First Farm Kiss


Holy smokes, little girl. Perhaps a little less tongue next time!

I don't know the child, the pig, or the photographer; just got this photo with an email 'joke.'

Why does this photo crack me up every time I see it? Is it the look on the pig's face, or on the child's? Both seem truly enraptured with their encounter.

A photo truly is worth a thousand words, so I'll shut up. If you're having a bad day, just spend a minute or two gazing upon this kiss....or lick.

Ducks on the Move

The ducks have gotten out of hand. Photo #1 shows them as tiny fluffy balls, peeping sweetly. Photo #2 shows them three months later, big burly ducks who’ve learned to fly onto our house and crap on the roof.

The ducks are leaving today, and it’s not a moment too soon. We usually don’t keep them this long, but for some reason Melissa put off making the call to Harry’s Chicken Ranch, a sort of poultry broker, so the ducks have gotten bigger and started exploring the neighborhood.

A young neighbor called on his cell phone as he and his dad drove down the road. “Are your ducks supposed to be out here on the road?” Ahh, no. Kyle graciously herded them onto our 700-ft long driveway, and I took over from there, walking behind them. Ducks are not built for walking. They are built for flying or swimming, actions which they perform with grace and ease. Walking, however, is more of a waddle, so as I walk behind them, it’s actually sort of cute, their duck tails wagging, their entire bodies swaying back and forth.

When we finally reach home, the cuteness wears off when I notice the gray patches of poop all over the yard. I stomp inside. “Have you called Harry yet?” No, comes the answer. Please call him, comes my response.

Three more times I’ve had to retrieve the ducks from neighbors’ houses or driveways. These ducks are having a blast roaming the world, walking a quarter of a mile, making me come get them, then flying home, leaving me to walk home with the one duck too big, or too afraid, to fly. I never realized how slowly ducks walk until I had to match one's pace.

There will be no more such wandering episodes, however, because Harry comes today, and will load the sixteen ducks into pens, take them to his farm, and sell them to people who eat duck.

It will be a sad day. I know because we go through this every year when Harry buys our ducks. Melissa will be quiet for most of the day, and spend time looking out the front door, missing the ducks. And since I doubt she’ll read this blog, I can safely admit I will miss them too. Chickens are messy and pushy and irritating. Ducks are messy and endearing. I cannot believe how much I love ducks.

I must remember that we aren’t running a resort for ducks. We aren’t running a health spa for ducks. We are raising them for meat.

The cycle will continue, however, since Daphne Duck is sitting on eggs. In two weeks we will have more cute little fluffballs to watch. In three months we’ll have big ducks clunking onto our roof and visiting the neighbors, just in time for the holidays.

Hmmmm. Christmas duck, anyone?

And So It Was Written...

This is our vineyard. Eleven rows of 50 vines each means 550 vines. Because of Melissa’s chronic health issues and other responsibilities, we’ve struggled with the vineyard these last years. We love it, but it was eating us up, and we weren’t making any money.

So this spring, tired and frustrated, we sadly decided to let it go, to pull up the posts and plow under the vines.

Then the heavens parted and there appeared on our doorstep two men. One was our former vet, who shall be called Jeff. At his side was Son of Jeff, who is called PJ. PJ had begun making wine and wanted to learn more about growing grapes. He is young and aches not in his knees, neck, or hips, and suffers not from chronic pain.

Melissa spread her arms toward the beloved yet cur-sed vineyard, and said, “Here is your classroom. Go for it.”

And so they did. Jeff and Son of Jeff, who is called PJ, have pruned and sprayed and trimmed all summer long, often with the help of Wife of PJ, who is called Kate. The blessed trio have performed a miracle on the vineyard, for it looks great. It does need mowing, but since mowing is the job of Catherine, who is called the Great Procrastinator, blame not Jeff and Son of Jeff for the long grass.

The brave men still have destructive birds and Asian Lady Beetles to battle, but we expect they will realize a bountiful harvest this fall, and we pray for a few bottles of the wine which will be made by Son of Jeff, who is called PJ....And it will be good.

(Sorry. I’m easily influenced by what I read, and I just finished Christopher Moore’s novel Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal. It’s wacky, irreverent, and totally made up, yet I feel as if I understand Jesus better for reading it. How weird is that? Just goes to show our minds are Silly Putty in the hands of a skilled novelist.)