The Apple Tree

Ava, age 9, that first fall

It thrills me to look out my old kitchen window and see ducks feasting on wormy apples under an apple tree planted by someone else, sometime else. I long to know the story of the apple tree. It's trunk and limbs and branches are bent with years of the strong winds so prevalent on this hilltop farm. They reach for the sun which never reaches quite high enough long enough to sustain a growth of erect, correct posture for this tree. We wore dresses under our winter coats and danced around it two winters ago, my girls and I, at night, with the moon shining just enough to illuminate that old tree as if it were mystical. I can hear the crunch of our boots on the icy snow and see our breath and hear our laughter still. Wild. Free. I was a girl again for just a moment. The year we moved here, marked with much fear and doubt and backbreaking work, questioning and wondering, that year, this old apple tree brought up from somewhere deep within herself an abundance of perfect, large red green apples. Baskets full. Like a housewarming gift. It must've wore her out to do it, because we haven't had a harvest near as grand since. But that fall was marked with sauces and pies and crisps and cakes and children always with an apple in hand munching away. It was a gift. It started to feel like home. I don't worship trees. But I worship the God who made the apple trees and the animals and people who get to really experience them, lives wild and strong and productive and those also bent and weak and spent.

In front of the old apple tree, the evening before delivering our eight baby

The old apple tree. And that following spring on a dark and rainy day, I was heavy with child and smack dab and elbow deep in the middle of dinner preparations when I looked out and saw our 3 pigs under that tree eating what winter freeze and spring thaw and 6 children had left of those fall apples. I brushed the hair out of my face and sighed a very pregnant sigh and resigned myself to having to lure those porcinds back into the pen they broke out of, and right in the middle of dinner prep (which is a big deal when you're working to feed a small army). At that moment once again (for there had already been many, and many to follow) I was disgustedly overwhelmed and completely in love with this lifestyle I've chosen. No, what I mean to say is this lifestyle that had chosen me. In how many lives are there memories made of being 8 months pregnant and wrangling 900 lb of bacon back to where it belongs? I did. And while I'd like to say it went smoothly, I have a small rememberance of the slightest hint of terror I might have felt when, after retrieving a bucket of grain as a means to lure the pigs, and after the pigs realized just what said bucket in my hand held, they literally started galloping towards me at a rate alarming for a being of such heft. Realizing that standing there waiting for them to reach me might be a tad suicidal, I turned tail and ran (at not such an alarming speed, considering the heft of my state) towards their pen and when I got close and the pigs were about to overtake me, I flung the grain,  blue bucket flying through the air and all, into their pasture and to my relief they skirted around me (still galloping) and into the paddock and began to attack the grain covered ground with their mighty snouts, grunting feverishly although from the exercise or for the grain I cannot tell you.

This year the apples were mishapen, wormy, small. The ducks don't mind them. And unlike the pigs of that first year (for there haven't been any more), they are free to roam the farm picking up whatever might suit their fancy. I don't know what happened to my apple tree, but I mean to look into it. We'll prune her back good in an effort to conserve and strengthen what goodness might be left. Perhaps she'll grow strong again. Last year, her mate, the only other apple tree- small and weak and unproductive not 10 yards away, fell to a storm. All that remains of it is a stump that's been cut flush to the ground so as not to catch a lawnmower blade.
Anyway, I love to look out my old kitchen window at my apple tree. I love that after 3 short years of watching her blossom brilliant pink and fragrant in the spring, verdant and (inconsistently) fruitful through the summer and fall,  die off brittle and cold and brown to the winter chill, and magically come to life in the spring again, I love that she stirs such emotions in me as I look at her and remember. I'd love a small orchard full. Perhaps someday I will. 
I think Garrett said it best 4 years ago:

Waiting Around

Our goats are 8 weeks overdue.

Ok, that's silly obviously. Most likely not overdue at all. But might as well be.

Here's the short of it: The does we were milking last year dried up (stopped producing milk) gradually, after we bred them this fall. We were hoping to milk them through January, but it was not to be. And a little break from milking was nice and needed anyway. However, the demand for our goat's milk products (and lotion especially) continued. And since I will only use fresh, raw milk in my lotions I was out of luck. Since a goat's gestation is 5 months, our goats weren't due until March. That's a long time to keep faithful lotion customers waiting. So I decided to purchase a couple more does in early January. These does had been running with a buck since August, so we figured -great- babies (and milk) in January, or at the very latest, February.

And here we are on the eve of March 2. No babies. Now, I know and trust the farmer we purchased them from, and I do know for a fact that they're bred- I can feel the babies kicking on their right side (the left side is rumen activity which can be mistaken for babies kicking). So what we have here is not an abnormally long gestation or even a case of a sterile buck. Perhaps just a buck that wasn't persistent enough. Lol.

Because we don't know the date, we've been doing barn checks every two hours since early January. Yes, every. two. hours. since. early. January. -because sometimes babies can come quickly and with little warning. I must admit though, that I don't do middle of the night checks. I mean I have, but I stopped. I have a baby that nurses much of the night. So between him, and barn checks, Mama wasn't gettin' any sleep.  However if I saw imminent signs (like those discussed below), obviously I'd do what I had to do. But really, I'm hoping and praying for daytime babies. They're just so much more convenient.
It's funny, just like I was in my ninth month pregnant with all my babies, I'm starting to think the day will   N E V E R  C O M E . 
But that's silly too. It always does.

So what signs of labor are we checking for? (And this is the part where I may lose some of you. I understand. It's not everybody's thing.)  

Here is what we check for at Dandelion's Acre Farm: 

1. A filling udder. This usually means labor is now-36 hours away. Although some udders don't fill until after birth.

2. Loose ligaments (when their tail-head becomes so soft that you can touch fingers when you grasp around it.

3. This book:  http://www.amazon.com/Goat-Husbandry-David-MacKenzie/dp/0571165958
 (which I really enjoy and recommend, by the way) explains that an old way to tell if labor is coming is to feel the right side of the goat (like I explained earlier) and if you feel no babies squirming or kicking then that means that they've moved up into the birth canal and birth should be 8-12 hours away. I'm not so sure about this one, but I'm trying it out to see anyway. 

4. White discharge which could mean labor is just beginning or will begin in the next 12-24 hrs, or a string of mucous which means that you better holler for someone to bring the boiling water, 'cause it be soon.

Just kidding. No boiling water needed. Holler for molasses water instead. Mama goats like their molasses water. :)

5. Quirky behavior -when in labor, pawing, pacing, circling, or simply standing pitifully and staring morosely into your eyes as if pleading, "please do something, man, this is no fun", are all examples of the behavior of a goat in labor. Seriously though, goats are quirky creatures anyway, so who knows.

All these signs may vary from goat to goat, so really there is no foolproof way to tell (other than that lovely mucous string I mentioned previously).

I'm also convinced that a true knowing that "this is the day!" comes with time and experience. And even then, experienced farmers have sometimes been duped, which is why most goat owners watch the heat cycles of their does so they know when a buck is needed and can witness the breeding. That way they can pin an actual due date on their doe.

So we wait. And continue barn checks. And in the meantime, the  ladies I bred in the fall will start kidding this month as well. It will be a busy one. And the temperature is said to get above freezing this week, so hooray for that, at least.

And I'm just salivating thinking of all that fresh milk.

Elizabeth

Sick

The babies are asleep at the same time, so I after making a mad dash for some coffee, I sat down to this computer. I had permaculture on my mind. Land development, sustainability, crops, fruit trees, and livestock were on the tip of my tingling (gosh, I love nap time) fingers waiting to be punched into a search engine. I'm a geek for such things.
But a headline caught my eye. A MESSAGE SIGNED WITH BLOOD TO THE NATION OF THE CROSS, showing the beheadings of 21 Egyptian Christians who had been kidnapped in Libya. I didn't watch the video. I had no desire to. I am sick over the headline alone.
 
Sick, and helpless.
 
What can I do? How can I speak of planting orchards while people are being brutally murdered for their love of Jesus? What can I do, a mother of young children still at home? What can I do.
 
I can teach my sons to be bold and strong, truth- speaking leaders in their home and in their community and for their country. I can teach my daughters to do right, and stand up for what they believe and be courageous in this world.

I can teach them that there is a difference between right and wrong and that it doesn't stop at our doorstep. It must be carried with them, no matter how trivial, no matter the cost, and wherever they are.

I can teach my children to grow a love for Jesus so big that they too would be willing to die for him.

And if I ever became a mother that had to witness her son or daughter die for Jesus, I pray I would choose death for Jesus over life for the world.

This is not a political blog. Although I have a great love for people, I have little interest in politics, nor do I have the knowledge required to compose a political blog that would be worth any read at all. So I'll stop there at the risk of sounding silly.
But the world is evil, my friends. And that is nothing new.

I'm going to stop writing and pray. Because that's something I can do.

Please join me.

"And this gospel of the kingdom shall be preached in the whole world for a witness to all the nations, and then the end shall come." Matthew 24:14

Elizabeth

Valentine's Day

19 (NINETEEN), years ago he asked me to be his Valentine. Whoa. Nineteen short years ago, I went to bed under my parent's roof a girl of seventeen dreaming of a blonde headed green eyed boy who had just asked me to be his Valentine. I said yes. And then I said Yes to being his bride, the maker of his home, the mother of his children, his partner for life.

And pshaw, I had no idea what that meant. I was but a starry eyed girl.

But tomorrow will be our nineteenth Valentine's Day together. Our 16th as husband and wife. For better or worse. And really, it's been mostly for better. Because he's held my hand as I've delivered his seven children, just as he's held my hand while he prays over our family at the dinner table. And how do you do better than that?

And even though it took him most of those years and many lovely bouquets of roses to figure out that I really prefer wildflowers, and even though I'm just now learning to open up and communicate when I'm mad rather than withdraw into myself and frustrate him further, and even though we still quarrel over too many of the stupid intricacies that come from raising a family and doing life together, I see a beautiful partnership in us that was not there in the beginning. The beginning when we could stare into each other's eyes for a lifetime and talk on the phone for hours. Those early, silly, fluttery, desperate-to-be-together days. We were just breaking ground then. And there've since been years of foundation laying that doesn't come easily or go together well without hard labor. Hard labor and hard laughter and yes, even victory over hard times is a great combination for a strong foundation. And although mistakes have been made and words spoken in anger that shouldn't have been, it was all just part of the navigating.

And now we're just into the getting older and familiar. We know what the other is thinking, we're comfortable and safe and feel wiser with each other (not a boring comfortable and safe, a close-ness). We forgive and move on quicker, we know how to approach sensitivities and vulnerabilities with a little more tact. We're not there yet. The there where we've got it all together. Sometimes I feel maybe we're almost there and then the pure. stinking. human-ness. of one or the other takes us back a step.

And so, because we're human, we may never get there this side of heaven.

But tomorrow will be out 19th Valentine's together. And I think that's pretty good. And I think more marriages should work harder past the foundation-building to see the beauty of the design coming together.

But I'm not here to get preachy, 'cause I don't have the answers. And everyone's marriage has variables unique to them. And I'm no expert, because in the scope of an entire life together, 19 years is a blip. So I guess what I'm saying is, Happy Valentine's Day. Love is wondrous. Hold on to it. Work for it. Fight for it. Pray for it. For better or worse.

Elizabeth

Messy Chickens

Our project this weekend was to contain the chickens. Up until December, they'd been boarding in the moveable coop Joe built two Springs ago. But this coop isn't good for winter weather and temps in the teens and below. So we moved them into the barn with the goats. This solution was perfect. Until they realized they didn't actually have to stay in with the goats and could squeeze through or fly over the fencing anytime they chose and make an absolute mess of the rest of the barn. And let me tell you, we only have fifteen fourteen laying hens, one Cornish rock meat hen that managed to escape two years ago and has taken up quite well with her egg-laying sisters, and one big 'ol rooster who disappeared all Fall and reappeared when our other rooster kicked the bucket. But 16 chickens is plenty enough chickens for disaster.
Chickens are funny. Chickens are messy. And in no time my barn was littered with chicken poop. Poop on the milking stands (no way, Hosea)  poop on the floor, poop on the feeders, poop on the goats, poop everywhere. Hay was scattered from their constant scratching in it, even the shelf where I keep supplies didn't escape their trolloping ways. They tore apart feed bags, tipped over garbages, (did I mention all the poop?!). Every day, a new mess to clean up. It was like letting toddlers run amuck in Grandmother's parlor. Very naughty toddlers.

It had to stop.

We hmmed and hawed about just where to put these chickens for the remainder of the winter and decided on a side compartment of the barn. Three sides sheltered, one open. Not ideal, they may get cold, but we'll use deep bedding to keep them snug and happy, and out of trouble. My handyman went to work right away. Luckily we had these cattle panels just laying around, and in no time flat he had an efficient little temporary pen built where the chickens will spend the rest of their winter vacation. Not sure what I'd do without his mad skills. I pretty much just stood and directed. And played in the hay with the chickens. Oh, and we also clipped their wings (for those concerned, it doesn't hurt them a bit), so there will be no flying the coop.

 The gaps in the panels were still too large, so this man painstakingly tied wire in between each one, and in like 10 minutes. Notice the blurred hands. He's quick. I'd still be out there cursing that wire if it'd been me.

 

 

 

 Check out that old stone wall behind the chickens. It's just so cool to think of the hardworking hands that layed that barn foundation so many, many years ago. Mad skills indeed.

 

 

Sleeping baby Lucas. Usually he's cozy and covered with the afghan his Grandma crocheted for him. But I wanted a picture of these feet first. Perfection.

Looking out my kitchen window. Pretty snow.

Charlotte and her Mom

Elizabeth

 

 

 

 

 

Prayers For a Good Day

Already, I knew it was going to be one of those days. 
I sank down behind the quiet of a locked bedroom door and the first words that poured desperately from my mouth were, "Dear Lord Jesus, please, please let this be an easy day."  

But even as they left my mouth, I knew these were the wrong words. Because in this stage of life, and in many other seasons as well, there really are no easy days. But there can always be good days.

So what came to me instead was really what I needed:

Let my prayer be for a joyful attitude. Joy for all that surrounds me, even messes. Lego messes, food messes, laundry messes, school messes, relationship messes, heart messes. All.

For patience and strength, and the wisdom to know that adversity makes me stronger and wiser, sometimes crazier, but always more dependent on Him.

For character humble and meek. Knowing that it's not always my will that's best.

For wisdom. And everyday knowing that any small victory won or lost is not necessarily an indication of my parenting ability.

For self-control. Strength to harness both my thoughts and my actions. And to quiet my tongue especially.

And lastly and most definitely, thankfulness- for it all.


Elizabeth

Spellbound

Spellbound
 

The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow.
And the storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.

-Emily Bronte 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Every once in a while I get out of the kitchen and onto the farm, and these are my most favorite moments of all.

 

 

 

Well, almost my most favorite moments...