These goats

I didn't think I liked goats. I was wrong.

I didn't think I liked goats. I was wrong.

I didn't think I liked goats. I was wrong.

I didn't think I liked goats. I was wrong.

I didn't think I liked goats. I was wrong.

I didn't think I liked goats. I was wrong.

I didn't think I liked goats. I was wrong.

I didn't think I liked goats. I was wrong.

I didn't think I liked goats. I was wrong.

I didn't think I liked goats. I was wrong.

We never set out to have goats.

Honestly, I didn't think I even liked goats. And I knew I didn't like their milk. (Too  goaty.) A flock of sheep? Of course. Yes to sheep. I had always wanted them. But a herd of goats? Not interested.

And then I met some goats at a friend's farm and it was all over. They charmed my socks off. (And contrary to folklore did not eat them.) Before I knew it we had five goats on the farm. 

Pete just shook his head.

And sometimes we wonder if we're doing too much on this little farm. Should we cut something off the list? Are sheep too much? But that wool! What about goats? But I adore these goats. They win the farm personality contest, hoofs down.

I keep saying goats are like golden retrievers – but with milk. Each of these girls has more personality than all of our sheep combined. They're hilarious, and not as sassy as you've been led to believe. But I was nervous about the milk. What on earth would we do with all that goaty milk? Of course. Soap. We'd make more goat milk soap than ever before. 

And then I tasted it. And oh, my word. Goat milk is good. It's downright delicious. (As it turns out, properly handled it's not goaty in the least. Another goat myth shattered!)

Goats are sweet and a little naughty, affectionate and little dramatic. I like that in a farm animal. (Their brush-clearing skills don't hurt, either.) And now goats are inextricably woven into our lives on the farm. Our day starts with coffee and a trip to the barn. We sit together and milk as we talk and plan our day. Thirty minutes later we're back in the kitchen with more than a quart of fresh, sweet milk to drink, make into cheese, yogurt, and soap. Our day ends with one last trip to the barn to separate the babies from so that there is milk for us in the morning.

And while it's one more project on our longer-than-we'd-like to-do list, it's quickly become my favorite part of the day.

Our first days back

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Being home, at long last, has been so good. Within a day of our return I found myself busily planning our fall and winter homeschooling season, plotting out new garden beds, making meal plans, and dreaming big dreams for all that we want to do around here.

Home.

Where Pete was waiting for us, where our quiet valley wrapped around us like warm, embracing arms, and where all of the comforts of our cozy little farmhouse were waiting to welcome us back. Spending the night indoors for the first time in a month we slept in late, then quickly dove back into all that we had missed while on the road.

We milked the goat; checked on the chickens, ducks, and quail; moved the sheep to a fresh pastures; delighted in it all. We lingered outside in the crisp October sunshine. We talked of plans for garlic, bonfires, and winter shelters.

Then I prepared pokeweed dye from some berries we had picked on our route home and dug horseradish and elecampane. We set to work making medicines and condiments for the coming season. I cast on a new knitting project. All of it was lovely.

It was one of those perfect days that just kept unfolding as though it would never end.

Before dinner time we drove to Turkey Ridge, the nearby organic orchard and picked all the apples we could fit in the Beetle. Since apple season is winding down they wouldn't charge us for anything, yet we're set for pies and sauces now for winter and beyond. Kindness abounds! We are thankful.

We drove home and – yes, of course – we made apple crisp for dinner.

Because how could we not? We were home. And really, it feels so good.

Morning rhythm

Morning rhythm | Clean www.lusaorganics.typepad.com

Morning rhythm | Clean www.lusaorganics.typepad.com

Morning rhythm | Clean www.lusaorganics.typepad.com

Morning rhythm | Clean www.lusaorganics.typepad.com

Morning rhythm | Clean www.lusaorganics.typepad.com

Morning rhythm | Clean www.lusaorganics.typepad.com

Morning rhythm | Clean www.lusaorganics.typepad.com

It has been said that people with pets heal faster after surgery or illness than people without. Because your dog or cat needs you. You can't stay in your bed and wallow along feeling sorry for yourself. You have to get up, put on your shoes, and go outside. Fill that feed bowl. Take a walk.

And I can see where that comes from. You have something outside of yourself to get you going. Someone else to care about and care for, to get you out of bed.

Many of us have kids who do this for us in an enormous way, but the pets help, too.

I think our farm animals are like that for me. Exponentially so.

I've been a little under the weather (physically and energetically) for the past week, but the animals keep me on my toes. They get me up and out the door, every morning without fail.

Sore throat or not, they need me.

The goats and sheep, layers and meat birds, ducks and quail, dogs and cats. They all need us. And each day our family divides up the work of caring for them all.

Being the first to rise each day, I'm also the first to head to the barn.

I make my tea, write a bit, then grab my milk pail and head outside. Usually Lupine comes with me, often Pete, and sometimes Sage. Occasionally I go alone.

And this nudge out the door each morning is just what I need. Always. To feel the wind and the sun on my face, to root myself in this body, this valley and this life.

They make me close my computer, get out of my head and into the world. I can't think of anything better than that.

In the barn, the goats are always waiting. They begin to call as soon as I step inside, yodeling their "good-morning-did-you-bring-us-something-yummy?" song.

And we say our hellos and then – each morning – we set to work.

Morning rhythm | Clean www.lusaorganics.typepad.com

Morning rhythm | Clean www.lusaorganics.typepad.com

Morning rhythm | Clean www.lusaorganics.typepad.com

Morning rhythm | Clean www.lusaorganics.typepad.com

Morning rhythm | Clean www.lusaorganics.typepad.com

Morning rhythm | Clean www.lusaorganics.typepad.com

Morning rhythm | Clean www.lusaorganics.typepad.com

Morning rhythm | Clean www.lusaorganics.typepad.com

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Morning rhythm | Clean www.lusaorganics.typepad.com

Melissa, our Nubian milk goat, is the first animal to be tended. She gets her dish of soaked feed (sunflower seeds, a bit of sprouted grain, alfalfa, and kelp) while the others watch enviously through the gate. She hops onto the milking stand, as eager as I am to get started.

Her udder is carefully washed and dried, and then we milk.

As we sit in the barn (in silence or softly talking) my day begins.

I find gratitude for the mist in the valley and the cranes in the marsh. I savor the sweet sound the milk makes as it zings into my empty pail and the froth that billows to the top by the time we are done.

I appreciate the abundance that our messy little farm provides. Even though we're still learning. Even as we stumble through.

And each new day like the one before, the need to milk this goat is my very first thought upon waking.

She gets me out of bed each morning.

And each day when we finish I thank her for her milk.

From my heart.

A pail full of gratitude and a pail full of milk.

 

She – like the others – relies on us to rise each morning and begin the work of the day.

And that steady responsibility, so deeply rooted in love, makes each of us a better person.

I'm sure of it.

Morning rhythm | Clean www.lusaorganics.typepad.com

Morning rhythm | Clean www.lusaorganics.typepad.com

 

 

 

In the garden

You know me well enough by now to not expect me to show tidy rows of perfectly weeded vegetables in my garden. In fact, I think I'm more likely to show you my weed patches and flaws than some embellished story that resembles perfection.

But down in the garden yesterday morning I was struck by this perfect thing that happens there.

We plant these small hard seeds in the earth, then watch them explode into an abundance of food for our family. Truly. It's perfect.

Take green beans.

We can pull a single seed from a single pod, then grow armloads of food from that one.

I like this math.

It makes me feel that despite my garden-shortcomings we'll have a harvest yet.

So in the garden this summer we have beans, peas, greens, tomatoes, cabbage, broccoli, kohlrabi, and so much more – and each plant sprouted perfectly (against the odds) – from a single tiny seed.

In the garden (fortunately, we also eat weeds)

In the garden (fortunately, we also eat weeds)

In the garden (fortunately, we also eat weeds)

In the garden (fortunately, we also eat weeds)

In the garden (fortunately, we also eat weeds)

In the garden (fortunately, we also eat weeds)

In the garden (fortunately, we also eat weeds)

In the garden (fortunately, we also eat weeds)

In the garden (fortunately, we also eat weeds)

In the garden (fortunately, we also eat weeds)

In the garden (fortunately, we also eat weeds)

My garden always takes off mid-summer and grow food in spite of me.

I'm thankful for that.

After three weeks with both arms covered in poison ivy I was finally able to get back into the garden for a harvest and a status check. And goodness! There's a lot happening in there.

This garden, I tell you. It's tenacious.

Fortunately we also eat weeds.

So many weeds! Oh, but there was one exception to the more-weeds-than-veggies in each row equation: the hugel bed.

In the garden (fortunately, we also eat weeds)

Remember my crazy project this spring when I piled firewood and brush in my garden and covered it in compost? Yeah. It's the best part of the garden. Hands. Down.

I have halfheartedly pulled a few weeds in that bed, but otherwise it's an impenetrable wall of tomatoes, peppers, strawberries, and beans. They are so happy, so productive, so not needing anything from me but some harvesting.

Yes! Now that's my kind of gardening.

Needless to say, I'm sold on the concept of hugelkultur, raised beds, and deep mulching. It has made at least this one row of the garden a painless, joyful adventure.

Meanwhile, in the next bed (despite frequent hours of sweaty work pulling weeds)…

In the garden (fortunately, we also eat weeds)

Somewhere in there is my garlic.

 

Embracing the journey, planning more raised beds, and yes, wondering if smartweed is edible…

A person could get lost in there!

 

 

 

 

Fresh pastures

fresh pastures

fresh pastures

fresh pastures

fresh pastures

fresh pastures

fresh pastures

fresh pastures

fresh pastures

fresh pastures

fresh pastures

fresh pastures

fresh pastures

fresh pastures

fresh pastures

fresh pastures

fresh pastures

fresh pastures

fresh pastures

fresh pastures

fresh pastures

fresh pastures

fresh pastures

fresh pastures

fresh pastures

fresh pastures

fresh pastures

This weekend felt like one big reboot for me.

It was exactly what I needed.

No, I didn't do it all, but I found time for so much more than I have for many days.

I made time for myself, my kids, my husband, and a friend. Inside I found time for more painting and an epic mudroom clean out. Outside there was early morning garden weeding, a wonderful harvest, our first two days milking our goat Melissa, and a half-day spend as a family fencing new pastures for the sheep.

And with all that goodness going on fencing – somehow – rose to the top of my list of weekend highlights. (Okay, milking rose to the very tippy top, but fencing – a job I don't normally love – topped even painting this time.)

Here's the thing about animals.

They look pastoral, romantic, and sweet. Which they are. But they are also a great deal of work. Taking good care of them is, indeed, more work than we expected. There's a learning curve on them all (steeper on some than others) and while we're working our way up, it's a slow road.

Almost three years in on our little farming gig and there's lots of reevaluating going on. Do sheep make sense for us? Do goats? And meat birds? And the rest? We're running a cost-benefit analysis on every aspect of our life and making sure how we spend our time is worth the energy and effort we're putting in.

They are good questions that I encourage everyone to ask themselves.

Some of our biggest, most rewarding life changes have come from asking ourselves juicy, challenging questions. "Is this our right path?" "What do we really want?" "Is it working?"

Our biggest game-changer came more than a decade ago, with me holding then two-year old Sage on my hip, looking out the window at the pasture across the road. I felt myself awaken to the reality that we were living in a place we moved to for a job I quit two years before.

And I yelled, "What are we doing here!?"

Within two years we had sold our house, Pete quit his job, we moved to the community we'd always wanted and started our own business. Boom.

Ask the big questions.

But I digress. Back to fencing.

Fencing always falls to Pete. And for start-up inexperienced farmers who want to rotationally graze animals on 42 varied acres it's big work to take on. And it's ever-changing. Factor in that sheep have different requirements than goats and that we have a lot of lowlands and horsetail that don't work for either, it's like doing a Rubik's Cube when the time comes to move animals.

As I said, we're reevaluating.

Reevaluation or not, the sheep needed a clean pasture this weekend, and when Pete went out to fence before the rain that was forecast for Saturday I pulled the kids in for a chat.

I told them that animals were a lot of work, most of which their papa did. I acknowledged how much we all love having sheep and goats but that it didn't feel fair that Papa has so much of their work on his plate. I suggested that we go out and help him put the fence in so the job would be done faster.

And to my amazement, they thought that was a great idea and all but bounded down to the creek to help place insulators and fence posts and wire.

I savor these moments of delirious cooperation and harmony.

They are rare and I don't take them for granted.

And what a lesson for me! Had I forced them to do this work our day would have likely been joyless drudgery for us all. I supposed the same goes for me, had I been strong-armed into it. But they saw that they were needed and jumped in with enthusiasm, and so did I. We led with love. We wanted to help.

I also saw how Sage, nearly 13, needs meaningful adult work in his life.

Work like fencing and stacking wood and cooking dinner and mowing the lawn. He needs to see his own competence, contribution, and value. He needs to see how our family works because he contributes.

When he looks out on our sheep, contentedly grazing down in the valley, will he see his own hard work and success? I think he will.

Don't we all need that in our lives?

And finally this: fencing is not my favorite task. It's not even on the list. I would have much preferred painting or sewing or canning the dilly beans or making lunch than popping insulators on T-posts all morning.

But going out to help with fences forced me out of my rhythm (or rut, as it may be) and into something new.

While working with fence posts I marveled at the blue vervain and the bone set, the mullein and the swamp milkweeed. I noticed honeybees, their legs thick with orange pollen legwarmers. I listened to the gurgle of the creek. I smiled. A lot.

I got out in it, despite having other plans.

And these co-pilots we've brought into our lives are so good for that, aren't they?

Our children, our livestock, our partners, our pets – they all pull us off our comfortable, predictable tread-mill and take us out into the world, to places we might not otherwise go.

They get us up off the couch and out into the beauty of the world that exists just beyond our sight. How grateful I am for that nudge.

And come to think of it, I guess that belongs on our list as we reevaluate, too.

 

What big questions are on your list today?

 

 

Summer Solstice

Summer Solstice

Summer Solstice

Summer Solstice

Summer Solstice

Summer Solstice

Summer Solstice

Summer has officially arrived here in the northern hemisphere. And though spring will always be my one true love, I'm digging into summer with everything I've got.

I can learn to love summer! I'm certain.

Especially since this year I don't have Lyme disease – my usual way to celebrate the Solstice. It's the first summer I've felt strong since we moved to the farm. For that I am so grateful.

So yes to summer! Camping, foraging, and icy dips in the creek are at the top of my list.

 

I realized (as I was soaked through by the rain this morning) that almost every year Summer Solstice arrives dressed in storm clouds. She comes in with a dramatic lightening show and almost always a flash flood that rises our creek past its banks, year after year.

Summer. (crash!) Is. (boom!) Here. (splash!)

This year was no exception.

A flash flood raced down our valley today at 8 am, scaring the goats and cutting deep fissures in our driveway with rushing water. I was thankful for the hay mulch in the garden, holding our black soil in place.

After morning chores the kids and I tromped in the downpour out to the creek to see how high the water had risen. We checked the beaver dam, too, to see if it was engineered well enough for such rains. It was. Smart beavers.

Standing beside the creek I saw jewelweed through my rain-spattered glassed and gathered a great handful for a poison ivy rash I managed to pick up over the weekend, then watched as the storm wound down. Laughing and chatting we splashed our way home to breakfast.

And despite my itching arm my heart was full to overflowing.

Summer! Yes. I think it's growing on me.

 

Our weekend was full to overflowing as well. With love, community, celebration, and healing of many sorts.

There was the epic celebratory trifecta of Pete's birthday, Father's Day, and the Summer Solstice yesterday, plus a commitment ceremony with friends on Saturday.

Their wedding potluck – so rich with inspiring and authentic people and meaningful conversations – was also where we had the pleasure of sampling such wild-foraged and hunted treats as oysters, smelt, and beaver; wild mushrooms, wild greens, and wild rice. Amazing.

The earth – and this community – is abundant indeed.

And the best gift of all this weekend was seeing our sick goat (who was at death's door on Friday) exuberantly gallop toward me to say good morning and beg for treats on Sunday.

Small miracles and great blessings.

 

Happy Summer Solstice my friends. I hope you are feeling the summer magic, too.

 

 

No one died

No one died

No one died

No one died

No one died

There are days on our farm that end with an joyous cry of, "No one died!"

 No chicks, no sheep, no tomatoes. All still accounted for and more or less happy/healthy by sundown.

 

Yesterday – beginning with an ER vet visit for our cat and ending with herbal remedies for my anemic goat – was one such day.

Sprinkle in me tweaking my back giving said goat said herbal remedy but still managing to deliver the goods – add some natural earache care for one kid and tummy ache-soothing for the other -and we rocked this keeping everyone alive gig.

Though, perhaps, just barely.

 

Yes, it's been an interesting week. I was flying solo with farm and family and work while Pete was out of town. And having him gone for a few days really helped me appreciate just how much he does around here.

Whoa.

Yes, there's the emotional stuff. Of course. But these days there's a whole lot of practical stuff, too.

I had to work up a chore matrix on a bit sheet of paper so nothing slipped off my radar and resulted in, well, death. Sheep, goats, meat chickens, laying hens, laying chicks, quail, ducks, garden, etc. etc.

It's a lot to keep track of.

So while "distance makes the heart grow fonder" for lots of sloppy emotional reasons, distance also sheds light on just how much energy it takes to keep our life chugging along and just how much I need that other grown-up by my side.

It's a lot to juggle with only one adult-sized set of hands.

For those of you who do this parenting or house-keeping or homesteading gig solo everyday: I'm in awe of your tenacity and spirit. 

You get more done in a day than some of us get done in a week.

Truly. You have much you could teach me.

 

So each night during Pete's absence, despite feeling a bit rung-out at the end of the day, the kids and I put our boots on and headed down to the creek bottom to check on the sheep.

The clock whispered that it was time to be getting ready for bed, but the sheep had different ideas.

We refilled their water and did a quick headcount to make sure everyone is accounted for. 

And then? 

And then, no matter how tired we were (read: I was) the creek called us in. 

We walked the trail through the darkening forest and listened to the night birds calling; we sat in silence beside the creek, entranced by her forever song. We watched the sky darken as the fireflies awakened from their day-long sleep. 

 

And then we walked home, locked in the chickens, and headed for the house.

As we fell asleep I couldn't help but be full of gratitude. For Pete coming home soon, for my favorite pillow, for triumphing over a rocky day, for the novelty of clean sheets.

And yes, for the simple truth that – today anyway – no one died.

And for that I am so thankful.

 

No one died!

I think that means we're winning.

A birth story

A birth story

A birth story

A birth story

A birth story

A birth story

A birth story

A birth story

A birth story

A birth story

On Friday we saw that Melissa the Nubian goat was soon to begin labor.

She was huge and I guessed she was carrying triplets.

We gave her fresh hay and water and tucked her into a quiet "birthing room" in the barn reserved for animals needing a little space from their herd mates whether for illness, birth, or learning the ropes of nursing their newborns.

By the time active labor began we hunkered down in the barn to support Melissa how ever we could.

Lupine was the first to run to the barn after dinner and didn't want to do anything but crouch beside the goat, speaking soothing words, and ask us questions about anatomy, labor, and delivery. She held Melissa's head while she labored and coached her gently along.

No matter how many times Sage ducked into the barn to invite her out into the firefly-studded darkness to jump on the trampoline or play hide and seek, there she stayed beside Melissa.

Our midwife child.

We had never attended a laboring goat before. The only kids born on our farm were born when we were away, so we didn't know how the process differed from the now more predictable lambing.

But we all noticed right away that it was different.

It was more familiar to me. More like the experiences of my own during birth.

Melissa was focused and working hard, yet she would nuzzle us or lay her head in our hands between contractions. She was vocal when her birth became more difficult and tugged at my heat with her primal sounds.

A birth story

A birth story

A birth story

A birth story

It was a difficult birth.

As she pushed, we soon could see that the first kid was in a breech position (the worst presentation for a goat). Because the umbilical cord becomes pinched during a breech delivery for goats, if the water has already broken (it had) the kid rarely survives delivery.

I ran to the house and made an emergency call to the vet who came right away to help.

Pete ended up assisting the first delivery before the vet arrived, but despite his heroic efforts the kid could not be resuscitated.

Yet there were still more babes to come, so there was hope for a happy ending after all.

A birth story

A birth story

A birth story

The vet arrived, and by eleven PM we had one tired mama and two strong (achingly sweet) kids in the barn.

One boy, one girl: Uno and Brighty. (Lupine named the stillborn kid Swallow because a barn Swallow danced above us just before she was born.)

After the kids were born and labor was done, Sage also joined us in the barn, falling quickly in love with these two magical babies. We made sure they were nursing, then stumbled up to to the house and the four of us collapsed into bed just before midnight.

A birth story

A birth story

A birth story

And me? I'm mostly thankful. Thankful for this strong mama, for capable help, and for the many lessons we learned by her side in the barn. And for finding our way, one, two, or three new babies at a time.

Our first assist

 (Content warning: Lambing pictures below! If birth makes you wiggly, please move along.)

Our first assist

Our first assist

Our first assist

Our first assist

Our first assist

Our first assist

Our first assist

Our first assist

Our first assist

Our first assist

Our first assist

Our first assist

Our first assist

Our first assist

Our first assist

Our first assist

Our first assist

Our first assist

Our first assist

Our first assist

Our first assist

Our first assist

Our first assist

Our first assist

Our first assist

This farm has a way of putting life in perspective, and handing us just the challenges we need to get over whatever fears we've been carrying around.

Me? I was hoping we'd never have to help a ewe in labor. Ever.

Because – well, because that sounds downright scary terrifying. To literally holding life and death in your very hands. Honestly. It's a lot to think about.

We had made it almost all the way through two lambing seasons without having to assist a laboring ewe.

Until yesterday.

 

Before Pete left for work we went to the barn together for farm chores.

We found Ruby (a first time mom) in labor, a head and front hooves presenting. We hurried her into a quiet pen, assuming her lamb would join her in a moment.

But he didn't.

Five minutes. Ten. Twenty. The head and hooves just didn't budge.

Every other birth we have watched was smooth, quick, and graceful. They paw a little, the star-gaze, and woosh! Out slips the lamb.

This one wasn't like that.

But we've never watched a first-time mom give birth. And I know from my own experience that the first birth can be hardest. 

I left Pete (in his town clothes) in the barn and ran to the house to call my friend Kathryn, my sheep mentor and the previous owner of Ruby's mom Glynda. She coached me through slow labor and first-time moms and I relaxed. We hid in the barn and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Ruby was pushing, but her lamb still wasn't moving. Pete cancelled his meeting, then changed into farm clothes.

He found some gloves.

We called Kathryn again, and headed back to the barn.

 

We've never "pulled" a lamb before. We've never had a ewe that needed help.

Since I'm more of a baby, Pete was the one to put on the gloves. I watched, held my breath, and waited.

And before my eyes this man transitioned from Going to Work Guy to Sheep Doula to Sheep Midwife, just like that. Gentle, sensitive, and observant, he freed those long lamb legs that were hooked on the edge of her pelvis and guided the biggest lamb we've ever seen out into the straw.

Then quick as he could he got out of the way to let mama and baby bond.

And they did. Thank goodness.

Before noon Pete was back in his city clothes and off to work, and mother and baby were resting and nursing away in the barn. Tired, but healthy and strong. And I was still reeling from the whole experience, despite not being the one to don the gloves.

Having pulled this lamb, Pete was giving the honor of naming him. So meet Argo, named for Jason and the Argonauts. (Bonus points if you get the joke!)

Wondering why he's orange? The color of his fleece means it was a longer and more difficult labor. Meconium was passed during delivery, temporarily coloring the fleece.

Orange babies (and their mamas) have earned their stripes, as it were.

And needless to say this is the brightest orange babe we've ever seen around here. I think Pete has earned himself some stripes, too.

What a day! Welcome, Argo.

And bravo, Ruby. (And you, too, Pete.)