine is accidentally opened. Most people find this necessary task distasteful. We just find it necessary.

As much as I can handle, there is just one job that I cannot stomach: cleaning pig heads. Slaughter and disembowelment of animals doesn't bother me at all, but when Mr. Farmer starts cutting apart the heads, I have to run and hide. Something about the crunch of cartilage when he is removing the snout just makes me cringe. I can't take it.

***Smelly***

If you are going to keep animals, you are going to deal with excrement. In our case, neither pigs nor chickens nor dogs use the toilet, so the poo has to be picked up. And poo smells. Aside from the usual shoveling and pitching, this week the boys power washed the pig enclosure. This caused a river of mud and straw and stink, but it was extremely effective. The remaining breeder pigs now have clean beds that are more mud than poo. They were kind enough to do the resulting laundry themselves, rather than getting me involved.

***Slimy***

Last week I helped separate meat for scrapple. That meant going wrist deep in a pot of boiled pig parts and peeling gelatinous fat off of meat. The job of butchering meat can be pretty slick as well, and more than a pork chop or two has gone flying across the counter.

***Sweaty***

There seems to be no end to the things that need to be humped across the yard. The garden needs soil and mulch. The animal pens need to be cleaned out and the resulting mess piled up. Fire wood needs to be cut and carried, then shortened and split, and finally stacked up- until it's time to carry it into the house, of course. Slaughtered animals are hung in the fridge to age. Sacks of feed are purchased and moved. The list goes on and on, and the work continues, as does the sweat.

***Unexpected***

I have mentioned more than once that the entrails of an animal have to be removed. Most people give little thought to what happens to them next. Sometimes they are discarded, but simply putting them in the trash is not the best option. The enzymes involved break down entrails quickly, making for very smelly trash that attracts unwanted animal visitors in the night. So, Young Master Farmer usually has the honor of walking the entrails into the woods a mile or so, where the animals can enjoy them without messing up my yard. Conversely, the insides can be cleaned out for sausage casings- which involves squeezing out the semi-digested food and running fresh and salt water through the intestines.  On one occasion we were even asked to clean out a stomach for some old-world recipe.

***

Few would argue that farming on any scale is hard work. There are things to do every single day, and we drop into bed, exhausted, nearly every night. The work is rewarding, however. It provides for our family. It teaches us new skills. It gives us a feeling of more independence. Every day is an accomplishment, and life is good.